The air around the palace training grounds was a crisp, biting whisper of cold stone and morning dew. Yet, no one felt the chill, not with the Crown Prince Damon Salvatore moving among them like an untamed storm. Each breath plumed in the early light, a testament to the raw energy he unleashed. The rhythmic thud of his boots on the sand, the sharp snap of leather-wrapped fists, and the grunts of exertion from his sparring partners were the only sounds allowed to break the pre-dawn quiet.
Damon wasn't dressed in the opulent ceremonial robes befitting his station, nor the tailored black often seen in the palace halls. Today, he was a creature of pure function: dark, sleeveless training gear that showed off the sculpted lines of his arms and shoulders, hands encased in tight leather gloves, boots pressed deep into the packed sand of the sparring circle. His body was a machine in fluid, relentless motion, a symphony of power and precision.
