(A Few Days Earlier)
The training grounds lay in ruins—shattered dummies, scorch marks from alchemical explosions, and the faint, lingering scent of venom in the air.
Aman wiped the sweat from his forehead, his breathing finally steadying after hours of brutal poison resistance drills. His muscles ached, his veins still burning faintly from the toxins he'd forced his body to endure. But it was all worth it.
Across from him, Zephyr sat on a broken pillar, his silver hair damp with exertion, one hand scribbling notes into a small journal. His saber rested against his thigh, its blade still faintly glowing from the last spar.
Fighting while being poisoned is really exhausting...
Aman exhaled, then spoke.
"Hey. Can I ask you something?"
Zephyr's pen paused. He didn't look up, but his silence was permission enough.
