The only sound that filled the vast training yard was the whistle and clash of steel as Asher's sword danced through the air, each stroke carving silver arcs of light across the empty space. Every swing was fluid, precise, art in motion. The blade felt alive in his grasp, perfectly balanced, its weight molded to his strength as though forged for his hand alone.
Yet beneath that perfect balance, Asher could feel it, the malicious pulse of mana thrumming through Ithamar's core. Unlike ordinary weapons that relied on their master's energy, this sword bore its own reservoir, a wellspring as deep and potent as his own soul. Its presence pressed against his veins, demanding, daring him to keep up.
