The cavern smelled of damp stone and old moss. Faint trickles of water dripped rhythmically somewhere in the dark, echoing like a heartbeat across the cavern walls. Torches guttered in their brackets, their orange light fighting against the endless shadows that seemed to cling to every crevice of the underground refuge.
Lindarion stood in the center of the training circle Nysha had carved into the rock floor, a wide ring etched with runes that glowed faintly whenever mana was stirred. His coat hung from a nearby chair, heavy enough to hide the weapon concealed beneath it. His hand rested on the hilt of that sword now, thumb brushing against the strange dark steel, though he hadn't yet drawn it.
Across from him, Nysha watched with folded arms. Her dark hair was tied back for once, exposing the sharp lines of her face. She looked tired, though not physically, it was the weariness of someone who had been speaking to a wall for too long.
"You're still forcing it," she said at last.
