Almost a week had passed since Zalyric and Rowan had last crossed paths following that incident during Zalyric's rut. Ever since the king had assigned Dravaris to teach Rowan the proper way of swordsmanship, Zalyric had ordered him not to serve as his guard for the time being and had Dylan take the position instead.
The training grounds were quiet except for the faint whistle of wind and the metallic ring of clashing swords. Dust rose from the dry earth with every strike. Rowan was panting heavily, his shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin with his knuckles raw and sore from gripping the hilt too tightly. Across from him stood Dravaris who's tall, composed and merciless as ever with his usual stoic expression.
"Ugh!" Rowan groaned as his knees buckled when Dravaris' blade met his own with such force that it sent a painful vibration through his arms, nearly knocking the weapon from his grip. He stumbled backward, breath ragged and barely managed to stay on his feet.
