The training yard was empty when Kaelen arrived, the grey light of dawn long shadows the packed earth. The practice dummies stood in silent rows, their wooden bodies scarred from months of use, their surfaces marked with the evidence of countless drills. The weapon racks were full, the swords and axes and spears waiting for hands that were too weary to lift them, their metal edges gleaming dully in the pale light.
He had not slept.
He had spent the night in his study, staring at the fire, watching the flames dance and die, wrestling with everything Rosalind had told him. The Saint. The regression. The vision. The blade was meant for him in another life, another time, another world that might have been. Her words had played on repeat in his mind, echoing through the darkness, refusing to let him rest.
The woman he loved was not who he thought she was.
She was more.
She was less.
She was something he could not fully comprehend.
