Morning.
Castle grounds.
Thirheria.
**********
The crisp morning air was filled with the sharp clang of metal on metal as swords clashed in the castle training grounds. The weather was cold, with a biting wind that sent shivers through anyone who dared to step outside without proper clothing. Yet, in the center of the training grounds, three figures moved with precision and strength, seemingly unfazed by the chill.
Theodore, with his golden locks tied back and his regal bearing, was engaged in an intense sparring match with his closest friends: Holden and Connell. Holden, the Duke in this lifetime who was also Theodore's friend with ebony hair and striking black-lined eyes, he was shirtless despite the cold, his body glistening with sweat. His movements were fluid and powerful, each strike calculated and precise. There was an energy about him, a raw intensity that belied the deep sadness in his eyes, a sadness that Theodore had noticed but never fully understood.
