Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Icy white mist blanketed the castle grounds, yet the echoing clatter of wood striking wood had already shattered the morning silence.
Raphael had been standing there since before the break of dawn. The wooden training sword in his grip cleaved through the thick air—carving out a lethal rhythm that had become his daily routine. One, two, three.
Drip. Warm sweat rolled down his temple, tracing a jawline that had grown noticeably sharper.
The youngest prince's breathing was impeccably steady. Two years ago, he would have hurled this wooden sword to the ground and cursed if his swing missed. But now, his mind was much clearer. He understood one absolute law: the sword is never wrong. The fool at fault is always the one wielding it.
An old servant carrying a basket of firewood passed by. The hunched man paused, carving a respectful smile as he watched the youngest prince training in a pool of sweat, before silently continuing on his way.
