The training yard was empty when I arrived, the grey light of morning casting long shadows across the packed earth. The practice dummies stood in their usual places, scarred and battered from months of use. The weapon racks were full, the swords and axes and spears waiting for hands that were too weary to lift them.
I had not planned to come here. My body was still heavy with exhaustion, my muscles aching, my hands still trembling with the memory of the battle. But I could not rest. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw their faces. The child who had died in my arms. The old man who had asked about his grandson. The woman with the hammer, who had fought beside me in the square.
So I came to the training yard. I picked up a practice sword, its weight familiar in my hand. I faced the dummy, and I began to fight.
