The moonlight streamed through the tall windows of the academy’s hallway, its silvery glow spilling across the stone floor in intricate, shifting patterns. The quiet was profound, broken only by the faint echo of a single set of footsteps—Towan’s—as he moved with purpose through the empty corridor. His shadow stretched long and thin behind him, a silent companion as he made his way toward the training grounds.

The field lay vast and deserted under the pale light of the moon, its stillness undisturbed. Most students were still asleep, wrapped in the comfort of their dreams, oblivious to the solitary figure crossing the open space. Towan’s footsteps were soft, almost reverent, as if he were intruding on a sacred silence. The cool night air brushed against his skin, carrying with it the faint scent of dew and earth.

He reached the center of the field and paused, his gaze sweeping the empty expanse before he lowered himself to the ground. The cool grass pressed against his palms, grounding him as he sat cross-legged, his posture straight but not rigid. The only sounds were the gentle whisper of the wind weaving through the trees and the soft rustle of grass bending under its touch. It was a quiet that felt alive, pulsing with the energy of the night.

Towan closed his eyes, his breathing steady but deliberate. The stillness around him seemed to amplify the storm within. “I have to be ready,” he whispered to himself, the words barely audible, yet heavy with resolve. They hung in the air, a quiet vow to the night.

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A flood of memories surged forward, unbidden but not unwelcome. The fight with Dravan—every strike, every dodge, every narrow escape—played out in vivid detail behind his closed eyelids. Even with his companions fighting alongside him, it had barely been enough. The weight of that realization pressed on him, sharp and unrelenting.

Where did he strike first? Towan’s mind raced, dissecting the encounter with precision. How fast did he move? What patterns did he follow? He analyzed every detail, every movement, breaking down Dravan’s combat style with the focus of a scholar and the urgency of a soldier. The battle had been brief, but it had revealed enough. Enough to figure out how to hold him off—not to win, but to avoid losing immediately. Survival, not victory, was the goal.

Without opening his eyes, Towan rose smoothly to his feet, his movements fluid and deliberate. His body shifted into a combat stance, his weight balanced, his muscles coiled and ready. The cool night air seemed to sharpen around him, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

In his mind, Dravan stood before him once again—tall, menacing, and utterly focused. Towan could almost feel the weight of his opponent’s gaze, the predatory stillness that preceded a strike. He adjusted his stance slightly, his hands rising in a defensive position, his breathing steady and controlled. The memory of Dravan’s movements guided him, each step, each feint, each strike recreated in his mind’s eye.

The wind picked up, rustling the grass around him, but Towan remained unmoved, his focus unbroken. He was no longer alone on the field. In his mind, the battle had begun anew, and this time, he would be ready.