The courtyard was empty.
Not by accident.
Seth had chosen the hour for that reason.
Athax never fully slept, but there were moments—thin, passing windows—where even the palace exhaled. The guards rotated with quieter steps, the servants withdrew to the deeper corridors, and the training grounds, so often filled with the sound of steel and shouted commands, fell into stillness.
It was in that stillness that Seth moved.
The first strike came fast.
Clean.
Controlled.
His blade cut through the air with practiced precision, stopping just short of the post he had set as his target. He reset immediately, shifting his stance, adjusting his footing, and striking again.
And again.
And again.
There was no wasted motion.
No hesitation.
Each movement flowed into the next with the kind of discipline forged over years of training and tempered further by war.
But tonight—
Something was off.
It began subtly.
