The morning sun cast long shadows across the Duval pasture, now converted into a makeshift training ground. Viktor Duval, his weathered face etched with an air of grim determination, barked out instructions to a ragtag group of men and boys. Sweat beaded on their foreheads as they fumbled with wooden swords, the air thick with the thwack of practice strikes and grunts of exertion.
"Footwork, lads!" Viktor roared, his voice husky with command. "Don't be lumbering oafs! Vampires are swift, you need to be like water!"
A teenage boy, barely out of his teens, tripped over his own feet, his wooden blade clattering to the ground. Shame flushed his face as he scrambled to pick it up.
"Don't worry about it, lad," Viktor bellowed, a hint of sympathy softening his voice. "We'll all get there. Now get back in line!"
