The sky glowed with a golden hue, casting its reflection across the sea of tall, dried grass swaying in every direction as the evening breeze whispered through the plains.
SWOOSH—
a rusted great sword cut through the air with a heavy swing, its wielder gripping the hilt with a fierce determination. Noelle scowled as the blade fell. "No, it wasn't like that!" she muttered angrily, scolding herself for yet another imperfect swing.
Her fingers tightened around the worn leather handle of the sword, her knuckles white with frustration. She could still picture the adventurers in her mind—the way they moved with effortless grace, their attacks precise and lethal. Noelle had spent countless days accompanying them, not as a fighter but as a potter, earning her meager coins for menial labour. But all the while, she had watched. Observed. Studied. Every motion, every stance, every skill was burned into her memory.
