The dim light of the lantern in Jolthar's room flickered against the cold stone walls, casting faint shadows that danced with the rhythm of the night breeze. The night air cool but not so chilly that it seeped through the thick tapestries hanging over the windows, creating a cosy atmosphere in the otherwise dark room.
Sitting by the window, Jolthar worked diligently, sharpening Knashii, his long blade of impeccable craftsmanship. Its edge on one side gleamed with a dangerous light, each stroke of the whetstone resonating like a steady heartbeat.
TAK TAK.
A knock at the door interrupted his focus.
Without turning, Jolthar said, "Come in."
The door creaked open, revealing Ilyra, the maid assigned to him earlier in the day. She stepped in, her movements hesitant yet deliberate. She walked in with a glass full of milk, which made him chuckle.
Jolthar glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to the blade.
