I stared once more, at the training hall were I stood, taking in the scenery around me before the start of our lesson. The hall was vast, its high ceiling supported by sturdy wooden beams that creaked softly as the wind whispered through the open windows. Sunlight streamed in, casting golden rays that danced across the polished marble floor, illuminating the intricate patterns carved into the walls. Each corner of the hall was adorned with weapons of all kinds—swords, spears, and shields—each telling a story of battles fought and victories won. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and determination, a place where warriors were forged.
As I stood there, my mind drifted towards what the structures must've held before the reformation, a few invalid images forming at the back of my mind like pre-registered memories.
Damien must've noticed my unawareness as he began to speak.
"Milo," he said, his voice steady and deep,
