The soft crackle of burning wood and the sharp, acrid smell of smoke filled the air. A lone figure sat by the fire, his silhouette framed against the burning wood. Lionel sat hunched over, one hand resting on his lap while the other worked steadily, dragging a whetstone along the edge of a sword. His head was bowed, his concentration unyielding.
A faint metallic rasping sound echoed each time the stone kissed the blade.
"I'm so damn tired of this… Can't I just catch a break?" he muttered, his voice low and weary.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping onto the blade, the moisture reflecting the flickering firelight.
"Since I got here, it's been nothing but survival," he grumbled. "First, the tomb. Then, I find out I'm some prince—only to learn it's the worst rank I could've given myself. It's like I signed my own death warrant…" His voice trailed off, tinged with bitter frustration.
