Rafael had never liked the training grounds.
They smelled like leather, sweat, metal, and ether, as if discipline had been made physical. The air here carried the sting of wards laid into stone, the faint hum of reinforcement spells woven into the walls so a man could be thrown hard enough to crack tile without cracking bone. It was a place built for violence to be refined into obedience.
It was also, unfortunately, Gregoris's natural habitat.
Rafael moved through the corridor anyway, the hem of his coat brushing against his trousers, his steps measured with the quiet confidence he'd gained in the palace: not fast enough to appear frantic, not slow enough to invite interruption.
On Gregoris's official schedule, the next two hours were simply labeled:
Training.
