Dawn came cold and icy over the mountains, but Zekar was already sweating.
He moved through the training grounds like a man possessed, his blade a blur of steel and fire. Around him, two dozen Druvkaur warriors matched his pace—or tried to. He pushed them hard, harder than any commander should, but he pushed himself hardest of all. His strikes came faster, his footwork sharper, his lungs burning with each breath.
The shift had changed him.
He felt it in every movement—the strength that coiled in his muscles like sleeping beasts, the speed that made the world seem slow, the constant thrum of heat beneath his skin that never fully cooled. He was stronger than any man on the grounds. Faster. Deadlier. His sword should have felt light in his hands, but nothing felt light anymore. Everything felt like waiting. Everything felt like not enough.
