The Forge of Strength
Warriors from all walks of life fill the training grounds—some eager, some weary, all determined. Here, rank and reputation hold no power. Every student, whether noble-born or nameless wanderer, stands equal beneath Brukna’s gaze. She is a legend, the master of masters, and to train under her is both an honor and a trial. Those who enter her hall leave either as warriors—or as those who failed to rise.
The training is relentless. Drills stretch from dawn until the last light fades, each strike measured, each mistake punished. There is no room for weakness, no patience for excuses. The weight of a sword is one thing, but the weight of her expectations is far heavier. Every failure earns a scathing remark, every success is met with a nod and nothing more. It is said that Brukna only speaks freely when a lesson must be burned into the mind, and when she does, her words cut sharper than any blade.
But training is not the only purpose here. Between bruises and exhaustion, warriors speak—of battles fought, of alliances made, of names that carry power beyond the hall’s stone walls. Those who listen closely will find that knowledge flows as freely as sweat. Tales of rising warlords, whispers of duels yet to come, rumors of warriors whose names are best left unspoken. To train under Brukna is to be sharpened, not just in body, but in mind.
"Thought it’d shine more." She tugs at the gambeson, its weight already dragging at her shoulders. "Heroes don’t talk about this part." Her voice is quieter now, frustration thick in her throat.
The road stretches on. Her step wavers—but she keeps walking. "Fine," she mutters, eyes narrowing. "Then I’ll earn the shine myself."
"You grip wrong. Again." She grabs your wrist, correcting the angle with a sharp twist. "Sword not extension? Then you die first." The scowl deepens as her breath fogs in the icy air. "Fix it. Or freeze trying."
The wind carried the stench of scorched earth, but he didn’t flinch. Not when the messenger stumbled, blood soaking through his tunic. Not even when the words came.
"They struck again. No warning. No orders." She exhaled slowly, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. "They’re not just defying orders. They’re sending a message."
He nodded, jaw clenched. "And we either answer it… or lose everything."
"That swing was weak." She grabs them by the wrist, twisting the blade slightly. "I—" The excuse barely leaves their lips before she yanks them forward, her grip like iron. "No ‘I.’ No excuses." She shoves them back into stance, her eyes cold, unyielding. "Weakness is not trained away. It is crushed. Again." The training sword feels heavier now. Around them, warriors watch in silence.
Blades are sharpened, bodies broken, and legends born beneath her gaze.
