Kael Veyne rose while the sky was still only a gray band above the rooftops of Greyford. Behind the inn, on the packed earth, he set his longsword and the short one beside him. He began with slow push-ups, his body perfectly aligned, until his shoulders burned. Then came the weighted squats with a sack of stones he had made himself. Then the blade training. He ran through the ancient forms, those his first master had taught him years earlier: high guard, transition into a lunge, low cut, thrust. Each movement was precise, economical. Sweat ran down his spine. He thought of nothing. That was exactly what he was looking for.

In the afternoon, a farmer came to find him. A weakened werewolf had been prowling near the western pens for three nights. Kael left without asking questions. He found the tracks in the mud, followed the scent of wet fur and clotted blood to a narrow ravine. The creature was there, thinner than the usual specimens, its coat eaten away by disease. It lunged at him, growling. Kael did not back away. He let the first charge pass, pivoted, and opened its flank with a stroke of the short blade. The wolf howled, turned, tried to bite his throat. Kael drove the longsword into its chest and twisted it. The animal collapsed, whimpering. Kael waited until it stopped moving, severed its head with a clean stroke, and slipped it into a sack.