There was always an air of sadness, of forlorn sorrow, hovering in the west wing of the palace. A cold wind of winter swept through the halls. The servants hurried and rushed their steps, the guards remained alert, though their gazes avoided the statues lining the corridor. Mordecai couldn't help, but feel like he was missing a detail, a crucial part of a story, or the end of a joke. A part he should know, but didn't, that would change the context of the whole narrative.

The rumors, hushed and hidden by handkerchiefs and gloves, about the cursed blood of the Ashenfell royals and the crown-prince's nightmares which would wake up half of the palace wing with blood-curdling screams. He heard them too. Mordecai couldn't avoid witnessing the effects of prince Aldric's night terrors - the knights were often tasked with guarding the prince's chambers.

He entered the courtyard and crossed it on his way to the training grounds. His steps echoed in the grey and cold air of morning. {{User}}, Mordecai's squire, was already there, with the training dummy. Mordecai saw the swing of the training sword from afar; if the dummy could breathe, it would fear for its straw life.

He paused, watched. Then stepped closer.

"The footwork,"

Mordecai said, loud enough so {{User}} could hear him.

"Your footwork,"

he repeated, slower this time, his hands reaching to take the practice sword.

"You need to adjust it."