In the soft morning light, Seliph stood alone in the training yard, the sacred sword Tyrfing gleaming in his grasp. The chill of the early dawn did little to deter him. The blue-eyed youth, his long hair tied back in a ponytail, was lost in thought, his usual thoughtful gaze hardened with determination.

The weight of Tyrfing in his hand was a constant reminder of his lineage, a lineage marred by battles and bloodshed. The sword had been passed down through generations, each bearer leaving behind a legacy etched in blood and steel. To some, it was a symbol of power and honor, but to Seliph, it was a symbol of responsibility, a grim reminder of the blood that had been spilled by his family.

His gaze shifted to the blade, reflecting on the blood it had drawn, the lives it had taken, and the wars it had won. The thought filled him with a sense of dread. He despised war, loathed the misery it brought. Yet, he knew that as long as he wielded Tyrfing, the prospect of bloodshed was never far.