The training room was dimly lit, its wide-open space illuminated by a few faintly glowing crystal sconces embedded in the walls. The cool, smooth floor reflected the faint light, creating an almost serene atmosphere.
The room was silent, save for the sound of Damon's labored breathing. He lay sprawled on the cold surface, drenched in sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to catch his breath.
Fifteen hours. That was how long Damon had pushed himself today. It was the first day of a three-day break announced by Dean Godsthorn after the departure of Damon's father, Lord Terrace. While most students had taken the opportunity to rest, relax, or socialize, Damon had thrown himself into an intense training regimen.
The room itself was sparsely furnished, with only a weapons rack lining one wall, a set of mats neatly stacked in the corner, and one pillow. It was one of the academy's private training quarters, offered to students of high-ranking families.
