The sound of a blade cutting through air was all that echoed in the stone chamber. It was still before dawn. In the depths of the royal palace Brengard, in the "Hall of Silent Blades"—a training ground reserved exclusively for the sword instructors of the Brenheim Kingdom—only a single lamp burned. Halden Owen continued to swing his sword in silence. Seventy years old. His short white hair was slightly disheveled, and in his black swordsman's garb with a white overcoat draped across his shoulders, he might have looked like an ordinary old man to a casual observer. An old sword scar marked his left cheek. A silver belt engraved with vine patterns was always fastened at his waist. His body had certainly aged—his shoulder muscles were thinner than they once were, and his joints ached a little in the mornings. But his sword technique remained completely unchanged. One stroke. Then another. Not a single wasted movement. He stopped as precisely as if he were checking his form in a mirro