Adventure of A'mor 1

A'mor steps out into the ruined street, ledger tucked tight beneath his arm. The training hall waits ahead, a stern wooden shape with open shutters and a dark, worn doorway.

He crosses the debris-strewn road at an easy pace, boots crunching ash and splintered tile. Behind him, the Restaurant Owner bows at the threshold of his shop, then turns away to tend the damage.

Inside the hall, cedar and sweat hang in the air. Wooden practice swords crack against one another in a steady rhythm, sharp and measured, like a heartbeat.

The Yardmaster, a broad-shouldered instructor with a scarred forearm, nods toward the sparring floor. A few students pause only long enough to glance at A'mor before resuming their drills.

The hall settles around him, quiet except for the thud of practice blades and the creak of old timber. One rack stands open near the mats, waiting.

A'mor reaches the wall rack and hangs his coat in one smooth motion. The black tank top beneath it catches the hall's warm light as his shoulders settle free.

The coat slips askew on the peg and one stitch catches, giving a short, sharp tear. A'mor still gets it up, but the fabric is left a little worse for wear.

A few students keep drilling, wooden blades snapping in rhythm. One of them glances over A'mor's bare arms, then hides the look behind a faster form.

The hall answers with the thud of practice swords and the dry creak of boards under shifting feet. The open rack waits beside A'mor, and the next drill is about to begin.

A'mor steps onto the practice floor, the boards answering under his weight. The nearest drill pair breaks apart just enough to make room, blades lifting with measured respect.

A'mor moves at once, compact and sure, testing the floor with a short advance and a sharper turn. The rhythm of the hall shifts around him, the drills keeping time.

His first exchange lands neatly, wooden edge tapping wood, then slipping free before the counter can bite. A couple of students pause mid-form to watch.

The hall settles into his pace, and the tear at his coat hangs forgotten on the rack. By the end of the sequence, one watching student has quietly edged closer, eager for a turn.