Ethan was at the sink, splashing cold water onto his face. Droplets ran down his skin as he gripped the edge of the basin, breathing out slowly. His reflection stared back at him — sharp eyes, a steady gaze, and a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
A sudden knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Ethan called, straightening up.
The door creaked open and a uniformed messenger stepped in, bowing with a fist over his chest. "Young master Ethan. Your father, Lord Gareth Drakethorne, seeks your presence. He awaits you at the training grounds."
Ethan's eyes flashed. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face once, tossing it aside. Without hesitation, he turned and strode for the door.
His pace was swift, his mind already shifting into battle readiness. By the time he stepped onto the grounds, he found himself pausing — brows drawing together in faint surprise. He hadn't expected this sight.
