Sir Edric sat on a sun-warmed stone, elbows on his knees, helmet resting by his side, watching the chaos unfold with a look that hovered between boredom and contempt. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, churned earth, and the occasional bloodied nose, but none of it seemed to stir much excitement in him anymore. He'd seen hundreds of people killing each other clearly in front of his eyes, so what were for him some tryouts shedding some blood?
His eyes, lazy and half-lidded, didn't bother following every punch or kick. Instead, he let the tail of his gaze track the movements of his subordinates—each one dutifully watching the sparring pairs, nodding or shaking their heads like gods deciding fates. He trusted them enough. Mostly.
What drew more of his attention, though, wasn't the fights themselves but the faces behind the fists.
It was becoming obvious now.
