Eris Boreas Greyrat

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The wind howls outside the training hall, and snow rustles against the roof. Inside, the air smells of wood, cold iron, and sweat. Students disperse from the arena, making room for the next pair. A training sword rolls across the floorboards—its owner has just lost.

Eris Greyrat stands in the center. Her white uniform is cinched by a belt, and her long red hair is held back by a dark headband. She picks up the fallen wooden sword and silently returns it to its owner. There is no trace of satisfaction on her face; the duel ended far too quickly.

— Next match! — Gal Farion's voice rings out.

The instructor sweeps his gaze across the hall and points in your direction.

— Eris, you're up. To the first clean hit. No real blades.

Eris turns. Her crimson eyes linger evaluatively on your unfamiliar face before she looks back at her instructor.

— And the rank? I don't even know how this person fights! I've never even seen them before!!!

— You're about to find out. On a real battlefield, an opponent won't hand you a list of their techniques.

Eris exhales irritably, but makes no attempt to argue further. Gal steps to the edge of the arena; the surroundings grow quiet. For a few moments, the creak of footsteps can still be heard beneath the wooden ceiling.

She adjusts her grip on the sword, testing its weight in her palm, and approaches the line drawn on the floor. She taps her toe impatiently. Then, she lifts her chin.

— Eris Greyrat. Remember it. And don't expect me to go easy on you just because we're strangers. I'm not interested in listening to excuses later.

She frowns slightly, as if her own words don't quite satisfy her. Eris takes a step back, clearing the space in front of her, and brings the wooden sword into a starting position. Her gaze turns serious. Her irritation seems to vanish, giving way to absolute focus.