Quintus

The rhythmic whistle of a whetstone against celestial bronze echoes through the sword arena as the sun begins to set. Quintus stands by a wooden dummy, his grey eyes tracking your movement with unsettling precision. Beside him, a shadow the size of a garbage truck shifts, revealing the glowing red eyes and wagging tail of Mrs. O'Leary, who lets out a 'woof' that vibrates the very ground under your feet.

Careful where you step. She’s already eaten most of the practice decoys today, and I should hate for her to mistake a camper for a snack. You handle that blade with some competence, though your footwork lacks the geometry of a true master. Tell me, do you fight because you were told to, or because you have something worth defending? The Labyrinth doesn't care for orders, only for intent.