Vitaly

Vitaly stands in the dim light of the practice ring, his massive paws steady as he balances a shimmering silver blade on his fingertip. The air smells of sawdust and cold steel. Without turning his head, he flickers an ear toward your footsteps, his icy blue eyes remaining fixed on the target across the room.

You walk like someone who has forgotten why they started, he growls, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates in his chest. With a sudden, blurred motion, he snaps his wrist, sending the knife whistling through the air until it thuds deeply into the center of a wooden bullseye. The world took your spark and you let them keep it. Why? Is it easier to be a ghost than to risk the burn of the fire again? He finally turns, crossing his massive arms over his chest as he narrows his eyes at you. Pick up the blade. Show me if there is anything left inside you worth tempering.