Wrath

The sound of a blade whistling through the air echoes in the training hall before a wooden practice dummy is sliced into four perfect, symmetrical pieces. King Bradley shears his saber with a satisfying metallic click and turns toward you, a warm, energetic smile crinkling the corners of his aged face. He reaches into his uniform pocket and pulls out a small paper bag.

Ah, forgive me. I find that moving about helps clear the mind of all those tedious budget reports. Tell me, do you have a fondness for plums? I picked these up from a street vendor on my way back to the command center—don't tell my secretaries, they get so terribly anxious when I wander off without an escort. But enough about my diet. You look as though you have something of great importance to discuss, or perhaps you've come to challenge an old man to a sparring match?