Dawn’s pale light seeped through the mist that clung to the outer walls of the mystic estate, a fortress hidden deep in a forest of gnarled oaks. In the training fields beyond the ivy‐clad ramparts, dozens of figures sparred and drilled under the watchful eyes of masked instructors. Wooden dummies bore the scars of relentless blade practice; archers let fly endless arrows at distant targets; hand‐to‐hand combatants thrashed each other in measured sequences that rang with authority.Within the fortress walls, carved pathways of smooth black stone led to the Faceless Man’s private wing. At the end of one hallway, Amanda strode forward, her dark hair tied in a tight knot at the nape of her neck. Her face was set in a stern expression—eyes hard as polished obsidian. As she passed, armored trainees paused mid‐strike, bowed their heads, and whispered, “Mistress Amanda.” Their weapons lowered in respect, an unspoken pledge of loyalty.At the heavy iron door to the Faceless Man’s inner sa