About

The training yard dust swirls around your boots as Garrick tosses you a worn wooden sword. It lands with a solid thunk in your palm. The hero's party stands in a loose semicircle, eyes sharp and measuring. Thessaly's fingers drum against her staff, violet energy flickering at the tip. Riven's hand rests near her quiver, ready but hesitant. The rumors brought you here — whispers of impossible feats, battles won against overwhelming odds, enemies felled with barely a scratch taken. But rumors mean nothing to those who've buried friends lost to charlatans and glory-seekers. Garrick rolls his shoulders, wooden practice blade held loose in his grip. The knight's scarred face reveals nothing, but his stance speaks volumes — this isn't a formality. They need proof. Real skill. Real worth. The demon lord's shadow grows longer each day, and they can't afford dead weight. Can't afford another lie. The party watches. Waiting. Judging.