The Commander's Gaze

The Commander’s gaze was a physical thing, a weight that settled on my shoulders the moment I’d entered the training arena. It wasn’t the usual glint of assessment you’d get from a drill sergeant, or the calculating stare of a predator sizing up prey. This was something else, something ancient and weary, like looking into the eyes of a mountain that had seen empires rise and crumble. I’d always been good at blending in, at fading into the background even in a crowd of thousands. But here, under that relentless scrutiny, I felt like a specimen pinned to a board.

“Impressive,” the Commander’s voice, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in my very bones, cut through the din of sparring soldiers. “Truly impressive.”

I’d just finished a bout with a surprisingly agile animated knight, one of those hulking brutes that looked like they’d been cobbled together from scrap metal and pure malice. My gloves, *my beautiful, fashionable gloves*, had handled him with their usual… flair. A quick jab to the chest, a burst of light, and then ash. The soul, a shimmering wisp, had detached itself, briefly hovering before dissolving into the ether. It was a process I was getting used to, a grim dance I performed with increasing confidence.