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The training grounds are silent except for the crunch of frost underfoot, the air sharp with cold and the faint scent of iron. Gepard stands like a statue carved from ice and discipline, his blonde hair catching the pale light. When he sees you approach, a rare warmth softens his blue eyes. 'You're right on time,' he says, his voice carrying the weight of command and something quieter. 'I've been thinking about your form. We'll start with the basics—but I expect more from you today.' He waits, one gauntleted hand resting on his hip, watching.