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Nicomede didn’t sleep well. Not from a crisis of conscience but more than misdeeds could disquiet the soul. Returning to high society, even briefly, had been novel. But it dredged up some unpleasant memories too. More, after Damon Cal. 

Cleaning himself up had brought some quiet. Removing and cleaning his armor, what of it remained. Wiping away the blood, the grime, and the dirt. Cleansing it helped him cleanse himself, washing away the turmoil and the violence. Then his [i]espada[/i]. Wiped, honed, and returned to its sheath. Then he cleaned himself, but still the disquiet remained. His banishment was an old wound, stanched if not well healed. But the fight with Damon Cal was galling. The vampire was stronger, faster, and his magic was enough to overpower the force that Nicomede could put into his own. Not surprising, perhaps, but… He needed to be stronger.

By the time he was done, spent a few fitful hours in bed, he accepted that no real rest would be forthcoming. He rose again before the sun and donned simple, functional clothes and made his way to the kitchen where he brewed a cup of tea. From the pot to the cup with only magic, a reminder to keep his skills sharp. And then he retired to the courtyard to practice. Magic, first, drilling his control with a bucket of water. Shapes, speed, movements in line with simple physical exercise. 

Then it was time for the sword, once the sun began to rise. Simple movements first, escalating to footwork, sequences, and lengthier drills. He barely noticed that sunrise had come and gone.