In the meadows beneath the White Tower of Hoeth, the Swordmasters pursue the blade as other scholars pursue the stars. Their greatswords, tall as the wielders, should be ponderous; in a Swordmaster's hands they blur — flicking arrows from the air, shearing through shield and hauberk, weaving a lattice of steel through which nothing living passes. A handful of Swordmasters can anchor a battle-line; a full company advances like a moving wall of mirrors, and what the mirrors touch, they cut.
Each Swordmaster has surrendered decades to a single discipline, refining one cut until it becomes reflex and the reflex becomes philosophy. They serve the Loremasters of the Tower as guardians, emissaries, and quiet blades abroad, for Saphery's hoarded knowledge has enemies beyond counting. Theirs is the asur's answer to scarcity, perfected: where a mortal kingdom would send a regiment, the White Tower sends twelve elves who have each spent a lifetime learning never to waste a stroke.
Order of battle
