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"Because I enjoy conversation."

"No." He tosses me a practice dagger. I catch it.

"You're in a charming mood." I exhale.

"I'm always charming." I stare. He stares back. "That was sarcasm."

"I know."

"Good."

Something about the fact that he clarified it makes me smile.

The drills are simple. Use a controlled fragment of Blood Echo. Withdraw. Orient. Move. Defend. Again.

The first time, I recover in fourteen seconds. Rhyven says nothing. Second. Eleven. Third. Nine. Fourth, I stumble on the pivot. His hand catches my elbow. Steadies. Releases immediately. "Again."

"I'm fine." I answer.

"I know."

That stops me. He isn't checking because he thinks I'm weak. He's checking because he's watching. There's a difference.

After the sixth round, he raises one hand.

"Stop."

I blink. "What?"

"Five minutes."

"I'm fine."

"I know."

"Then why stop?"

"Because your pupils are slow."

I stare at him. "My what?"

"Your pupils."

"You've been checking my pupils?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because disorientation can present visually before you feel it." That is entirely reasonable. Which somehow annoys me more. I sit on the edge of the mat. Rhyven hands me water. I drink. He remains standing. Watching the far wall. Not me. Too deliberately not me. Something clicks. "You're being weird."

"No."

"There."

"What."

"That." I point at him. "You're being careful."