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"Yes." No denial. No sarcasm. Just yes. Something in my chest loosens. I hate that he knows me this well. "Again." This time, I'm the one who attacks.

He lets me. For another fifteen minutes, everything becomes simple. Feet. Breath. Hands. Weight. No Council. No Blood Echo. No Friday. No names written across Nyra's timeline. Every time my thoughts begin slipping away, Rhyven hits my blade hard enough to bring me back. Not painfully. Precisely. Annoyingly.

"You're slow." He says.

"I'm wearing formal trousers."

"Excuse."

"You try fighting in these."

"No."

"Scared?"

"Of your trousers?"

"Of losing." His eyes meet mine. There it is. That little spark from The Place. Not quite a smile. Not quite a challenge.

"Constantly."

My step falters. His blade taps my ribs.

"Dead."

I stare at him. "You did that on purpose."

"Obviously."

"You recycled your own line."

"It worked."

"You're terrible."

"Focus." I hate him. A little. We reset. This time I don't let him distract me. Mostly.

At seven twenty-six, he takes the blade from my hand. "Enough." He says.

"I'm warm."

"That's the point."

"I'm barely sweating."

"Also the point."

I look toward the clock. Thirty-four minutes. My stomach tightens again. Too soon. Rhyven notices. Of course. He crosses toward the table and hands me the rest of my coffee. Still warm.

"Drink."

"I am capable of—"

"Eirea."

I take the cup. "You're very commanding before breakfast."

"You've had breakfast."