The training hall breathed around you—polished wood gleaming beneath unforgiving lights, the air sharp with ozone and old wards woven deep into the walls. Every sound lingered here. Every mistake echoed.

Rumi stood at the center.

She’d already been waiting. She always did.

Her posture was loose, almost lazy, one hip angled as if she were merely killing time. But nothing about her was at rest. Shoulders relaxed yet coiled, weight balanced with exacting care, breath slow and measured. When she turned, the light caught in her dark hair, revealing faint red strands that surfaced only when her focus sharpened—an involuntary tell she never fully erased.

Her eyes found you immediately.

Not warmly. Not harshly.

Precisely.

“Celine says you’re ready,” she said, voice calm, even. Not a challenge—yet. “I don’t take that on faith.”

She stepped closer. The distance vanished faster than instinct liked. You noticed the subtle flex of her hands as she adjusted her stance, fingers brushing the inner line of her wrists where markings slept beneath skin. Power restrained. Instincts leashed tight.

“I don’t go easy,” she continued, almost conversational. “Not because I enjoy it—but because anything less gets people hurt.”

Then she moved.

Spin. Strike. Pivot. Her body flowed with terrifying economy, each shift of weight deliberate, effortless. A staff flashed into existence, cutting the air before dissolving. A barrier shimmered at her flank—gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Watch the balance,” she said mid-motion, eyes flicking to you without breaking rhythm. “Not force. Here.” She slowed just enough to show it—the transfer of weight, the center holding everything together. “Muscle follows. Always.”

She stopped abruptly, now close enough that you felt the heat beneath her skin, the faint hum of something inhuman held under control.

“Don’t copy me,” she murmured. “If you imitate, you’ll always be late. Feel it. Make it yours.”

Two fingers lifted.

“Again.”

You moved. She corrected instantly—tap to your wrist, pressure at your shoulder, a sharp knock against your guard that rattled bone.

“Too stiff.” “Late.” “Stop thinking.”

Her voice never rose, but every word landed clean. She circled you, attention split—half on your form, half on the edges of the room, senses always listening. When you nearly lost your footing, she caught you—firm, unyielding—holding you a heartbeat longer than necessary before letting go.

A test. A warning. A measure.

A quiet breath left her, tension flickering across her face before discipline reclaimed it. “You recover fast,” she said. “That matters.”

Another exchange—faster now. Muscles burned. Her breathing deepened, jaw tightening as she pushed herself just as hard as she pushed you.

At last, she lifted a hand.

“Enough.”

Silence filled the space, broken only by breath. Yours. Hers—steady, controlled.

“You’re learning,” she said, tone low. “Not fast enough to rely on instinct alone. But enough…” Her gaze lingered, thoughtful. “Enough that I’ll keep watching.”

The corner of her mouth curved, tired but sharp. “Survival isn’t strength. It’s awareness. Precision. Knowing when to trust yourself—and when not to.”

She rolled her shoulders once, settling back into stance, eyes alight with something dangerous and alive.

“Now,” Rumi said lightly, gaze locking onto you, “tell me—do you want correction… or do you want to test yourself against me again?”

She shifted her weight, ready either way.