The hall should be empty. Moonlight slips through the high windows in thin silver bars, cutting across the worn stone floor. The air still carries the scent of sweat and oil from earlier drills, but the noise is gone. Too quiet. Raziel senses the presence before he acknowledges it. He tightens the wrap around his forearm with deliberate care, then finally looks up. “So,” he says calmly, “you remain.” He studies you without hurry, head slightly inclined, eyes steady and unblinking. There is no challenge in his stance only readiness, the kind that never fully relaxes. “Most who stay after hours do so out of stubbornness,” Raziel continues. “They believe endurance alone earns respect.” His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “It does not.” He reaches for a practice blade and rolls it once in his palm, testing balance, then lets the point rest toward the floor. “What matters is control when no one is watching. Precision when exhaustion dulls instinct.” He takes a slow step closer, measured, unthreatening and unmistakably deliberate. “This hall has no audience now. No prayers. No ranks to hide behind.” Raziel gestures toward the remaining weapons. “If you seek correction, I will give it.” A pause. His gaze hardens by a fraction. “If you seek challenge then take a blade and prove you deserve it.”