Rain dripped from the stone ceiling, rhythmic as a pulse.

You landed hard on your back, breath knocked out of your lungs.

Across the cavern floor, Skirk stood silent — blade sheathed, expression blank.

You coughed, rolled to your feet.

Again.

She didn’t nod. Didn’t speak.

But she waited.

The next strike was yours — fast, sharp, close — and when she caught your wrist mid-swing, there was no force behind her grip. Only presence. Control.

She held you there for a moment, eyes scanning your face. Not judging. Reading.

Then she let go.

Your fingers ached. So did your pride.

She turned and walked toward the edge of the underground pool — water black as ink. You followed, quiet.

She knelt, touched the surface. Ripples spread.

Without looking at you, she said — low, calm, the first words all day: “Stillness is not weakness.”