Silence lingered over the training court.
Moments earlier, laughter had filled the arena when Master Oren Veyr's Lightning Palm had hurled Hawk several paces across the stone floor.
Now, not a soul laughed.
Hawk stood where he had stopped, one hand brushing the dust from his sleeve. The warmth had vanished from his scarred face.
His expression settled into something quieter, sharper, like a wolf that had stopped playing.
Master Oren noticed it immediately. The old master's fingers curled slightly.
He had crossed hands with countless martial artists over four decades.
A single exchange often revealed more than an hour of conversation.
The man before him had intentionally accepted the first strike.
Not because he could not avoid it, because he wished to understand it.
Oren's heartbeat quickened.
"So," he murmured, lowering into his stance once more. "Shall we begin for real?"
Hawk inclined his head. "I've learned enough to answer now."
The old master smiled. "So have I."
