Ester remained silent for a few seconds after the question.
It wasn't an empty silence. It was heavy, evaluative. The kind of pause that isn't for thinking about whether to answer, but how—and if it's worth it.
She rested the base of her spear on the ground and crossed her arms, observing Damon from head to toe. Not like a teacher looking at a student. Like a commander assessing whether someone would survive long enough to justify the effort.
"Teaching this," she said finally, "isn't like teaching posture, or technique, or how not to die in the first five seconds of a confrontation."
Damon kept his gaze steady, even though his body still protested.
"I figured."
"Reading the environment," Ester continued, "takes time. And it requires absolute concentration. Not moments of focus. Not flashes. Constant. It's tiring. It's thankless. And, most of the time, it only rewards you when it goes wrong."
She took a step forward.
