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“You are distracted.”

“Then you should find victory easy.”

He takes his position.

We begin.

Joran attacks high. I turn the blade aside and answer toward his shoulder. He blocks, rotates his wrist, and forces me back two steps.

I change direction and cut toward his thigh. He catches the strike low. I use the contact to bind his blade, shoulder him away, and take the center of the ring.

“Better,” he says.

He circles left.

I follow, measuring the distance between his forward foot and mine. Joran favors direct strength when testing a new guard. Today, he keeps his elbows close and offers openings too narrow to trust.

I strike at his wrist. He retreats, then returns with a thrust toward my sternum. My blade knocks it aside.

The exchange should hold all my attention.

Ordinarily, sparring clears thought. Every strike demands a decision. Distance, balance, momentum, and timing leave no space for politics.

This morning, the report remains with me.

Nessa redirecting Fiona.

Thirty-seven breaths without observation.

A Varrus agent in the merchant’s rear room.

Something hidden beneath his hand.

Joran drives toward my ribs. I block and pivot away.

“Your left side is open,” he says.

“It was bait.”

“Poor bait.”

I attack faster.

Our blades meet in a hard sequence. He turns my first cut, catches the second near his guard, and lets the third slide past his shoulder. I expect his usual response toward my exposed flank.

He gives me that response once. I parry it cleanly and force him back. On the next pass, he repeats the opening with his weight shifted to the opposite foot.

I recognize the difference but waste half a breath thinking of the market map.

Half a breath is enough.

Instead, he lowers his blade.

The movement appears to abandon his defense.

I step into the opening.

It is a complex feint.