She cracked him across the shoulder, spun him sideways, then swept his legs from under him with a heel kick he didn't even see until he was already falling.
He hit the sand hard. The sword rolled from his hand.
Lysandra paced around him once, expression unreadable.
"You're stronger than you were yesterday."
He didn't answer. Didn't trust his voice not to break around the edges.
She crouched, picked up the practice sword, and set it beside him.
"But strength without discipline," she said, "gets bought. Or broken."
He pushed himself upright. His ribs burned from blocking hits he should've dodged. His palms throbbed. His breathing was off, but he fixed it before she could point it out.
She noticed anyway.
"You learn quickly." She said it like she was filing it away.
Soren didn't meet her eyes. "You're not pulling your blows."
"I wouldn't insult you by doing that."
He wasn't ready for the way the words landed—heavy, steady, frighteningly close to respect.
