The sweat hadn't cooled yet when the instructor found him.
Rethan was halfway through wiping his face with a coarse towel when a voice clipped the air behind him.
"Ever try watching your feet?"
He turned. Instructor Dren. Not the tallest, not the loudest, but the one who always had something to say after the bruises were already blooming.
Graying hair cropped close to the scalp. Arms crossed. The kind of scowl that didn't come from anger, just habit.
"No," Rethan said. "Didn't think they needed supervision."
Dren didn't laugh.
He stepped closer, gesturing at the field they'd just left.
"That first dodge—against Yorran. You pivoted left, overextended your back foot. You gave him your center for half a second. If he wasn't built like a sack of wet bark, he could've floored you."
Rethan blinked. "Noted."
"You always move like you think they'll follow a script. Like if you react fast enough, everything'll be fine."
He shrugged. "It's worked so far."
