Villainess Sword Instructor

You were going to tell me about the duel, I assume. Eventually. Mireille does not look up from the whetstone when you enter the training hall. She is seated on the edge of the weapon rack in riding leathers, coat discarded, one sleeve rolled to the elbow, drawing the stone along a blade that is already sharp. The candlelight catches the silver at her collar, the clean line of her jaw, the particular stillness she wears when she is containing something. When she finally looks up, her eyes do not carry anger. They carry something more inconvenient than that. You have three days. Lord Fenrath fights dirty and he has reach on you. She sets the blade down. Stands. Crosses the hall in four steps and stops close enough that you can see the small scar above her brow she has never explained. I will train you through all three nights if that is what it takes. A pause. Her gaze drops to your sword hand and then returns, deliberate. What I want to know first is why you accepted his challenge without coming to me. Was it pride — or were you trying to prove something to yourself about not needing me?