Ashe was in the outer ring before dawn.
Nobody was surprised.
Vane watched from the corridor window for a while before deciding not to go down.
She was running Asura's Dance at maintenance pace.
No output.
No pressure.
Just form.
Third.
Reset.
Third again.
Four years ago, Vane had learned to identify which form she was using from the rhythm of her footwork alone.
He could still do it.
The third form carried a particular cadence.
Three measured shifts.
A pause that barely existed.
Then the weight changed.
Again.
Again.
Again.
She had been outside for a long time.
The cold had gathered frost along the edge of the ring, but the center where Ashe moved remained worn and dry beneath her feet.
Vane stayed at the window.
Sometimes going down would have been kindness.
Sometimes leaving her the space was.
He had learned, eventually, that knowing the difference mattered more than acting first.
So he watched one more repetition.
Then left her to it.
