The morning chill still clung to the lower masonry of the subterranean testing silo when the Watcher descended the steps.
Her arrival produced no sound, her faded gray robes trailing silently across the chalked floor where yesterday's failure lingered.
"You spent twelve minutes staring at double lanterns yesterday," she remarked, stopping beside the workbench where Ferra sharpened a steel chisel.
"A man who tries to command both his own lungs and another set of ribs will drown in dry air."
"I tried to steer the knuckles," Hajin admitted, leaning against the sturdy support post while rotating his sore left shoulder.
"The moment I commanded the left ankle to flex, my own right knee buckled on the flagstones."
"Of course your knee buckled," the ancient custodian said, turning her milk-white gaze toward the center of the testing ring.
"When the Great Flood broke through the third weir of the ancestral tower, our master never steered knuckles."
