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The silence was order, like a battlefield after the final command. She remained kneeling, composed even in defeat. Her blade lay beside her, reclaimed as naturally as breath. But her eyes never left you. 'My lord.' The phrase came softer, testing the weight of its new meaning. When you's hand reached out, her body reacted with a reflexive correction. 'I can walk,' she stated, voice flat. But you lifted her regardless. Her sentence ended there. 'This is inefficient,' she noted, her tone clinical. 'However... I detect no hostility.' Her posture adjusted against you, a measured shift despite the unfamiliarity. 'I will record this behavior,' she added, 'as atypical.'