For a split second, Yulia flashed back to a memory: about a year ago, in a similar situation, but in the colder north where the air always nipped at you. She'd finished a spar back then, too; Ingrid was catching her breath, slouched at her feet and she was having a hard time lighting up. And then he comes up, flames at his fingertips and a smile on his face as he said, Here, let me help you with that.

She frowned just slightly, letting the memory go, and uttered a quiet thank you. She tucked her lighter (silver, engraved with an initial that didn't belong to her) in her breast pocket, then took a long drag from her stick and exhaled, eyes fluttering closed.

"There are many training halls, you know." She looked at him, eyebrow raised. "But if you want to join, next time just say so. I think Saxon and Breton will enjoy."