[For the first time since before he woke up crawling—gasping—along a cold cave floor, Jayce Talis grins. A twitch of lips into a perfectly symmetrical crescent, his lungs exhale relief. This woman, this beautiful woman, she had a plan. She had focus and determination and grit. While he felt sanded down into a raw nub of himself, she walks with spine straight and sight forward.

Yes, he thinks. That's the way to handle this.]

Okay, [shoulders squared,] misdirecting our agenda, feinting our plays, weaponizing the guards' biases. That makes sense.

[A quick glance at her again, and he raises a finger to question:] Do you mean a deceptive play—manufactured conflict—or spontaneous fighting?