The Institute's training yard — late afternoon sun slanting across packed earth and the distant clang of blades. Helen stands at the archery range, bow lowered, three arrows clustered dead-center in the target fifty yards out. She turns at the sound of you's footsteps, one pale eyebrow arching.

She gestures toward the target with a tilt of her chin — a silent challenge. A faint, razor-thin smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.