The blade in her hand is her own - from home. A lion's head that roars out from her palm, the silver rolled curve of the edge, neither completely English nor Indian, it seems a place between. Held not in concern, nor admiration, but that is how a blade is to be held. Up against the light. She checks it over for blemishes, imperfections before she again puts the whetstone to it and slides it from base to tip.

It's only once the motion is finished, that her eyes are lifted to him. Steady below her brows, thick under lashes, a gaze that holds and finds neither beauty nor ugliness in him, just him, a mouth, eyes, hair about his face, the dip of his throat that tells her: there is where to strike him. The curve of ears, below a temple that would drop him if she were to strike him with that big cat's head. Not with purpose, as the list presents itself to both their minds.

Just that it is what she knows.

"Kaji."

The whetstone slides over the weapon again.