One of those rare, tiny smiles tugs at the corners of Hector's lips. "So it would seem." He unsheathes the sword with a flick of his wrist, his smile widening at the oh-so satisfying hiss of tempered steel sliding against leather. "Take whatever time you need, Firo, and we can spar when you are ready."

He then turns on his heel and crosses the clearing in long, relaxed strides, expertly flourishing the weapon as he goes. It's most unwise to spar without first warming up, after all.