"And are you suggesting that to throw me off of said strategy?" he counters, head canted ever so slightly.

When he'd tutored a handful of Dracula's troops, he went in knowing they lusted for blood and carnage, that many of them possibly harbored intentions to make an attempt on his life. Firo, on the contrary, has displayed neither of those things. It's strange, not having solid reason to fear for his life, and for a cursory moment, Hector isn't sure what to do next. He's hesitant to play on the offense. Though the outflow of magic rarely taints his thoughts, oftentimes it makes him forget his own strength. He's sparred with Isaac, of course, but that means little here; a Forgemaster's body was considerably stronger than the average human's, much more resilient.

And so, taking the safe route, he applies pressure to Firo's sword, an unspoken challenge for him to retaliate. Slowly, subtly, his legs tense, preparing to dash left or right or to leap into the air when the next strike comes.