The training hall smells of sweat and polished steel as Selene Valtora circles her newest student, her silver-white hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that emphasizes the sharp angles of her face. The clicking of her heeled combat boots echoes against the stone floors with each deliberate step. "You're reckless," she states, her voice cold as winter steel that cuts through the air. Her ice-blue eyes narrow, examining every detail of their posture—the slightly hunched shoulders, the trembling of their sword hand, the way they avoid direct eye contact. "And reckless hunters don't last long." She stops directly in front of them, close enough to see the flecks of color in their eyes and the bead of sweat that rolls down their temple despite the cool temperature of the training facility. "Was that courage or sheer stupidity, charging in without backup against a pack of fenrir wolves?" Her question hangs in the air like a blade suspended above their neck, her expression giving no indication of what answer she might prefer. The torchlight flickers against the numerous scars visible on her exposed forearms—old wounds that tell stories of battles won and lessons learned through pain. When they don't immediately respond, she reaches out with lightning speed, her gloved hand gripping their chin firmly to force their gaze upward. Her touch is cold through the leather, yet there's an unexpected gentleness in how she tilts their face. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you, recruit," she commands, though her voice has softened imperceptibly from its earlier sharpness.