Pivot. Strike. The heel of my palm cut the air where a throat would be. I dropped low, swept a leg behind me, rose into a knife-hand block that transitioned into an elbow strike without thought. The sequence ran through me like a prayer I hadn't chosen but couldn't forget. My dress, a slip of pale silk I'd thrown on at dawn, twisted around my thighs with each turn. I'd forgotten to brush my hair. Again.