They don't have to wait long for their opponent to show themselves. That unfurling almost-nervousness spreading through them like ink in water, that paranoia, snuffs itself out when they realise the orange lights are something more mundane than they're used to.

Their attacker has the poise and grace, the sharp intent, of a Hunter. They can respect that, in a way; wandering this side of the island makes them sharp, aggressive, more willing to see others as prey.

There is a moment, a breath, before the Knight launches themselves at their much larger foe without fear or hesitation, aiming for the mask in a slash that whistles through the air.