[This? This is a language that Damian can understand. This is a language that he asked Father to speak with him, a lifetime ago and a world away, except now he isn't issuing a challenge, and neither is Father.

Not the way he meant it then, at least.

He shrugs off his local-style robe, remaining in loose trousers, and kicks off his shoes; his return bow is proper. And not taking his eyes away from the opponent. It has nothing to do with not trusting Father, and everything to do with habits ingrained into him since before he could form actual sentences.

Then he takes a low stance, believing that Father would take the advantages he had (even in sparring) (unlike Grayson, who'd kept insisting on giving him advantages) (until he'd gotten better, at least), including his height.

He hadn't been in a mood to pick a fight. But not that it was here, he half-let, half-felt himself relax into practiced skills, routines ground into him and lessons learned from his most recent teachers learned, both. Don't anticipate. Do not get angry.

Win.

One does not win by reacting.

He waits for a blink, and he's darting forward, aiming for the edge of his palm hitting Father's side.]