It's certainly not any less weird to be up training at this unholy hour of the morning. Closer to dawn, with some of the templars? Completely normal. All by yourself in a totally empty courtyard a couple of hours after midnight? Definitely weird. Though being out so late hasn't kept Myr from being seen like he'd intended to, so maybe once he's back to sleeping at these small hours he'll be less hesitant about practice during the daylight ones.

...Except he's more liable to get a crowd of gawkers, then, which is decidedly less tolerable than a single, solitary watcher calling compliments.

He doesn't hear Beleth's approach--too involved with pursuing his imaginary opponent through an imaginary retreat--but he gradually gets the feeling he's being watched, and by the time Beleth calls out to him it comes as no surprise. He exhales a breath that's almost like a laugh, trips and pins the invisible monster he's fighting, then grounds his staff with a flourish. "Thanks," he manages, breathlessly.

It takes a little longer before he's breathing evenly enough he can converse normally; time he uses to flip his bangs away from his blindfold and get more comfortable leaning on his staff. "Glad I'm putting on a good show." There's only a tiny bit of ruefulness in his tone; he's starting to get used to this idea that people don't see this as...sad, or pathetic, somehow, from someone no one would expect in front-line combat.