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Ryon shakes his head. “I offered no challenge.”

“I accept the inference of your challenge.”

“Iinferredno cha–”

“We will duel!” Dawsyn calls out, arms raised. “The winner will be forever deemed more dignified than the other.”

“Well, the other will be dead,” Ryon intones. “Not exactly a fair proclamation.”

“Two will fight, only one will survive.”

“And what ofweapons?We have none.”

“We’ll use what nature gave us, hybrid. Our bare hands.”

“Mother save me.”

“Take your stance.”

“I decline.”

Dawsyn squares her feet. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Mind your mark.”

“Dawsyn,” Ryon warns, exasperated.

“Fight!” With that, she lunges forward, her fist jutting out, caught easily by his hand.

“Dawsyn! Stop it.”

But Dawsyn only strikes again, and again, each one blocked by Ryon who slowly works his way backward until his shoulders slam into the trunk of a willow. “Ow.Fuck it!”

Dawsyn swings a wayward fist again, but Ryon only pushes it wide, catching her as she spins and falls with her back to his front, where he binds her tightly with his arms. “Ha! Where to now, girl?”

She struggles, her mind too foggy to recall what move to make, what place to strike. She only writhes in his hold, a hysterical chuckle rumbling in her chest.

There’s a smile in Ryon’s voice too. It curls into her ear, so close. “I win.”

“I’m not dead yet,” Dawsyn reminds him.

“If it’s all the same to you, I still win.”

She laughs again, and ceases her pointless struggle. “Fine.”

“A trick? If I let you go, will you pounce at me again?”

“The price you pay when you fight with honour, I’m afraid.”

Ryon laughs and releases her, but only enough to allow her to turn. Only enough that his arms might hold her, but not restrain.

Dawsyn looks up at him. She winds her fingers into his shirt. She rests her head against his chest to still the spinning in her head, but says nothing.

The silence is pregnant. Tangible.

“You love me,” Ryon tells her. She wonders if she imagines it.