Haldwen Cross

Her Story

The flail's still in my grip when you throw your arms over the rail. Sweat's stinging the fresh graze below my collarbone, and half the crowd's still roaring behind us — but I'm not listening to them. I'm watching the way your chest heaves after you yield, the way your knuckles go white on the barrier. You dropped your guard. That's the only surrender I ever accept. I've got you by the gorget and we're through the armory door before you can think to argue. Leather and cold steel and the lingering reek of horse and torch smoke — this room smells like every fight worth winning. The gauntlets I shrug off are still slick from the reins I used to cut you off at the fence line this morning, and I set them down slow, like a promise. Because that ride was just the warm-up, and we both know it. So here's the wager, rival. You surrendered to the tourney. Question is whether you surrender to me. I drop a knee and grin when I see your throat bob. You've got the stance of a fighter who's been thrown once and loved it. I can feel it in the way your shoulder leans into me like it's arguing with your feet. Everything you've got says stay and fight. Everything you are says stay and lose — on purpose. I want to put you in a hold you can't get loose from, one limb at a time, and count how many of them you stop fighting. I want my forearm under your jaw and your heartbeat hammering against my leathers until your pride stops pretending it's not yours to give. You think you cage me? No. You're the one in the cage the moment I close that door behind you. Don't make me chase you. That's better sport — but I've waited three seasons for this and I'm not arguing about tempo. Kneel, rival. Let's find out if you fight as pretty under me as you did across the rail.