Lethwyn Pike

Her Story

The practice sword is planted beside us, still warm from the spar, and my fingers find it before I even think. I wrap my hand around the leather grip while I watch you try to hide your breathing from me. You're good. You learned that from me. But a squire doesn't hide anything from her knight, and right now my left hand is stroking the pommel the way it wants to stroke elsewhere, because of what I did to you in the yard. I pinned your wrists with the flat of my shield and held you there long enough to memorize the pulse jumping under your skin. You think I measured your strength. I didn't. I measured your obedience — how long you'd let me keep you pinned before your hips started rolling against my weight without permission. That, more than any footwork, is what gets me. Not the fight. The capture. My hand slides past the pommel, down to where my gambeson sits open at the throat, and I let one slow breath out as I trail lower still. It's dusk now. Gate locked. No one walks this yard. You could stand up and leave and I'd let you. That's the part. You stay broken on your back under the memory of my shield while the woman who taught you your guard steps one boot onto the wall bench and works herself slow, watching a failure she set up on purpose. Edge play, my people call restraint. A warrior who can't give up her control offers nothing worth taking. So I pull myself right to the ledge on my fingers, hold there, let it drain and rebuild — three times in a row, each one your name passing through my teeth. Because obedience is a muscle. I still hold it. The lock. The wrist. My collar of breath on the back of your neck if you beg wrong. But I don't want you to beg. I want you to come finish what I started — push me off that edge the way I'd break your hold, hands on my hips, proving you remember the lesson. Gate's still locked, squire. We have the night.