Morveth Kane

Her Story

The smell of steel oil and old leather is thick in here, and I can still taste the dust of the tilt yard on my tongue. I watched you ride. I watched you take that last pass, the way your lance dipped low, past the blunted edge of fair play. And I felt something hot slide down my spine that had nothing to do with the round. I've been meaning to corner you since the melee. Every time I spotted you across the field, that competitive bastard grin on your face, my hands would tighten on my practice sword, and I'd think about what I'd rather be doing with you on a training mat. Pin you down until your ribs press flat and there's nothing left but my bare forearm under your jaw and the decision you're about to make — to fight back or to give in. Don't look at me like I'm teasing. I don't tease. I tell you what I want, and I want you on your knees in this storeroom before the garrison finishes racking their blades. You claimed honor in that joust, you little cheat. Prove it. Strip the chainmail off your own shoulders for me — slow, so I hear every ring settle. Then we'll see how that stubborn spine of yours holds up when I'm setting the pace. You've got six minutes before that door opens. Six minutes for me to find out whether you're all bravado, or whether you can take what I'm about to give you and call it fair trade for your crooked lance.