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Swifttail barely kept his footing when Alwyn’s blade ripped his guard high and out of position. The jolt tore through his shoulders and wrists, forcing him back two uneven steps before he managed to reset his stance. His grip slipped, tightened again. His breath came in sharp pulls through his bared teeth.
Anchor.
Dead weight.
Drowning Silvie.
The words chased him even as wood met wood in brief, testing exchanges. He parried automatically, feet adjusting, tail counterbalancing. His mind, however, lagged half a heartbeat behind the fight.
The crowd’s laughter faded to a low murmur, but the pity remained. That arguably hurt worse.
He caught it in the tilt of a head. In the sigh of some older Guardsbeast shaking his muzzle. In the way eyes softened as if watching something already lost. No anger or mockery. Simply resignation, as if he were already sunk.
Alwyn drifted lazily in front of him, blade low, posture careless.
Swifttail inhaled slowly.
He stopped trying to answer. There was no defending his pride with words. Justifying anything logically here was going nowhere. All they wanted to see was whether he could fight back, or cower and give up.
Well, he was no dead weight boat anchor!
He stepped in, blade driving forward in a tight arc that forced Alwyn to give ground. He followed through without hesitation, boots thudding against the packed earth of the ring as he pressed the attack. Strike. Reset. Strike again. He didn’t give space. Didn’t give breathing room.
The crowd reacted with a buzz, surprise threading through the sea of beasts.
Alwyn shifted, deflected, angled away, as Swifttail closed the gap again.
He drove his shoulder in behind the next blow, committing his weight to it, forcing the Lieutenant backward another step. Wood cracked sharply against wood, the impact reverberating up his arms. His lungs burned, but he ignored it. Momentum mattered more than air.
He struck again, and again, noting the adjustment in Alwyn’s footing, the slight retreat, the guard rising a fraction higher than before.
He had him.
The thought flared bright and reckless, and he surged again with one more heavy swing. His front foot planted deep, his body leaning fully into the motion, blade driving down with everything he had left, convinced for the first time that he was finally turning the tide.
“I can protect myself,” he growled through his teeth,
“an’ him too!”
Anchor.
Dead weight.
Drowning Silvie.
The words chased him even as wood met wood in brief, testing exchanges. He parried automatically, feet adjusting, tail counterbalancing. His mind, however, lagged half a heartbeat behind the fight.
The crowd’s laughter faded to a low murmur, but the pity remained. That arguably hurt worse.
He caught it in the tilt of a head. In the sigh of some older Guardsbeast shaking his muzzle. In the way eyes softened as if watching something already lost. No anger or mockery. Simply resignation, as if he were already sunk.
Alwyn drifted lazily in front of him, blade low, posture careless.
Swifttail inhaled slowly.
He stopped trying to answer. There was no defending his pride with words. Justifying anything logically here was going nowhere. All they wanted to see was whether he could fight back, or cower and give up.
Well, he was no dead weight boat anchor!
He stepped in, blade driving forward in a tight arc that forced Alwyn to give ground. He followed through without hesitation, boots thudding against the packed earth of the ring as he pressed the attack. Strike. Reset. Strike again. He didn’t give space. Didn’t give breathing room.
The crowd reacted with a buzz, surprise threading through the sea of beasts.
Alwyn shifted, deflected, angled away, as Swifttail closed the gap again.
He drove his shoulder in behind the next blow, committing his weight to it, forcing the Lieutenant backward another step. Wood cracked sharply against wood, the impact reverberating up his arms. His lungs burned, but he ignored it. Momentum mattered more than air.
He struck again, and again, noting the adjustment in Alwyn’s footing, the slight retreat, the guard rising a fraction higher than before.
He had him.
The thought flared bright and reckless, and he surged again with one more heavy swing. His front foot planted deep, his body leaning fully into the motion, blade driving down with everything he had left, convinced for the first time that he was finally turning the tide.
“I can protect myself,” he growled through his teeth,
“an’ him too!”
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