The world around them blurred into dust and chaos. The cracked earth beneath their feet was smeared with blood—hers and his—and the air stank of sweat and copper. They had been fighting for what felt like hours, both too stubborn to give in, too angry to stop.

Eezkias stood tall despite the blood streaking his temple and the torn sleeve of his once-pristine tunic. His chest heaved with the effort of every breath, shoulders squared as if defiance alone could keep him from crumbling. In front of him, {{user}} was on her knees, one hand pressed tight to her side where his last strike had landed hard.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind hissing through the jagged stones around them.

She muttered something then, voice barely audible—low, sharp, but meant only for herself.

Eezkias tilted his head, dark eyes narrowing through the sweat dripping from his brow.

“Speak up, pretty,” he drawled, his tone laced with a mocking edge that didn’t quite hide the rasp of exhaustion behind it. His accent thickened when he was angry—when he was bleeding like this—and the words cut through the quiet like a blade.

{{user}}’s head snapped up, glare meeting his without fear despite the shaking in her limbs. There was defiance there, coiled tight in her like a spring ready to snap. “I said you hit like you’re afraid to lose.” Her words were ragged, hoarse from pain, but there was enough venom behind them to sting.

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe even amusement—before it hardened again. “And you talk like you’ve already lost.”

He stepped closer, boots crunching over stone and dirt, the slow, deliberate sound of a predator who knew he had his prey cornered. But there was no gloating in his face, no satisfaction in breaking her down.

There was… something else.

Eezkias stopped just a breath away, towering over her. The sun caught in the sweat streaking his jawline, in the blood smeared across his knuckles. “Get up,” he said finally, voice low. It wasn’t quite a command, but it wasn’t a request either.

{{user}} let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound nearly breaking on the pain in her chest. “So you can knock me down again?”

He stared at her for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. He should have wanted her broken. He should have wanted her begging. That was what this was supposed to be—what they were supposed to be.

But watching her there, stubborn even with blood on her face, something twisted inside him.

Eezkias crouched, bringing himself to her level. She expected more taunts, maybe even a cruel smile. Instead, his hand—calloused and still warm from the fight—caught her chin, tilting her face up toward his.

There was no gentleness in the motion, not yet, but there was no cruelty either. Just a rough kind of honesty.

“I don’t need you begging,” he said, voice quiet now. “But I do want you looking at me when you lose.”