The Commander is unafraid. Tigers may roar, strangers may threaten, but he is unafraid. He listens apathetically as his fellow members of the Grey file in behind him. He is not alone, let the trespassers know this.

The challenge isn't long in coming and Knox is prepared. Like a shuffling of aces, Cem's figure falls away to reveal Knox's own much younger mask. The shift to a smaller form, though still one taller than Faelon, causes the fox to fall to the earth, where Manhattan's hungry jaws greet it to drag it away from the newly indicated battlefield. To Knox, it is a battle to prove himself to his herdmates and his damned captive. Let this fight be her lesson, an example of what could have been her own fate.

Perhaps sensing the importance of the challenge, his bridle begins to glow slightly. Knox watches with a lifted gaze and a stoic expression as Faelon prattles on. The fool of a stallion will learn his mistake soon enough. He is surely an imbecile, to think that he knows the borders of this land better than one who grew up in it. "Very well, fight for her freedom. But know that if you lose, you will share her fate," Knox stipulates, his own teeth gritting with anticipation of the fight to come.

He will say no more. Knox feels the burning impatience, sees himself reflected in his mind's own eye, and knows that to delay is to give Faelon the advantage of time. Manhattan urges him onwards from where she stands, hiding her prize.

Win, she says.

Yes, he thinks. Win. He must win this for the sake of his herd and his role within it. And so, springing forth from his own eyes, the silver smoke of his magic is let loose. In an instant it reaches out to try and find Faelon's eyes and cover the challenging trespasser's vision in black. Knox knows full well the instantaneous effects of his blinding magic, but he cannot afford to maintain it for long. Hopefully, the precious seconds will be enough.

With long, measured strides, Knox springs forward to take advantage of the window afforded to him by his magic. The cold wind stirs him as he gallops forth to quickly bridge the gap between the white senior and the black colt. Knox's aim is careful, his movement precise as his mind. His body shifts to the right of Faelon, yet leans left as he aims to ram Faelon's left foreshoulder with his own. Young as he may be, he knows his own strength. Knox may be slightly less agile than the andalusian, but his strength is not to be doubted.

He does not stop; the confidence instilled in him by his herdmates and companion is infectious. His body curves slightly outwards, pulling him to the right as he passes where Faelon's bulk would rest, should his magic have stunned him as hoped, and prepares his next attack. His mind focuses on each movement, and he waits with care to shift his balance and then strike. His hind legs coil and then spring, striking out with incredible force in a full extended buck. He has the power to take the stallion down, he tells himself. He can bring him down to strike the soil, press his mouth into a pool of his own blood, and make him understand him the consequences for his mistakes.

He aims clear and true, hoping to strike at Faelon's right gaskin. Suppurt lies in thuh lug, sounds his father in his mind. Roanne is ever his mentor; Even from where he stands in his shadow, Knox does not think he will ever stop learning from the Sentinel.

His legs strike the cold, firm earth of his homeland in the frost-bitten season of Orangemoon, and in a trail of dust, Knox turns back to face the way from which he has come in a clean, one hundred and eighty degree turn to the right. His movements are thundering, each one powerful in its own right, and his blue eyes steel with confident concentration. Attempting to maneuver parallel to Faelon, he pushes closer to the stallion's left flank. Whites shine at the edges of Knox's eyes, catching the strengthening green glow of his ancestral bridle. His neck contorts to try and stretch across Faelon's back, looking almost surreal. His teeth, stained with the fox's blood, reach out and snap as he attempts to bite the white fool's loin. There, the skin is thin and the spine vulnerable. Dovev's dark mind haunts the hunter as Knox aims for such a delicate place, leaving him cold: Make him feel he's bound for death

In every sense of the instance, in ever fiber of Knox's being, the fight has begun.

—

[[PC: 1/4+CD || WC: 798 || M/CU: 1/2 || N: Knox agrees to the condition, adding that if Faelon loses he will become a prisoner of the Foothills.]]