The unicorn sizes her up; she returns the favor, her scarlet irises slithering over his elegant body in lascivious assault. She does not study his golden hooves or burnished markings but his shifting sinew and broad chest, his long legs and whiplike tail—all staples of a horse bred for speed and grace. And while Rikyn looks at her, thinking of her curls and her crownless brow, she thinks of how best to batter and bruise him, how best to conquer him.

It dawns on her that he is smirking at her, the edge of his soft mouth quirked up in eagerness (or so she interprets.) Nym’s nostrils flare ever so slightly in tasteful annoyance; his boyishness irks her, and she wonders just how old he is.

Who cares? She is looking for is a taste of action—what’s the point in complaining about who she gets to beat? He was young, like her; no doubt inexperienced like her too.

It’d be a fair fight, but she would win. At least that is what she tells herself.

No later than a moment following the bob of his head the boy is jerking into surprisingly fluid action, even faster than she’d been expecting. A hair of a second later she quickens into her own long-strided gait. It wasn’t anything flashy or speedy, but unlike the unicorn she didn’t need it; she had enough muscle that she wouldn’t need to carry that extra quickness to deliver a powerful blow.

That and she had an extra card up her sleeve.

(Lilomiel.)

As he lowers his head Nym breathes in, out, her heartbeat accelerating and her eyes holding steadfast to that glinting point aimed towards her breast. Logically, she knew he had a whole body behind it—that his hooves and teeth and shoulders could serve as less graceful but just as adequate weapons—but it was his horn that demanded attention, sunlight glittering off the twining gold. She remembers Abraham, her first fight; Abraham with his lust, Abraham with his strength and his broad shoulders. He’d had a horn too, an even more wicked-looking thing than Rikyn boasted. (And he had beaten her.)

Their reflections shatter, unrecognizable, as the water arcs upwards beneath their hooves. Now they are close; now Nymeria doesn’t feel like she’s running towards him anymore. Their collision course is predetermined; the outcome was decided long before their inaction turned to action.

They were falling towards one another.

This—the rabbit beat of her heart, the shakiness to her limbs—this wasn’t anxiety. It was nerves. There was a difference, she told herself; nerves are good. They made her sharp, made her quick.

Except she doubts that and she can’t stop to think because he’s plunging in towards her shoulder. Again, he is faster than she was expecting, and she belatedly starts to pivot to her right around her haunches, towards Rikyn. It’s not quick enough to shift the aim of his horn, nor was it really meant to. His horn (glistening, glittering) catches her in the right shoulder, driving in a moderately deep line through the thick meat there to kiss the very edges of her foremost ribs. For a moment she doesn’t feel the pain. For a moment her emotions are stuck on primal fear and surprise and holy fuck why can’t I press pause and think; then it sinks in and she gasps, the sound strangely dry and emotionless on her lips (more like she’s going through the motions than feeling anything.)

What is it prey and predators naturally do? Hide their weakness.

Fucking gods it hurt—she was unaccustomed to pain like this, unaccustomed to this new kind of struggle. Blood immediately began to weep from the wound, tracks of red to mirror her scarlet irises, but apart from her first soft utterance she makes no sound.

Then she’s finished her pivot towards him, putting them at a wide angle with their heads near together, and the right side of his chest cracks into the right side of her chest, leaving moderate bruising. She grunts—painfully aware that her spine and back is in easy reach of his horn—and without further thought or effort pulls.

The pull is a yank at his blood, an attempt to wrestle that precious red from his nostrils, tear ducts, and ears. (It is not a pretty sort of magic.)

Simultaneously she snaps at Rikyn’s withers—her diamond teeth glinting—hoping to grab hold over the bony piece and puncture his skin.

She was afraid—afraid of failure, afraid of the pain that radiated through her shoulder—but she would win She refused to consider any other option.