A Marriage of Swords
Hers was the art of the kill.
Sweat stung Leigh's eyes. Her blood sang. This was real. This was the clarity she craved. For a few moments, she forgot he was the prince, forgot the cage. He was just an opponent, a magnificent, frustratingly skilled one.
Makil, for his part, felt something long frozen begin to crack. The pure, physical dialogue stripped away pretense. There was no flattery here, no hidden agenda in the swing of a blade. Her skill was undeniable, hard-won, and earned. It commanded a respect he was unwilling to give to anything else.