A Marriage of Swords
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They were both gasping, steam rising from their bodies in the cold air.
She looked up at him, from the ground, defiance still burning in her eyes, but mixed with the acknowledgement of defeat. "Yield," she said, the word gritted out.
He didn't move. He stared down at her, his chest heaving, seeing not a defeated lady, but a warrior on her back. The urge to gloat died unborn. The victory felt hollow, won by chance.
He lowered his sword, offering his hand instead.
She stared at it for a heartbeat, then took it. His grip was firm, pulling her to her feet with ease.