Marcus lunged again.
He ignored the screaming protest of his ribs.
He swung the dagger. It was a downward slash.
Elowen didn't even raise her hands. She simply leaned back.
The blade missed her nose by an inch.
Marcus grunted. He reversed his grip. He stabbed upward.
Elowen pivoted on her heel. She spun away like a dancer.
"Missed," she sing-songed.
Marcus didn't stop. He pressed the attack.
He swung wildly. Desperately.
Slash. Stab. Swipe.
Every movement sent fresh spikes of agony through his torso.
His breath came in ragged gasps. Blood flecked his lips.
He was fighting through a haze of red pain.
But Elowen was untouched.
She wove through his attacks with effortless grace.
She was playing with him.
She ducked under a clumsy swing.
She sidestepped a thrust.
"Sloppy," she critiqued. "Too emotional."
Marcus swung again. He overextended.
Elowen saw the opening.
She moved inside his guard and slipped behind him.
Marcus tried to turn. He was too slow.
