[ it feels a little like walking to her death. when her anger has left her and she is no longer shaking, she had sat only with the awareness that in a fair fight, head-on, she stands little chance against aristaeus. this is unimportant. the stranger had been correct: she was cowardly not to take action, not to demand a challenge to redress aristaeus' many offenses.

her hands are balled into fists, and nervous sweat has already gathered on the back of her neck, in her palms, under her arms. it makes her shirt stick to her, made colder by the wet. ]

Do you understand the terms? [ she raises her voice a little, as if to leave no room for his idle, bitter commentary. ] The fight continues until one of us either dies or yields. The loser surrenders all right to their grievance. The winner gets what they wanted.

[ even as she says it, something in her chest feels hollow. what she wanted and what she'd asked for hardly seem to align. but that is aristaeus' fault, his thoughts and feelings ebbing into the tide of her own. when she thinks with idle longing for the clarity he had brought her in mirth, before he had entrapped her, that feeling does not belong to her. she knows this. it is what kossians are best at: eroding the individual. ]