ETAN
They were both panting, circling each other. Borsche and Falek had inched closer over the course of their combat and now stood just feet away, each calling instruction and advice to their fighters.
Ayleth's cheeks were hot, and Etan's hair stuck to his temples with sweat. But he hadn't found the opening to take her down without hurting her, and she hadn't been able to get a firm grip on him yet.
But he was tiring. She was so fast. It was his luck that she wasn't accustomed to fighting for so long. Her breath heaved much rougher than his.
"Use your hands, Ayleth," Falek said quietly. "He has more bulk to move. Make him work for it."
"Stay on the balls of your feet and keep that shoulder up!" Borsche hissed.
They circled again and she stared at his chest rather than his eyes—limiting his ability to feint.
