Enara stepped away, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, refusing to meet Liria's gaze. "You win," she muttered, trying to sound dismissive, as if losing to Liria in the sand ring meant nothing. As if her heart wasn't pounding so hard it hurt, as if the sting on her cheek wasn't matched by a deeper ache somewhere she could never quite reach.
It was meant to be over now. The match, the confessions, the old feelings pulled from the dust like lost swords. Enara told herself to turn, to walk away, to let the night swallow her before her guard slipped further.
But Liria, damn her, was still standing there gentle, battered, stubborn, so infuriatingly herself and that was the trouble, wasn't it? Because nothing had really changed. Enara's heart was a badly-fortified city, and Liria always seemed to find the hidden gates.
Something reckless surged up in Enara, raw and impulsive. Before she could stop herself before sense or pride or fear could interfere she lunged.
