Lion Head Mesa do not assess a man who has nothing, and thus falsify your pen

This was not a spar. At some point, it had become something worse, although if Zaahira were honest, she didn't quite know when or why.
She had given up on offense and had begun to focus solely on keeping herself above water, and as those yellowed teeth tore and punctured and claws from both man and woman scraped at skin angrily, she saw in his eyes something formidable. Something that very well could have killed her.
This was not a good-natured practice of strategy. This was a flaunt of power. And perhaps part of her mercenary training should be accepting when you are in over your head; when you lose.
When she was finally released, she wanted to ask if he was happy, if he had proven something to himself; if wounding one of the Queen's mazoi bolstered his ego, if he would later return to his chambers and fantasize about this over wine.
But she does not. Because this was not worth it. He was not worth it. He, as she decides while crudely spitting a droplet of crimson from her mouth, was not worthy of her Queen's hand. And if he were to marry her, she would throw a metaphorical shoe at the altar.
She says nothing. With her last remaining shred of dignity, she picks herself up and trudges in the direction of the wellspring.