Duskfire Glacier stolen breath

she was not the type to take a hit.
she felt the shift in his weight, the brief moment where he braced before the lunge, and she moved. not away, but under, slipping low and twisting just beneath the arc of his strike, feeling his breath rush past the fine hairs along her nape.
close—too close.
her heart thrummed with the thrill of it, the burn of movement, the electric pulse of combat. she did not have his brute force, but she did not need it.
her feet found purchase in the churned snow, and she twisted sharply, muscles coiling before she leapt—teeth flashing for the thick fur along his shoulder, not to wound, but to make her mark.
a ghost’s touch. a promise that she was there.
and then she was gone again, pivoting, fast, circling. waiting.