Duskfire Glacier blood of my blood

blackfell does not falter. he never does.
jora moves fast, the way she always has—like shadow, like wind through the crags—but he is ready.
when she lunges low, he meets her. not by evading, not by yielding, but by bracing.
his stance locks, muscles tensing, and when she crashes into him, he gives—just enough, just barely—before twisting sharply, aiming to hook his foreleg around her shoulder, to drag her with him in a brutal, unrelenting counter.
pushing the brunt of his weight upon her.