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I pick an arrow from my quiver, set it on the silver bow, and aim. The looping circles in front of me look like an enemy’s head. My aim is strong; it always has been. I shoot the arrow, and it lands right in the middle of the circular board. I should do some other practice, maybe just one more arrow.

The arrow has shifted from the quiver to the bow, two of my fingers beneath it at the bow’s head and one eye closed. From the open eye, I catch a glimpse of silver hair. Were there a few deep blue strands too?

My doubts vanish when ‘Prince’ Perseus walks past me to train. No, as soon as I leave the arrow, he shifts the aim.

This snell.

He has wasted an arrow, I’ll take it back from him. Taking another arrow; my quiver is empty now; I aim at the prince and shoot. His eyes widen dramatically, I know he expects that from me. He catches the arrow mid-air, stopping it right before it hits those emerald eyes. The rear points of the sharp tip scratch his palm, he shifts the arrow to his other hand and breaks it. I’ll punch that smirk off his face.

“Finally have your attention, Brixton?” he says in that disgustingly deep voice as I stand in front of him. The aims and arrows are long forgotten. The bow lowered with my left hand.

“Can't find better ways to gather attention, Damaris?” I retort, intentionally poking the end of the bow at his thigh.

“I don't need to find ways, I always have your attention.” His hands move into his pants’ pockets, ignoring the bleeding scratches. Only then do I notice his attire. He’s wearing the black fitted pants with knee-high boots in a darker black. The navy blue vest that has a longer back hem seems new; I can tell it from the way the golden buttons and threads in the middle sparkle. He went to meet the king.

“Done checking me out, Brixton?” That stupid smirk is back again. I regret trying to understand his clothes. But I can't help feeling odd, even though he is the one standing out in his shiny royal clothes.

“Like I would ever.” I roll my eyes, accidentally dropping my heavy bow at his feet. He stands still.

“If you can't lift weight, better get a lighter bow, this doesn't suit you anyway.” He bends down to pick it up, and I can't help but feel the coldness of his hands when he hands me the bow. How didn't he at least flinch at a bow worth four kilogrammes dropping at his feet?

“I can handle weights, it's just that your feet desire to be crushed.”

"Oh, sweetheart, I’ve trained for worse. Try harder next time.” He ruffles my hair when he knows I hate it. The cold from his body feels so odd against mine. As if the fire I contain is being tamed by the water he does.

“Don't dare call me that again, I won't hesitate before giving you a black eye,” I warn him, feeling my eyebrows raise.

“I’d like to see you try.” He laughs and says, “If you can even reach my eye, that is.”

Great. Now I’m short, even when I’m five feet and six inches. He wants to see me try? Alright.

I swing my free arm at his face, forcing him to look down, my gold ring slitting his cheek and drawing blood. He snickers and looks up, feeling the blood with his hands that have long forgotten the comfort of his pockets.

Out of nowhere, he snatches my bow and throws it back.

“Unlike you, I’ll tell you that we’re going to fight now, be prepared.” His words don't do enough to prepare me for what comes next. Even after all these years of sweating in this arena, even after fighting him countless times, I still fail to predict this one move.

His hands are swaying like he's preparing to punch me, his legs steady. But the punch never comes; instead, he tucks his foot in the back of my knee and pulls. I fall down from the impact, him on top of me.

“You love being under me, don't you, Brixton?” The green of his eyes glints in mischief as he provokes me.

“You love crossing your lines, don't you?” I say with all the spite I could gather, not failing to add something for the effect, “Damaris.”

And now he is not prepared for what I do. His mouth is open as he’s about to speak, but I stop him midway as I pull my feet upwards from under his and knee him in the groin. Hard. He falls to the side, and I get up, brushing off the sand.

My ankle is being pulled back and I fall face down. For a while, nothing comes. Then I see a pair of those royal shoes until he lowers and I can see his face as I use the support of my arms to look up.

“Always playing dirty, aren't you?” His hand plays with the red strand of my hair that I can't tell if he likes or hates, for he’s always wrapping it around his finger and pulling, but never hard enough to break it.

“That's what you deserve.” I maintain eye contact, even when his hand at my back stops me from completely getting up.

“Well, since you’re the last one to fall, and I now cease this game, it's only fair I leave a mark of my victory.”

“You cheated too, and it's not over, I can get up and push you back down,” I say, my neck hurting from looking up.

“Well, I started it, so I’ll end it. And now it's over.” He pulls out the dagger from his waistband, the five elements of nature combined together in one symbol, the symbol of Avon.

“Just say you can't defeat me in fair play. You don't want to try again.” I scoff, the sand flying to my nose and making me cough. He laughs at me, pulling the red strand of my hair, never breaking eye contact.

He brings the dagger closer to my face and slits a little part of my right cheek with it, pointing at the slit on his cheek, mouthing a ‘we’re matching now’ and laughing. I wait for him to respond to me, and lift his hand off my back. He catches the signs in my eyes and his lips move.

“Oh Darling, if I was really trying, you’d be staying with the doctors forever.”

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