“Don’t what?” Summer smiles slowly, lifting her sword slightly. She’s confident, not in her ability to best him, but in her ability to at least hold her own. Abruptly, she lunges forward, thrusting, and Mordred barely gets his own blade up in time to parry.

The other knights whoop and laugh, cheering them on, though it’s not clear which of the two they’re cheering louder. It takes a few passes before Mordred takes her seriously — the part where she nearly has the shield out of his hand might have something to do with that.

Then they clash in circles across the field. She avoids closing with him, knowing his strength will overpower her, and concentrates on swift darts in and out of his range. But she miscalculates one spin, or he predicts her motion — either way, her sword flies from her grip and she’s on the ground, holding her hands up in laughing surrender.