She throws herself at Saint Voyne, lips peeled back in a snarl, and catches him around the waist. In Voyne’s guise, the saint is far more solid, heavier and more thoroughly muscled, and if not for Treila’s dagger, could no doubt just absorb the blow. But the blade glints in the garden’s filtered, shaking light, and Saint Voyne dances back, sidesteps before Treila can strike home.

Treila falls forward, spins, rights herself. Gets her footing.

Voyne’s mouth is hard now, and it’s harder to see the Loving Saint in her. Her eyes glint. She is menace and power and skill.

Treila darts forward again.

This time, she is lucky; her blade catches Voyne’s armor, and it should glance right off, but instead it sinks in, slides home. It’s just Voyne’s arm beneath, but it draws a cry all the same. Draws blood. Voyne roars and swings her fist; her knuckles slam into Treila’s side, send her sprawling.

Treila tumbles in the dirt. Rolls to her feet. Gets back up, grinning even as she gasps for breath.

It’s just like their old sparring matches, except that back then, they both had swords, and Treila obeyed the forms drilled into her. Now she is a wild thing, scrapping for survival. She slashes out with her blade again and when that strike is dodged, she grabs at hair, at clothing, at flesh. If Saint Voyne gets close enough, Treila will tear her throat out with her teeth.

She doesn’t get a chance. Voyne sends her crashing to the ground again, this time with a knee to the gut. Treila loses her grip and the blade goes flying, hitting the dirt and skidding into the undergrowth.

“Don’t fight me,” Voyne spits, all her weight on top of Treila now. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Does it make the meat sour?” Treila hisses back.

Voyne flinches.

It’s enough. It’s enough that Treila can squirm out from under her, can pitch forward, toward the knife, and—

And then she is struck in the back, borne down hard against the bench. Voyne’s fist is around her throat. Treila thrashes, manages to get onto her back but no farther. Voyne is between her legs, and Treila can’t help but laugh at that. Even now, this is the Loving Saint’s nature. He is lust and hunger and temptation.

She has, perhaps, three heartbeats left until the saint begins his feast. Voyne’s form is strong and heavy, and Treila can only writhe between him and the bench.

The only mercy is that the ringing in her head has, finally, gone silent.

“How will you have me, then?” she snarls. “Now that you’ve got me here at last?”