"I will not yield." In dulcet tones, as clear as crystal. He could honestly not tell if he was happy or annoyed. He regretted not being able to get his hands on her, to tear her open and lay all her secrets bare. Her tears would be like precious jewels to him. But this challenge was direct, and his men stood at the ready. "Well, then at the very least you will have a chance to show us how well your master trained you. It is a pity I can't arm you properly." He raised his hand to signal, but stopped short at her quiet "No." She knelt in front of him, head bowed, hair pulled aside to show her neck. "I will not fight. I am a guest here in my Lord Yfnid's name. I would not start a feud for ruining a party, and I will not raise my hand to the man who might be my master's lord. Yet I cannot give up the blade. I can only give you my life." The last was almost a whisper. He could see her fight down fits of tremor, could hear her sniff. Although he could not tell if she cried, he could see her hands were small white knots upon her legs. No stranger to this dance, either, then. She knew what she was doing, in the way only a person intimate with death of this nature could know. He stood, lifting her chin. He pulled her standing, brushing his thumb along a tear's track on her cheek. "Not on your knees," He whispered like a lover. "This you will see coming."