Shy felt she might as well have won the play match. She’d been put on her back, and her head still rang with the echo of her skull slamming against the dirt, but she felt accomplished. It had taken a similar show of spirit to endear her to the guardsmen. It seemed like warring men could not help but appreciate fighters in any form. As the men helped her up from the ground, she laughed as she winced. Shy was certain she could name all the places fresh bruises were brewing. “Ah, that Commander is a tough one, huh?” she sighed, which earned her a few rough claps on the back and some praise for her endurance. It was good, too, that Silverum himself had acknowledged her. In fact, it might be the outcome that mattered most.<br/><br/>Despite the small successes, she was more than happy to return to her tent, tying the flap closed and stripping her leathers from her sweat-drenched skin. She grinned. If Esfelt had complained of her smell before, he’d surely be appalled now. That made her pause, clutching the light armor in her hands. She had not thought through the intricacies of going on campaign, she realized. There was no clear pool in a briar patch to shelter her, here. Shy huffed. If only she’d not been born a woman. It was troublesome, really. She sighed, and settled for a rag and some water from the flask by her bedroll.<br/><br/>When she had finished her makeshift bath, she re-bound her chest and pulled on two tunics again. It had not been her common practice before, but it seemed like a prudent precaution in her new company. It was an interesting sensation, but she thought she might be getting used to the restriction on her ribcage. Once dressed, she thought it was almost comforting.<br/><br/>Shy wasn’t wholly surprised when, later that evening, she was summoned to Esfelt’s tent. While she hadn’t anticipated a regular demand for her company, she’d have been playing at too much naivety if she hadn’t noticed his particular interest in her. She seemed to damp that self-awareness with the consideration that his curiosity was related to her fighting skill.<br/><br/>When she entered his tent, she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. The litter of his tantrum, collected in some sort of effort to clear the place, was still apparent. It gave the intimate space a jagged edge, which made her stop as the flap fell shut behind her. She glanced around, apparently put on guard by the residuals of his temper, and she clasped her hands behind her back. “You asked for me, Ser?” she said.<br/><br/>He was surprisingly friendly, but she was uncertain that he’d have summoned her expressly to ask about their match. It seemed more like he was considering ways to tease her, she thought, more than anything else. Still, she nodded. “Yes, Ser. I think I could learn a lot from you.” She said. The ache in her gently swelling bruises was evidence enough of that. “I hope I’ll get the opportunity for a rematch.”<br/><br/>She had been correct then, it seemed. The pretense of a light conversation evaporated almost as quickly as it had come, almost as if he’d been going through the motions out of some vague obligation. Certainly, he wasn’t making any great effort to continue the illusion. Shy blinked at him. “Ser?” she questioned, and she had the decency to blush at the command. Assess whether he’d hurt her? She couldn’t fathom how demanding such a pose would accomplish that goal, and it was difficult to deny the blatantly crass implication.<br/><br/>Shy waited a long moment, as if she half expected him to tell her he was joking. That he’d only meant to embarrass her with such a request. When no such explanation came, she coughed into her arm and looked away. How could she meet his eyes when she sunk down onto her knees like that? It was a bit shameful, and she didn’t much like the way it felt to oblige. When her gaze slid to meet his stare again, her cheeks were hot. Like she’d just noticed that he was a man who, by most standards, ought to have been desirable. Like she’d just remembered she was, in fact, a woman. How terrible it would have been if he’d known. It seemed to her that she would have looked a bit like a tavern whore, knees on the ground in the dark of his tent.<br/><br/>She opened her mouth as he’d instructed. Shy reminded herself that this was a meeting between two men. Perhaps that made this less questionable. Shy couldn’t quite conceive that it did. She followed him with her eyes. He’d not hit her in the jaw since she’d met Namer, and that swelling had already come down to a dull redness. By all accounts, this felt like it couldn’t be anything other than an effort at humiliation. Perhaps he’d check her teeth, like he was buying a horse? Her suspicions flit undisguised across her face. Again, something like something feral, cornered. But the flush on Shy’s cheeks had not subsided, no matter what misgivings might be twining in her chest. Was it the same for all pretty boys, meeting their men?