Somewhere in the midst of training her body, half a wish for revenge and half for a life of any sort at all, Shy had started to love to fight. She had never been tried intently on the battlefield, but she'd found some exhilaration in the ring. It was no different now, though Esfelt was a much grander sort of foe than any other training match she'd encountered. As Shy was beginning to better understand that undeniable truth, she felt as if she were being made lighter. Adrenaline, thrilling, was a strange sort of drug.  She matched his little feints, minute movements in her weight to flee out of range. And then, when she was flying at him, her too-full lips broke wide into a brilliant sort of smile. She would not have expected anything less from a man with Silverum's reputation.<br/><br/>His hands on her light leather plating stopped her momentum with a remarkable efficiency. She felt the abruptness of it lash her bones, limbs sent spiraling in a new direction under the knight's direction. She gasped as she spiraled away, twirling in a rag doll sort of way that would have seemed indicative of a loss if it hadn't been so nicely orchestrated by the time she was at the end of expending his force. Shy was stumbling, nearly falling, but her fingers were still curled tight around the hilt of her little sword. She swung her arm up and over, throwing her weight like some damnable acrobat. For a brief moment, she was awkwardly perched like a table with one leg too long, the tip of the wooden sword catching precarious purchase across from her planted palm. She was laughing, and then snapped upright and spinning to face him.<br/><br/>Shy was puzzled then, because she had not seen him get the sword and had very apparently not anticipated him rushing at her with it. She let out a loud whoop and staggered back, raising her own weapon to counter him nearly a moment too late. She grit her teeth when the collision came a half-breath later, shoving her back in the dirt so hard that she was certain she could feel the heat flare in the soles of her boots. She bent too, unable to stop his forward charge, but committed to holding her blade. It felt like slow motion when she finally lost purchase on her feet, tipping backward as his head slung forward. His face to her bruised cheek, and it might have seemed like a sweet sort of acknowledgement hadn't the men been cheering and that small second been caught frozen in time.<br/><br/>Even Shy wasn't wholly sure what her plan was then, other than to keep his advantage as small as possible. As she fell, she hooked a leg around his to keep him from catching his balance. If she was going to fall, he was going to fall with her. On top of her, it seemed, with their blades still locked and his weight on the upper hand, but she liked her chances wrestling on the ground better than laying on the flat of her back with him above her.<br/><br/>As soon as she hit the ground, she was twisting like a wild cat, thrashing as she shoved with the flat of her blade to keep him as off balance and unable to pin her as possible. He could have the match then, surely, but it would be apparent when they dragged to their feet. Shy had potential. Even Esfelt would have to consider what might come of her if she lived long enough to flourish. This was, after all, only their first clash. How long might they spar if she were to learn him?<br/><br/>When he would finally lock her into submission, she'd have thrown a reasonable punch in at his jaw. Lowbrow, but committed, and she'd stare up at him panting like a green-eyed whore who'd just begged him to give it to her rough. Unruly boy.  "I know I have more to learn, but I'm teachable." She would huff in that peculiarly intimate space between them. "And I mean, I did bring you down with me. If you were a Coldman, one of the others would have put a blade in your back by now, right?" A shrug against the dirt and a laugh.<br/><br/>She hadn't even noticed how close he'd come to learning her secret, when he'd thrown her by the breastplate. Nor had she noticed she had forgotten the uncomfortable way he'd looked at her, yesterday in his tent. In an unfair sort of way, she was as easily inspired as the rest of his men. He was a powerful blade to follow, and that put a spring in any death-bound soldier's step.