Owain's chest rose and fell in deep, shuddering breaths as he struggled to regain his feet.
His head was ringing from the series of concussive blows to his helm, and he had to plant Fallen Claw's tip on the stone floor in order to hold himself steady as he rose from one knee to his feet.
Like a cane, he realized. He'd been reduced to using Fallen Claw, his perfect killing tool, like a cane, because without it, he was too disoriented to stand.
At least Ashlynn didn't seem to be faring any better as she struggled to her feet. She was moving slowly and carefully, looking not just at him but around the room as if she needed to orient herself. But even if she was just as battered as he was, it was still humiliating.
They were fighting as equals? Impossible! No one was his equal, least of all the woman he'd beaten and buried nearly a year ago.
