Thristle rose slowly, knees trembling from the accumulated shocks, but her grin never wavered. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, mixing with sweat that ran in rivulets down her neck.
Across the arena, Aletha Thunderheart stood like a storm given form. Her silver-white hair had risen into a wild corona from the sheer static charge still dancing over her body. The red academy uniform was soaked through—clinging obscenely to every exaggerated curve. Her massive breasts heaved with each ragged inhale, nipples visibly peaked against the thin, wet material. Lightning still snapped and hissed between her fingers, but her silver eyes were bloodshot with rage, pupils contracted to furious pinpricks.
"Yield," Aletha snarled again, voice cracking with strain. "Or I'll fucking cook you."
Thristle spat blood onto the cracked stone floor. "My King hasn't clapped yet. Means we're not done."
