"Brothers and sisters!" His voice booms across the gathering. "Today we honor the third trial of St. Padraig's week—the Reflex Test!"
Several pairs exchange glances, some excited, others wary. I remain impassive, already cataloging the various ways this could go wrong.
"The great warrior Padraig understood that swift hands protect prosperity!" Drogath continues, warming to his subject with enthusiasm that would be infectious if it wasn't based on completely fabricated lore. "Partners must demonstrate their ability to react together, to defend and pursue, to show the physical harmony that marks true compatibility!"
Ressa shifts slightly beside me. Not panic—not yet—but awareness of what's coming.
"Today's challenges will test your reflexes through playful combat!" Drogath gestures broadly. "Speed, awareness, and the ability to read your partner's movements. The couple who demonstrates the greatest harmony wins today's honor!"
Playful combat. The words settle uneasily in my gut as I consider Ressa's history with orcs and physical confrontation. But she hasn't bolted yet, hasn't shown signs of the panic that preceded previous breakdowns.
Drogath explains the rules—simple pursuit and evasion games where partners attempt to land touches on specific marked points while defending their own. First to three successful touches wins the round. There will be no overall winner. Just a fun competition between partners.
Basic reflex training that any warrior learns in their first season. Nothing inherently dangerous or traumatic about the mechanics.
Except Ressa isn't a warrior, and physical contact from orcs carries weight that has nothing to do with game rules.
I turn to her, keeping my expression neutral. "We don't have to do this."
"Stop giving me outs." Her voice carries unexpected steel. "If I need one, I'll take it. But don't decide for me that I can't handle this."
Fair enough.
I'm not usually like this. I'm not sure why I'm so worried about it making her panic when this was my idea.
Drogath signals the start, and pairs spread out across the gathering area to claim space for their matches. Ursik and Kerra immediately launch into their round with aggressive enthusiasm that makes several nearby pairs scramble out of range.
Kai and Saela move with practiced coordination, their familiarity with each other's fighting styles evident in how they anticipate movements. Saela's smaller size becomes advantageous as she ducks under Kai's reach, landing a touch on his shoulder before dancing back out of range.
I focus on Ressa, noting the tension in her stance that has nothing to do with her injuries. "Ready?"
She nods, raising her hands in a defensive position that's more instinct than training.
The marked points for this round glow with colored chalk—shoulders, forearms, and sides of the ribs. Three touches to any combination wins.
I move slowly, telegraphing my approach so she can track it. My hand extends toward her left shoulder, the movement deliberate enough that a child could evade it.
Ressa steps back easily, her expression shifting from wary to confused. "Are you even trying?"
"Testing your range of motion." The excuse sounds thin even to my ears.
"My range of motion is fine." She shifts her weight, and I catch the slight grimace that says her legs disagree. "You're treating me like I'll break."
"I don't want to trigger you. This has been hard." I know that, and it's hitting me differently than it should. Than my normal assessments do.
"And I'm still standing here." Her chin lifts in that stubborn gesture I'm starting to recognize. "So either actually participate in this challenge or admit you don't think I can handle it."
The words carry an accusation that makes me reconsider my approach. She's right—I am treating her like fragile glass rather than a person trying to reclaim pieces of herself.
I adjust my stance, making my next movement faster but still controlled. My hand aims for her right forearm, the approach angled to give her options for blocking or evading.
She blocks, her forearm coming up to deflect my touch. The contact lasts barely a second but it's deliberate, defensive, chosen rather than endured.
No panic. No freezing. Just reaction.
"Better," she says, and something that might be a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "But you're still slow."
"I'm being cautious."
