The river is still steaming. Fire will lose out, in the end. This Water flows from the mountain peaks, from snowmelts and secret rivers from beneath the earth. The clouds carry endless waves of pilgrims, trudging across the land in countless streams and rivulets to join the great flow. All will come to the sea, in time. Behind and before, there is more Water, and always will be more Water, and there can be no victory for Fire. But here, the surface still bubbles, and the branches above vanish into great clouds of steam. The spy had to pry the patta from her chilled hand, teasing each finger loose. When it was gone, she grasped at the empty space, as if her blade might hear her song of need and appear when called. To what end, to what task, none can say. But as the cord passed over her wrists, it passed over hands clenched white. As the gags passed over a demigod’s dangerous mouth, a low growl mingled with the soft brush of silk. When it is her turn, she raises her head. When the time has come for her humiliation, her eyes aim to burn the mask her blade could not. When she is [i]thanked?[/i] “Tch.” She turns her head away. “Well good for [i]you[/i].” She should be half-drunk with fatigue, after how much essence she threw away. She should need a breath of Wood and Water to manage the hike you have planned for her. She should hardly be standing. Fire will lose out, in the end. But she is still steaming. Burning, with the memory of her first dance white-hot beneath a damp cord around her wrists. A contradiction. An injustice. In her mind and in her heart nothing can exist beyond [i]why.[/i] Why had she won so many fights before, just to lose this one? Why, when the world was nothing more than her and [i]her[/i], and she felt so, so free, and there was nothing she couldn’t do? So why?! Why was that a lie? Why couldn’t she win? Please, agent of the Dominion. Fellow dragon. Agata’s long shadow. Do not see in Han an ill-mannered brat, unable to bear defeat. Look with your eyes and your dragon’s heart. See your opponent. See your rival. Her education has been nonexistent. Every lesson she thinks she has, she bought with her own strength, with no one to tell her if it was a lesson worth learning. Defeat, to her, is always humiliation. It is mountain bullies demeaning her, showing her how small she was to them, giving voice to the shadows of her heart. She is no flower. She is a rock. She is a beast. She will only belong here. She will belong nowhere else. Defeat, to her, is always suffering. It is pulling arrows from her side in the depths of the forests, with no one to remind her that she is anything more than bloodied and broken. It is town after town singing the praises of the Dominion as dissident voices vanish into the night, never to be heard again. It is crowds of eyes on the problem child, who is always wrong and never learns her place. Victory? Victory is safety. Victory is vindication. Victory will make it all worthwhile. If she is strong enough to grasp it. And whose fault will it be if the Vermillion Beast falters? How could she master her heart, under such conditions? How could her techniques be anything but sloppy, even when they are drawn at last from her dragon’s heart? But you, ah, you. You have had training. You have had teachers. You have that which she sorely lacks. You have seen yourself grow into something new and beautiful, and watched others grow right alongside you. You know the path of dragons. You see what she could become. Her instincts are sharper than any blade. She saw your tricks, and moments later hurled them right back at you. A fast learner, with the right examples to learn from. Training, that’s what she needs. Talent is something you nurture. Instinct is something you hone. And ah! What talent to nurture! Those near-limitless reserves of endurance, the way her mind shrugs off the weight of injury and fatigue. Make her perform a hundred forms, and the last shall fall with the earth-splitting strength of the first. Her affinity for essence, though? That is a fine treasure indeed. It is as if she was born to breath it rather than air. The sheer volumes she can muster without collapsing, that alone presents such delicious, novel opportunity. All this, without mentioning the glory of her aspect made manifest. All together, with the right training… In her heart, you see the makings of a champion that any Kingdom would count themselves lucky to have. A blade of unflinching honesty, against whom no lie can prevail. Strike her from ambush? She can take it, and decimate with her counter-stroke. Dance out of her reach? Just how far do you intend to dance, exactly? She can blanket a field in fire and close any distance in a heartbeat. Try any trick you like. Try [i]every[/i] trick you have. The only way to beat her is honestly. Blade to blade. Heart to heart. Bared, for all the world to see. No artifice or pretense could survive contact with her. A terrible foe, against those whose blades are reputation and image. A terrible foe for those like Cathak Agata. What she could become, but now she is a hatchling, stung bitterly by the loss of her first duel. Leave her to it, and no one could say what trouble she might cause, least of all her. Her heart will cry and weep until she blindly follows after it just to drown out the noise. Please, agent of the Dominion. Fellow dragon. Agata’s long shadow. You have long to go before you reach shelter and safety and comfort, and your lessons can begin in earnest. But your fallen foe cannot wait so long. Can you spare a taste, to whet her appetite? Can you show her a new meaning for Defeat?