Markos didn’t answer. His lips were as thin as silverfish and his frown was deep, as if weighed down. He looked like a bullfrog seizing up a snake, but he wasn’t as angry as Francine wanted him to be. His struggle to hold down his temper was as apparent as the veins that pulsated in his neck, and she knew that he was on the verge of a fight. Still, she needed to throw him over that edge, and soon. She had already spent way too much time lollygagging. Father might be able to excuse her disappearance on sending the mortal back where he came from, far enough away so that he’d never stumble back on their territory even on accident, but he couldn’t do that forever. He was already displeased, how great would his wrath be when he wronged her yet again?

This was when any sensible person would arrive at what could best be described as a moral crossroads. It lies directly between one’s will to do the right thing and their innate desire to be as selfish as a greedy dragon. Francine, like any other child, didn’t want to let her father down again. However, she also didn’t want to return home without a just reason. By blaming her tardiness on a brief quarrel with her cousins, the only thing that Father could charge her with was an overzealous spirit. After twisting her ear and a stern talking-to later, she would be right as rain, with nothing to show for it other than a reddened earlobe. But best of all? She’d feel accomplished, knowing that she was (at least partially) correct in the eyes of her parent and leader, not to mention prepared for her next grand scheme. Could anyone honestly be surprised? Where there were mortals, she would be nearby, watching their every move in both disgust and veiled curiosity.

Still, even with her plan fully explained, that didn’t make it any less right. If Tes was there, he would have carried her away, jabbering on about how “violence is never the answer”, or “the best way to solve a problem is through healthy communication.”

But there was one thing that Francine, in all of her finite wisdom, failed to think of was a possible third path. The gears in Markos’ head also had been spinning, and he didn’t take the alleged slap-on-the-wrist verdict that his cousin had been given. If anyone else had done it, they wouldn’t have a head, let alone a face with a big, fat smirk on it. Francine’s haughtiness was poking his temper with a pointed stick, and the longer that she stood there, egging him on, the more his anger increased, until finally, it exploded. With a great roar of anger, he lunged forward, and swung his fist so hard into her face, it created a loud crack when his knuckle connected with her face.

She didn’t plan at all for him to hit first.

Francine went down like a pile of bricks. Blood poured down her face, from her twisted nose to her quickly-swelling lip, and her vision doubled with every blink. She barely had any time to let out a surprised holler before Markos leaped at her again, holding her down by her arms.

“I accept your challenge, cousin,” he hissed before raising his fist.

Francine shook her head, and like fresh dew being shaken from grass, her muddled mind cleared itself, but only momentarily. She had gained enough clarity to realize that she was under attack, but not enough to properly defend herself. When Markos brought down his fist, aiming for a heavy punch between her ribs, she blocked it by shoving his arm away, but it was feeble. Her strength had failed her, her body shaking from the strike to her head. Markos sensed it. He swung again, only this time, lifting her up by the collar of her shirt and striking her flat across the side of her face.

It was as if an explosion tore through her head. Francine’s ears rang, her eyes rolled, and her heart clenched at the realization of it all. Two strikes, all in a row? How could she let him do that to her? By now, she would have had Markos in a headlock, or pressing his face into a mound of mud with her heel holding down his back. What let him catch her off guard like that?

The pilgrims. Francine’s eyes widened. Of course! It was those strangers that did this to her, that Brother Bertrand when he touched her and looked into her eyes. They had to have done something to her, placed some sort of dastardly spell onto her that made her weak. How else could someone explain her inability to sense that Markos was about to snap? Father was right, mortals were a danger to be around, and if she found a way out of this, she was going to give them what they rightfully deserved.

No, not if. She was going to finish this right now.