Steve's glare didn't waver. It remained locked on Ser Ira like a drawn blade. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths as he stood upright, bloodied, yet unbowed. Across from him, Ira was just as focused, her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him in return.
Fiona—no, Tonya—stood by his side. Her hand reached for him hesitantly, voice trembling as she tried to anchor him back to reason.
"Steve, what are you saying?" she whispered.
But Steve jerked his hand away.
"Leave me," he snapped, cutting her off without even looking.
His gaze flicked to Ser Ira again, sharper this time, fueled by something deeper than pain or pride.
"It's Ser Ira," he growled, voice low and strained. "Not Sahara… not Sa'aira or Saira or whatever the hell you keep seeing."
He took a shaky step forward, his frame taut, defiant.
"Come on," he said. "I'm personally ready for you."
