Heavy breathing and the scrapes of metal against rock fill the temple. Rubble sits around their feet, splattered blood drops stain the rock under their feet.

“Yield now.” Jaskier demands, brown hair damp with his sweat. His sword is held up by firm hands, calloused from years in battle. The scars on his hands and arms are proof of his survival, or as the Commanders say, talent.

The rebel manages to force out a strained laugh at that, small but sharp knives in hand and hidden on his person. “Yielding is for the weak.” The man says, matted blond hair falling long past his shoulders and over his wide eyes. “Which is exactly what your kind are, so why dont you do everyone a favour and turn that sword on yourself!?”

Jaskier grunts and tightens his grip on the handle of his sword. The rebels words are bold and arrogant, no doubt the reason the man was outcasted in the first place. “You speak those words like you know the meaning of them.”

Predictably, this angers the rebel enough to charge at him, the sharp end of the knives intent on breaking through his armour. Jaskier stays still with his sword high before turning on the heel of his boot and swinging his sword at the rebels back.

The man drops to the floor with a pained yell, grunting and gasping in pain as more blood carpets the floor.

“Yield now?” Jaskier dares him to say otherwise, hovering the tip of his sword above the mans throat.

(it said i could right a scene, not the ending, so ill leave anyone to reads this hanging ;))