Ren stood frozen in the flickering firelight, gripping the bone in her sweaty palm. It was just her and Uriel left in the sudden-death match.
Her mind raced. If she lost the game, she would be forced to wash him. But washing him meant she could simply scrub his arm for thirty seconds. Winning, however, meant he had to wash her. And allowing a hostile, gorgeous fish beastman who belonged to a hundred-husband-hoarding pink fox to bathe her sounded like a recipe for disaster.
She had to lose. It was the only logical, self-preserving strategy.
Ren wound her arm back, deliberately aiming for a large, empty patch of cobblestone roughly four feet away from the target. She released the bone with a spectacularly awful, uncoordinated flick of her wrist.
But the bone sailed through the air, clipped the edge of a wooden platter, bounced off a stone pillar, and dropped flawlessly into the dead center of the turtle shell with a mocking clack.
