The cane’s second impact against his ribs, and the scarred places were ribs should have been, shocked a yowl of pain past Jonah’s too-big teeth; a pain stronger than the distant, abstract throb in his jaws and knuckles. Bones – lighter than they should have been, to compensate for his shifting - snapped beneath the blow and he hit the ground hard, almost vomited on the frosted ice at the hurt, the burning sensation shifting deep inside his chest. His fists clenched against the feeling, talons nicking his own skin, the knives forgotten and out of reach.

Don’t just lay here. Don’t just take it.

He groaned, struggling to inhale as he worked his slow, painful way to his feet, utterly torn between the animal instincts yelling for him to lunge at Liam’s throat and the human need to beg for mercy. He tried to inhale, only got half a lung-full before Liam was on him again. The old man’s open palm smacked across the side of his head, and he might have laughed – he could barely feel the sting over all the rest – if it wasn’t for the boot slamming into his shoulder, shocking what little breath he had regained out of his lungs.

He didn’t have time to for a new breath before Liam pinned him to the rock-hard ground, a shallow ridge of ice digging into his back, snow biting cold through his shirt, numbing his shoulders. He could feel his injured ribs grating, broken bone harsh against broken bone, and bit out in terror and desperation –

Only to slam his head back against the ice when the fist hit his nose. He managed a shaky, shallow gasp as dizziness flooded through him, nausea on its heels. He could feel steel against his neck, the edge over his windpipe and jugular, and he let his body go utterly limp under the older fighter, half tempted to lift his neck, bare more of his throat. Wordlessly taunt the man into finishing what they started…

But the conviction in Liam’s bright green eyes and in that one ground-out word kept him still. He lay there, feeling the frigid chill seeping through his clothes before he let the thoughts that kept the changed features in place slip away. His jaw slid into the correct place, the talons melted away, the green tint faded from his skin, leaving bruised, pale flesh in its wake. He tried not to whimper when he closed his eyes, still half-expecting the other warrior to slash his throat wide open.

“Y-yield.” The word came out in a low rasped whisper. “I y-yield.”