There is real concern on Diana's face as she waits for Coupe to recover. Ought to have told her to keep the armor on is the scolding thought that crosses her mind while she waits. It's a relief when Coupe dives forward, when the fight takes a familiar turn.

There is not artistry in the fighting Diana has learned and lived. There is grace, certainly, and she moves with it, easy and fluid, but what Coupe thinks of as petty is every spar Diana has ever fought. It feels dishonorable to pull her punches so she doesn't, meeting kick for kick and jab and sword swing, the force of each kept carefully in check. This is a dance she's familiar with, sinking back into her calm, even as the blade of Coupe's sword clangs loudly off the silver bracelets as Diana blocks a slash with them.