THUMP. Luara's sweep finds the gap beneath Miya's heels. The floor rushes up. Miya lands flat on the mat, and a rolled mat tips over behind her with a soft thud.
Miya stares up. The wooden beams spin. Spin. Spin. She tracks them one by one, eyes wide and unblinking.
Miya scrambles up. Dust. Tap-tap off both palms. She bounces back into the space between them, grinning all teeth.
Stomp. Stomp. High kick. Miya's leg swings down and her grin stretches wider still.
Luara doesn't flinch. Her chin tilts to one side. She just waits, arms loose at her sides.
Luara sweeps again — slow, lazy, the foot dragging flat. Miya's legs tangle. She crashes sideways.
RRRRROLL. The mat skitters across the floor. Miya pokes the soft mat beneath her face. "Again?" she mutters into the foam.
Luara crouches. One hand settles on Miya's shoulder — steady, quiet, not pulling. Miya pushes up with both palms and plants her feet on the creaking floor.
Luara's hand lifts. Miya stands. Her jaw is set, teeth tight, shoulders square. Not upset. Ready.
"Again!" Miya calls, bouncing into position, hair flopping. Luara bows. Miya bows back. Sunlight stripes the floor between them, knees dip, toes tapping, circling.