Yonca darted to her feet and backward in alarm, the Templar exploding into unexpected motion beside her. As surprised as she was, an observer might never suspect it; her eyes widened but the rest of her face didn't even twitch, as disaffected as though she were reading one of her history books. The man attempted to gain footing, staggering up to a single knee as his fingers freed his weapon from the leather strap that held it in place. The blonde only widened her stance and made a sharp gesture.
Everything stopped.
Yonca wrinkled her nose and pulled her sharp little knife from her hair, more loose curls tumbling from a bun long since falling apart. She strode forward calmly. The Templar remained on one knee, his breathing shallow and rapid against the force of the magical paralysis shackling his body. He resisted visibly, whole form straining in frustration against magic that he hadn't known the girl possessed. The faint hint of a magical field rippled up around him like heat shimmering over a dirt road in the dead of summer.
Looking down into her captive's face, the blonde slip of a malificar slid the tip of her blade against the very edge of the wavering magic, just a few spare inches from his exposed throat. Her other hand she held aloft, palm facing the sky and fingers slightly curled; a subtle threat of spellcraft.
"Have faith, brother Templar," she coaxed. "I'm not supposed to kill you. If you stop resisting, I will not. If you do not, I fear I cannot keep my promise."
His eyes were hateful. She smiled at him, sweetly.