The knife felt natural in my hand. Point down, blade out, it was a razor-sharp fang at the end of my wrist. Right now, I kept it moving, bobbing and weaving as I stayed just out of my opponent's reach. She was smaller than I. Normally my longer arms would be an advantage, but she was wary of my reach and seemed as comfortable knife-fighting as my years of experience made me. My longer arms were just more real estate for her to cut.
Except for one trick up my sleeve. A slick mid-air hand switch that no one ever expects because no one's stupid enough to try it in a real fight. Except my family. We drill it for hundreds of hours until we can do it blind, and it's helped generations of us come out bloody but unbowed.
My opening came. She misjudged her distance and overextended, and I laid into her arm. Then I saw she'd switched the knife into her other hand mid-thrust. It was too late to keep her blade from my heart. I could die alone, or continue my first cut up to her throat.
But I didn't. I couldn't do that to family.