Griffith will think about it, so it will never get done. Guts isn't the fool to stab at a wound he sees bleeding: there are words Griffith won't speak, and Guts won't abide hearing. They still linger, thick as thieves between them. Waiting to prowl and stab.

"You can defeat anything," he agrees, because it's a cheap mercy he can afford to shed on both of them. He has seen Griffith vanquish odds, cruel fates and tyrant masters, he was there when they unseated the very king from this castle at the price of flesh and blood. He knows the mettle beneath Griffith's silk-tender skin.

Griffith can defeat anything, but he doesn't have to.

"Except me", he throws again, half amused and half challenging. It had happened before, but needn't once again. "Next time you take up a sword against me, I'm putting you on your back on the ground."

Guts has damn well earned the chance to show what he's made of.