I don’t look around as I leave the ring. Don’t check who’s whispering or who’s watching. I don’t care about their judgment right now. Something has shifted. I thought I was holding the line, playing their game for now, but holding myself back. Out of trouble.
I thought I’d outsmarted them. Turns out the line has already moved. And I didn’t notice until I was flat on my back
I taste blood. Not much. Just a faint copper smear along the inside of my cheek. A parting gift from the floor. Or maybe the fear I bit back too hard. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand as I limp toward the outer wall. My ankle throbs. So does my lower back. I ignore both. Two other contenders step into the ring behind me, weapons already forming mid-air. I don’t watch them. I just need a minute.
There’s a narrow table carved into the far wall, lined with stone pitchers and steaming ceramic cups. I don’t recognize what’s inside—not water, not anything labeled—but I grab one anyway. It’s warm when I lift it. Scalding when it touches my tongue. Sweet, but not pleasant. Like fire tea brewed with metal.
I drink it, anyway, letting it burn all the way down. Then I leanagainst the wall, forcing myself to breathe slow. The others ignore me now, moving through sparring drills or private matches or watching the main ring with hawkish focus. But I don’t blend in. Not really. I’m still the anomaly. Still the one who didn’t play until the game started without her.
And that’s what’s rattling me most. Not the fall. Not the pain. Not even the embarrassment. It’s the loss of that final inch of control. That moment where I didn’t say yes, but they went ahead anyway. I’m not a person to them. Just a variable. A token. A thread to weave into a story they already decided the shape of. A human.
I thought I was holding my ground, but it turns out the ring was a cliff’s edge. And I was already half over it.
I tip the last of the drink into my mouth and set the cup down with more force than I meant to. A few heads turn in my direction. I don’t care.
My hands still shake, but I can’t tell when I curl them into fists. My skin is tight. I can already the feel of the bruises blooming under my skin.
But I’m still here. I’m still breathing. And if they’re going to take the choices from me—
Then the next one I get to make is going to hurt.
The ring lights up again. My name hums in my bones like a bruise. I exhale through my nose. Fine. Let’s go again. The contender already in the ring stretches like he’s warming up for a show.
Pale white-blonde hair cut close to his scalp. Loose-limbed and overconfident. Smirking. I recognize him from the dais just the other day. Obnoxiously attractive, smugly relaxed. He was watching all my earlier bouts like they were comedy hour. I don’t know his name, and I don’t need to. Maybe I’ll just be a petty-Betty and refuse to learn it. Ever.
As I approach, he lifts a hand in a lazy wave.
“Didn’t think they’d call you up again,” he says. “Thought you’d retired after that last one. It’s okay if this is too much for the little human.”
I don’t answer. I just step over the ring’s edge and plant my feet. He’s taller than I thought. Slighter too. Still built like a soldier, still towering over me, but like someone used to dodging first. Ranger-lean. Smart.The weapon appears between us—a matched pair of short blades, light and wicked. He raises a brow when I don’t move.
“Still not feeling it?” he asks. His voice is smooth. Confident. The kind of tone men use when they’re used to being listened to.
I stare at him. Then at the weapon. Then back again and I don’t move.
He shrugs, “Suit yourself,” and grabs the blade.
The match starts instantly. The second he touches it, the weapons split, but unlike my last opponent he only grabs one. He raises a blonde eyebrow, dropping chin to chest as the second wings toward me. The blade slaps into my left palm like it knows I wasn’t ready. I stagger back a step from the weight, but this time I don’t drop it.
There’s a flicker in his eyes and then he comes at me quick. Not aggressive, playful. Like this is a game to him. Maybe it is. Ho would I know what Daemari do in their free time? He swings low, shallow. It’s enough to bruise, not cut. I parry on instinct and nearly lose my grip but recover. He grins.
“Oh good. You’re awake.”
I don’t answer. No point giving him anything to work with. I focus on remembering where my feet are, where he’s moving, how far the arc of my blade will reach if I need it to—another strike. Higher this time. Testing me. I duck. Sweep wide. He dodges effortlessly. Laughs again. He thinks this is still a joke. A warm-up. A game.
But I’m not here to make friends. I’m not here to prove anything to him. I’m here to survive and maybe if I’m lucky, to leave a mark.
He steps in again, close and I let him before I pivot away, low and fast. And my blade catches his thigh. It’s not deep—barely more than a slash—but it draws blood. A thin red line blooms against his pants. And for the first time all day the room goes quiet. He looks down then back up at me. His eyes narrow but he’s still smiling. But now it’s sharper.
Sharper than the blade in my hand.
“Didn’t see that coming,” he says. He means it.
The match ends a breath later. He lands the final strike, flat-bladed, no flair. I hit the floor again, winded and aching, but I don’t care. I made him bleed.
I push myself up without help. My blade still clutched in my hand. When I walk out of the ring, the others don’t look amused anymore.Some look curious, a few look uneasy, and one or two look concerned. I don’t know what they’re thinking. But I know what I am.
Not a favorite.
