“Do you know how to fight?” Saiza asks, and I bob my head. “Like a warrior fights?”
My gaze flicks to her, brows bumping together.
She pauses. “Nobody fights like those from the Johkull Clan. We are the strongest in the Boltanic Plains. This is why we earned this land where no moon will fall again,” she says, gesturing to the crater surrounding us. “All Hock must do is get you to submit, and the trial is over. You must kill him to be the victor. To earn the right to slay wild gruuc and to build your own tent. Then you must cut off his head.”
I don’t bother telling her I have no interest in killing wild gruuc and building a tent. Once I kill Hock, I’ll retrace the path back to the river, then follow it until it freezes and eventually meets the wall. If the Fate Herder tries to stop me … well.
Hopefully it doesn’t come to that. I love animals, and I loathe the thought of killing them.
“I’ve taken the heads of males before,” I murmur past tight lips. Though obviously not nearly enough, considering how cursed I absolutely, without a doubt, one hundred percent am. “This will be no different.”
A stretch of tension-riddled silence ensues while Saiza continues preparing me for the looming battle, my copper necklace lifted and set to the side. My hair is brushed, then threaded into a braid that falls almost to my hips, tied off with a stretch of string while the gong continues to sound.
Once I’m fully prepared, I cut a glance at my Fate Herder transitioning into view again, opening its eyes to look at me.
Those slit pupils swell as I hold its fierce, intense stare. “Don’t try to stop me.”
All I get is a tail flick, as if to say, “Off you go. Get back in the ring where you belong. Do your job.”
I bristle, the entire congregation seeming to hold its breath as I lift my chin and charge from the shadow, refusing to pay the beast any more heed. Not a single drop of it.
It’s not going to stop me. I know it’s not. I should’ve known this is where it wanted me all along: back in a battle ring, shedding blood.
Perhaps Fate—whoever Fate is—needs Hock and Zaran taken out for some reason, so the Herder deviated me here to do the deed. Whatever it’s for, it’s hard to shake the sense that I’m being used again.
I should be used to it by now.
I move toward a weapon rack, lifting a few off the hooks that I quickly discover are too top heavy or too thick in the handle for my fingers to securely wrap around. I pick up a small iron ax with a bound leather pommel that feels comfortable in my grip, tossing it from hand to hand before using it to shear off the excess material of my shirt so it doesn’t get in my way.
Tossing the blood-tinged scrap of silk to the wind, I move into the ring, beginning a slow, steady circle around the outer perimeter while maintaining Hock’s eye contact. He’s swapped his spiked club for one that’s smooth, no doubt reluctant to disfigure me in his efforts to earn the “right” to bind with me.
Such spangle shit.
I crack my neck from side to side, steadying my breaths until they’re deep and slow.
Calm.
Waiting for him to make the first move.
Hock shakes his head, muttering beneath his breath before his face distorts with a bellowing roar. He lunges, kicking up sand as he powers across the arena like a charging beast.
I wait until he’s so close I can feel the vibrations of his hammering steps. Can see the orange flints in his bold-yellow eyes.
I flick to the side, bending my upper body away from his swinging mace to the collective gasp from the crowd. I spin, whipping around with a slash of my ax.
Blood sprays, my weapon slitting through skin and flesh, nicking bone, severing the side of his abdomen. Not deep enough to kill, I realize—scurrying back, gaze firmly locked on my roaring opponent while fisting a handful of sand.
Hock slaps his hand against the wound, inspecting the slick of blood now coating his palm, a flash of undiluted shock kindling his eyes, followed by a flare of rage violent enough to sizzle skin.
I’ve seen males look at me like that, right before I’ve pierced their hearts.
The look of wounded pride.
I don’t give him time to digest the emotion, charging, dodging left and right. Drawing his attention to my feet, hoping he boggles over the direction of my next move rather than what my hands are doing.
With a flick of my wrist, I toss my scoop of sand into the air as Clode lashes the wind into a gust, spraying it into his eyes—helping me of her own accord.
Hock roars.
I smile.
Love you too, Clode!