Sedrick laughed. She felt his hot heavy breath on her cheek, smelled the heavy scent of wine. She started to gag.

Sedrick clamped a hand over her mouth, made her swallow the vomit. Her throat burned as the sour liquid slid back down.

She threw up again. The vomit wasn’t allowed out of her mouth. He seemed to enjoy the moment.

His left hand groped along the floor.

All Myrial could think of was that he was trying to find something to club her with. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t hold them back anymore. She was terrified, had never been so terrified in all her life.

He was going to kill her; she knew this. It didn’t seem fair. All she wanted was a better life—the life that should have been hers.

Surety of death brought clarity. Briefly, she thought of Adrina. Adrina needed her but she couldn’t get there—wouldn’t get there in this lifetime.

Sedrick found what he had been looking for. He doused Myrial with wine. “Drink,” he said laughing. “Drink.”

Myrial blinked up at the blood red liquid pouring over her face, running down her chest and back, pooling on the floor all around her. She tried to shield herself with her hands, but Sedrick was kneeling on one hand, his weight crushing her fingers, and holding the other hand at bay. It was a game to him; she knew it. Everything was a game to the former housemaster.

“Kill me,” she begged.

“In time,” Sedrick whispered. “You don’t want it bad enough yet. You will, trust me.”

She nodded at the large, horrifying face staring down at her. She spoke in a tiny whisper, “I’m dead already.” She knew she was. That was the scariest thing of all.

* * *

The final trio match had been underway for two full hours. The square was darkening as evening approached, and ever more onlookers pressed into the square to get a look at the competitors. Once word spread that Prince Valam and Captain Brodst were participants the square erupted. The city garrison was called in to clear the circle, and now they protected it with their lives—for the press of the masses pushed ever inward.

Bladesman S’tryil continued despite the re-opening of his earlier wound. Valam was drenched in sweat and judiciously matched his opponent. He had taken Shchander despite the warnings otherwise. He was nearly exhausted. His opponent on the other hand seemed to have boundless energy.

Ansh Brodst circled Nijal, catlike. His blade danced back and forth between his hands. Mid-length blades had been chosen, which meant that a combination of defensive and offensive styles was called for, and the use of the body, legs, and fists, mandatory.

Switching tactics S’tryil, Valam, and Brodst circled along the inside. Their opponents on the outside. Neither side attacked.

Torches were raised around the square and mounted in iron racks along the balconies as dusk shadows deepened. Shchander lunged at S’tryil while Shalimar took him from the side. It was a lightning attack and neither Valam nor S’tryil was able to move fast enough to counter.

S’tryil was hit and went down. The two retreated from the three, Valam jumped over S’tryil as the other fell almost taking them both down.

“Call it, damn it!” Valam cursed as he waited for the call to relief, defending heroically.