Danae put her hand on Kerrigan’s arm. “Please, don’t do this.”
Kerrigan shook her off. “It’s too late now.”
“It’s not.”
But it was far past time. She’d known that she was going to have to do something about Constantine’s idiocy. She would die before being sold another time. Especially to someone who would use her body without her consent. She didn’t have her magic to protect her. So, she needed to use everything else available to her.
Fordham had been the final straw.
She didn’t know how she had only been here a matter of weeks and he had been here six months. That made no sense when they had fallen through the portal together. But if this place could break Fordham Ollivier in half a year, then they needed to leave sooner rather than later. There was no more time to waste.
Especially since interest had spread like wildfire through the party after Iris proclaimed she would attend Kerrigan’s bidding. Suddenly, they were the highlight of the event. If Kerrigan hadn’t been surrounded by magic users, she would have killed every single person who assessed her like a pig for slaughter.
Including Constantine.
“Please, Kerrigan,” Danae pleaded as she followed her down the steps of the house and through the darkened corridors. “He’s not going to let you do it.”
“Well, good thing he’s not there right now. He’s busy meeting with potential bidders on my body,” she snarled. “Do you understand? I have no other choice.”
“He’s not going to go through with it.”
Danae had deluded herself into believing in her father’s sanctimony. He wasn’t a holy man. He was a king, a warrior, and a survivor. He would do whatever he could to fit in with his oppressors.
“He’s not taking these meetings for no reason,” she told the girl. “Don’t be naive.”
“But my mother …”
“That was a long time ago,” Kerrigan said, waving her off. “He clearly doesn’t care. Anyway, I look like a Doma. The very people who took your mother away. He probably doesn’t even think of it as the same thing.”
“But you’re not a Doma.”
“No,” she said, jumping the final step, “I’m not.”
She stretched her arms above her head to loosen up her shoulders. Earlier in the day, Danae had helped her filch pants and a shirt from the gladiators’ dormitory. Even the smallest men’s size didn’t fit her like it should. But Danae was handy with a needle and thread. She’d hemmed the pants and brought them in at the waist. She wore the shirt loose with a vest that tightened with laces at the back. It wasn’t like her training leathers. She still mourned their loss back in the small village outside of Eivreen, but it reminded her of home. Even though Danae had sworn that none of the men would wear anything remotely like this in the training yard. But she wasn’t one of them. She would never be one of them. And if she was going to walk out onto their sand, she needed to feel like herself.
“Are you sure?” Danae asked, chewing on her fingernails.
“You said nothing when you hemmed my clothes to fit.”
“Well, I said that I thought it was a bad idea.”
“You still did it.”
“Yes, but …”
“Danae.” Kerrigan whirled on the girl. “Look at me. Look at me right now. Do I look like a fraud? Use your power and tell me if there is a lie in my appearance. Tell me the truth of myself, and if you say I’m lying, then I’ll stay my hand.”
She swallowed. “I’m not supposed to use my powers.”
“I’m telling you to. Do it now. Look at me.”
“I …” She straightened.
The timidity fell off as she focused her attention fully on Kerrigan. Something shimmered between them. Kerrigan could feel Danae’s magic awakening. A muscle that she’d neglected.
She gave a soft, “Oh!” of recognition, and then it all washed away.
“Well?”
Danae nodded resolutely. “This is … this is you.”
“I know,” Kerrigan said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “And that was you. You can’t hide from it forever, or it will consume you.”
“My father would never let me …”
“He won’t let me either, but here I am.”
She bit her lip, as if considering the truth of that as well, but she made no move to contradict Kerrigan. Nor to agree with her either. She was still stalled by her upbringing. One day, she would find her own voice.
“I’m ready,” Kerrigan said.
Then, she kicked the door to the training facility open and stepped out into the sand. The gladiators turned as one to look at her. Theo’s jaw dropped at her appearance. She was no longer the Doma bride he’d envisioned. She was who she truly was. And none of the gladiators seemed to like it. Except perhaps Evander, who couldn’t seem to keep a smirk from his lips.
“I challenge you to combat,” Kerrigan declared.
The gladiators stared at her in utter confusion. Even Theo seemed stunned by her behavior.
“Who?” one of them asked. “Which one of us?”
A cruel smile twisted her lips as she stalked to the weapons container and unsheathed a blade that she’d scoped out earlier. She held it aloft, circling the crowd. “All of you.”
One of them laughed and another joined in. But she wasn’t laughing. Evander knew it too. He saw immediately that she was serious.
“The general won’t like this,” he said.
“The general isn’t here.”
Myron swaggered forward. “Put the pointy end somewhere you can’t hurt yourself.”
“Theo,” she crooned, ignoring Myron’s taunt, “you said you would teach me how to handle a sword. Now is your chance.”
She swung the sword with practiced ease. Her body was alive for the first time in weeks. The calluses she’d carefully developed on her hands waking up once more. The muscles shifted under her fitted pants, like remembering the movements of a dance. She was more accustomed to boots than her sandals, but they were a quality leather. Constantine hadn’t skimped on them for her. He surely hadn’t anticipated her using them in his training yard though. Oh well.
“Unless you’re scared.”
Theo shot her a questioning look before his usual swagger reappeared. He chuckled and reached for a sword. “All right, love. If that’s what you want.”
“Where do we begin?” she asked with a wink for his benefit. “The pointy end or the handle?”
Theo glanced at Evander, who nodded his head. “I’ll try to keep the pointy end from your pretty face.”
“I make no such promises.”
The men laughed. Good. They thought she was joking. They’d learn.
Theo rushed at her. Not as fast as she’d seen him with the men. Pity. She’d hoped that it’d take more than a minute to fight against him. Of course, she’d didn’t really believe the gladiators were a challenge. Maybe Myron or Cordon. She’d never seen Evander spar, but she suspected he and Constantine would be a different story. She wouldn’t have to fight them today to make her point.
Theo was a delight. He was the nicest person she’d met thus far in Domara. A little crude. But he treated her like anyone else. The relentless flirt.
She was almost sorry when she sidestepped his thrust, pivoted, and kicked his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling into the sand. He came up, coughing up sand. His eyes were wide and hurt. She smiled down at him. She hadn’t even needed her sword.
“Who’s next?”
Another gladiator rushed forward. He had better footwork than Theo. It wasn’t surprising, considering Theo had hated the pacing lessons. He avoided them to bulk up more. It made him handsomer. It hadn’t helped him in the fight.
Still, she moved with the grace and fluidity that had been instilled in her from her training. A small part of her brain had worried that those movements had come from her magic. That a part of her had been utterly severed and she’d never be whole again. She still had that fear. But her training was complete thanks to years in the House of Dragons, sword fighting and endurance with Fordham, and dragon training with all the masters of the Society. They had honed a weapon. And her magic had only been a part of what made her excellent.
The second man stood no chance. Neither did the third. She threw the fourth onto his stomach atop the second man before he could even get up. The lower fighters were truly pitiful. It wasn’t just that they were slower. They were sloppy. And fighting a girl made them sloppier. They’d been told their brute strength was enough, but it would never be enough against a more skilled opponent.
Kerrigan looked up from her last opponent to watch Cordon step out of the spotlight. He moved to Evander’s side, conceding his fight. It would have been nice to have an actual challenge.
Then, Myron finally stepped forward. His eyes were like ice. The machismo that radiated from him only made him more of a threat. He was angry with her. He had always been angry with her. From the very start. Perhaps because she appeared to be a Doma. Perhaps because the other men had accepted her presence easily. Perhaps for no other reason than that he didn’t want her here. And here she was.
“Come on,” she taunted.
She wasn’t even tired. Though sweat beaded on her brow and ran down into her eyes. She whirled her sword again, bending her knees and preparing for the first blow.
Luckily, he had a sword in his hand. She wasn’t sure what would have happened if he’d picked up a staff. Kerrigan was competent with a staff, but Myron wielded it as if he had been born with it in his hands. She’d have figured it out, but she hadn’t looked forward to it.
Myron took the bait. He stepped toward her with his sword at the ready. Their feet danced across the sand. He’d improved in the time since she’d arrived in Domara. Whether it was because she had pointed out his mistakes to Evander or just his relentless drive to win the tournament and prove himself, he’d really fought for it.
He was bigger and taller than her. Which meant he had longer reach. Everyone she fought were those things though. She had gotten used to dealing with opponents who outweighed and theoretically should have outmatched her. But she’d won every time through sheer force of will. She had to win. When there was no other option, that was when the odds worked in her favor.
Their swords clashed together, a ringing gong into the afternoon. Her arms shook slightly under the weight of the conflict. She needed to be smarter. She knew his weaknesses already, and she knew how to exploit every single one.
So, she backed off. Let him come to her. Let him think she was weak.
He hated women. He hated her. There was nothing she could do that would throw him off more than appearing like exactly what he was expecting. He saw her as the weaker sex, and thus his swagger did nothing for him.
When she went after him next, it was with all the calculated thrusts that he was the worst at defending. She’d seen Cordon block him into a corner with them, and she swiftly did the same. The shock on his face as he took one step and then another backward, away from her, away from the advantage she was carving out for herself was so satisfying.
He lunged for her, trying to use his weight to back her up. She sidestepped at the last minute. But the sword still whipped through the air. She hissed as it sliced through the meat of her upper bicep.
Red blood fell into the training ring. A hushed gasp rose from the crowd. She was still the general’s property. To them, she was still going to be bid upon by wealthy senators. She was still a Doma to probably half of them. That Myron would spill her blood was unthinkable.
She just smirked. Let them see her bleed. Let them understand finally that she was like them. And that she would keep going despite the pain. The pain that was nothing compared to everything she had endured to get to this point.
Myron took another step toward her. He thought he had victory already. Over one stupid cut. She would have laughed at him, but she was still too far into her blood haze. In his insolence, Myron took the same bad step she’d watched him take over and over again. His back foot was exposed. No amount of training had dispelled the worst of his habits. She moved like the wind was still with her and tripped up his misplaced footwork. He careened backward. Shock entered his eyes as he hit the sand with a hard thud. She thrust her sword toward his neck.
“Do you yield?” she snarled.
His eyes were hard and uncaring. “I yield.”
She let her sword arm drop and turned away from him. “Anyone else? Anyone else I can prove myself to?”
Cordon took another step backward in deference. The rest of the gladiators were sprawled out in the sand. They were looking at her with awe in their expressions. Possibly even … respect.
“No!” Cordon yelled out.
Kerrigan turned too slow. She saw Myron had gotten to his feet, his sword swinging toward her too fast for her to block. She had humiliated him and then left him in the sand. She had thought him honorable. She had turned her back. Stupid.
Then, a sword rocked between them, catching Myron’s thrust before it came down on her. Evander’s sword was nearly the length of his massive body. His eyes were hard as ice as he pushed Myron backward and knocked him back to the ground.
“You yielded,” Evander snarled. “Have you no shame?” Myron opened his mouth to respond, but Evander cut him off, “She beat you in an open challenge. You stay on the sand, where you belong. You are finished.”
Myron’s mouth snapped shut. His eyes still told the story of hatred. She had made an enemy that day.
“What is going on here?” a voice boomed from the entrance to the yard.
Constantine stepped onto the sand, and the rest of the gladiators recoiled from the heat of his anger.
Kerrigan lifted her chin and met his gaze. “I bested your gladiators.”
Constantine looked down at Myron. “Myron?”
“All of them.”
He did a double take before meeting Evander’s still-furious expression. Evander nodded, slowly returning his sword to its sheath.
“She issued a challenge. Your men met her in combat. None survived,” Evander explained.
“All of them?” he repeated.
“All but Cordon.”
Cordon stepped forward then. “I did not need to engage to know that I could not best her.”
Constantine wore the same mask of shock as the rest of the gladiators. “What is the meaning of all this?”
“I’m a fighter,” she said, twirling the sword once more. “This is who I am. I have proven myself against your best. I will continue to prove myself against anyone who deigns to purchase me.” She arched an eyebrow. “I’m not for sale.”
Constantine’s hands went into fists. “You have already been purchased, and you will do what I say.”
“No.” She spat the word at him. “No, I will not. Tarcus is playing you. He’s goading you into this. You’re walking right into his trap, and it’s not even clever. Use your head for strategy. See exactly what he’s plotting. You think he told all those senators to back down so he could keep me for himself? Or do you think he intends to humiliate you and take me anyway?”
“Stop,” he hissed.
Kerrigan took a step forward, the sword still humming in her hand. “Then, don’t be stupid.”
The gladiators gasped in shock at her audacity.
“Father,” Danae said. She had slunk out onto the sand, and no one had even noticed her presence.
“Not now,” Constantine barked.
“She’s telling the truth.”
“She’s telling the truth as she sees it,” Constantine snarled. “It isn’t the same thing.”
Danae shook her head. “If you do not believe even me, then believe when I say that selling her to anyone is the same as what the Doma did to Mother.”
Constantine whipped backward, as if Danae had slapped him. “I have the right …”
“But will you ever forgive yourself?” Danae asked, tilting her head to read him the way she had done to Kerrigan. “Will you honor her memory?”
“Day …”
“Put me in the tournament instead,” Kerrigan interrupted. “I’ll win the whole thing. You can have the prize money. A hundred percent of the money goes to you. It’s more than what I’ll receive otherwise.”
“And what do you get out of this?” he demanded.
“The gift.”
“A Gift,” he said as if the word were in capital letters. “That’s as much of a curse as a blessing.”
“It will be mine to bear.” She flipped the sword from one hand to the other and held her palm out. “Win the tournament, take the money, and keep your integrity.”
“Evander,” Constantine asked.
He nodded. “Kurios.”
Constantine closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “Blessed be.”
Then, he put his hand into Kerrigan’s, and they shook, solidifying their deal.