ATALIA

"Stop! Fucking—God! Stop!" Atalia reached over her shoulder, trying to nudge the spear aside. The goddamn guard kept poking her, goading her deeper into the sandy courtyard. She tried to grab it. "I'm going to shove that thing up your ass!"

Yet he kept goading her, and Atalia stumbled into the center of the arena, blinking in the sunlight. She didn't know how long she had languished in darkness. It felt like she had spent eras in her in her dank cell underground. She squinted, struggling to adjust to the sunlight.

Her breath died.

"Fuck me," she whispered.

She stood in a circular, sandy arena. Tiers of seats rose in a ring around her, soaring taller than any temple. Countless people were watching her, howling, chanting, shouting curses. Atalia had never seen so many people in one place before. All of Beth Eloh could fit in here, she thought. A ring of arches rose above the top tier, marble idols between every two columns, and awnings thrust out above them, shading the crowd. When Atalia lowered her gaze, she saw that several gateways led into the arena from the city. The gateways were palatial, their engraved archways topped with golden eagles and rearing horses. A glitter caught her eye, and Atalia squinted to see that, among the simple stone tiers, rose two red columns and between them an oasis of wealth. Rugs woven with golden thread, marble statues, and jeweled slaves shone with splendor, and between them sat Tirus Valerius on an ivory throne.

Atalia snarled and raced toward him, waving her weapon. A wall blocked her passage. She stood below, glaring up at him.

"Come down here, pig!" she shouted. "I'm going to stick this trident into your fat gut!"

She panted with rage. She thought back to all those times Tirus, once ambassador to Zohar, had sat in her family's home on Pine Hill. She thought of how Epher had courted Claudia, the man's daughter. Tirus was a goddamn family friend, and now the bastard sat on a throne, emperor of Aelar, staring at her like this. Atalia wore only a couple of thin straps over her nakedness, her only armor a manica sleeve and a helmet, her only weapon a trident.

Tirus stared down at her. He rose from his throne, and he addressed the crowd.

"Behold!" the emperor cried. "Before you stands Atalia Sela, sister of the Rat King Epheriah who defies our might in Zohar!"

The crowd jeered and howled at Atalia. Some tossed refuse into the arena.

"Sand whore!" a man shouted.

"Heathen!" shouted a woman.

Tirus held out his arms, shouting louder to be heard over the crowd. "Here stands Atalia Sela, wife to the barbarian Chief Berengar who still besieges our walls!"

The crowd booed even louder. Now they were tossing stones. Several hit Atalia, and she yowled.

"What shall we do," cried Tirus, "with the sister of one rebel, wife of another? She who assaulted our port? She who even now taunts us?"

"Make her fight!" chanted the crowd. "Make her bleed!"

Atalia spun from side to side. Everywhere were leering faces, a hundred thousand of them. Everywhere was hatred, rage, scorn. The theater spun around her. Her ears rang. Her head whirled. All the faces danced around her. Hating. Mocking.

She inhaled sharply.

Whore!

Desert rat!

Heathen!

She tightened her grip on her trident. The old fury rose inside her. Fury for the death of her father, of Daor, of Feina, of millions across this world. She let out a roar. She spun toward the imperial box. She ran three steps and tossed her trident toward Tirus Valerius.

People in the crowd screamed.

Tirus cursed and leaped from his throne. His guards stepped forth. The trident slammed into the throne, narrowly missing the emperor.

Atalia stood panting, horror blazing through her.

Tirus glared down from the imperial box, face red.

"Release the lions!" he shouted. "Let them feed!"

The crowd roared. A low grumble rose behind Atalia.

Slowly, heart hammering, she spun around.

A trapdoor opened in the arena floor, and eyes gleamed.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

With a growl, a lion loped out into the arena.

Atalia shouted and leaped back, hitting the arena wall.

The lion advanced, growling. The crowd went into a frenzy, leaping up and down, chanting, pounding their fists. Atalia was a desert lioness, and the lion was the symbol of her nation, yet she had never seen one before, only the dead cub on the day of Seneca's invasion. This full-grown lion was larger than she had imagined, its head massive, its fangs like daggers. Two more of the great cats emerged from underground. And she had lost her trident.

She winced. "Nice kitties. Nice kitties . . ."

A lion pounced.

Atalia winced and leaped sideways, just barely dodging the beast. Its claws dug into the sand. The crowd roared in delight.

The lions roared and circled her, rumbles rising from their throats. Atalia glanced back toward Tirus, hoping the bastard would toss back her trident, but the emperor clung to the spear, watching with a thin smile. Atalia cursed and looked around wildly, seeking anything that could be used as a weapon.

A lion pounced again. Atalia jumped aside, and the animal's claws sparked against her manica, denting the iron scales that protected her arm.

Atalia ran. She headed toward the exit. The crowd booed, pelting her with more refuse. Atalia ignored them, arms pumping, racing toward one of the archways that led out of the arena.

"Coward!" rose voices in the crowd. "Coward!"

As she headed toward the exit, two guards moved closer together and crossed their spears, blocking her passage. The lions roared behind her.

Atalia leaped into the air.

The guards cursed.

She kicked one man's helmet, denting the nose guard, and blood spurted. Atalia grabbed the man's spear, kicked his shin, and yanked the weapon free.

She spun around to see a lion leaping toward her. She raised the weapon. The lion bellowed as it impaled itself on the spear.

The crowd fell silent.

Atalia scampered back, pulling the spear free from the lion, and her back hit a column.

The lion was still alive. He gazed into her eyes, bleeding from his neck. There was sadness in those eyes. There was pain. The animal knelt before her and lowered his head, bleeding into the sand.

I'm sorry, Atalia thought, eyes suddenly damp. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

The two other lions raced around their wounded brother. They crouched, ready to pounce.

Atalia screamed. She ran. She jumped over the fallen lion. She soared into the air and drove her spear down, impaling another lion.

"Atalia!" cried someone in the crowd. "Atalia! Atalia!"

The last lion pounced. Atalia tried to tug her spear free, but it was embedded too deeply into the wounded lion. With a curse, she released the spear and fell back.

The leaping lion slammed into her, knocking her into the sand. Its jaws closed around her shoulder and bit.

She howled.

Her blood flowed.

"Kill, kill!" chanted the crowd.

The lion bit deeper. Atalia screamed, pummeled the lion's face, but could not free herself. Her head rolled back, and her helmet fell from her head.

The lioness of Zohar—killed by a lion. She grimaced. How fucking appropriate.

As the lion shook his head, yanking her across the sand, Atalia thought back to the sea, to rising and falling on her makeshift raft with Daor, chained, dying.

Never give up, she had told her soldier. Keep rowing. Always keep rowing.

The crowd spun around her. The lion raised her, knocked her back down, never releasing its bite. Her eyes rolled back, and there in the sand she saw it. Her fallen helmet, shaped like a lion, complete with iron fangs.

I am a desert lioness. I am the last soldier of Zohar. I will not die so far from home.

As the lion bit deeper, Atalia reached out and grabbed her fallen helmet. She drove the iron down with all her strength, sinking the metal teeth into the living lion's head.

The jaws released her. Atalia struggled to her feet, dizzy, blood dripping down her shoulder and arm. She raised the helmet again, then drove it forward, sinking the iron fangs into the lion again and again, and she wept. As she slew the animal, her tears flowed with her blood, for she was killing her brother.

When the last lion fell, Atalia raised her eyes. She stared across the arena at Tirus. The emperor was on his feet, leaning forward, face red, fists clenched.

You could not kill me, Atalia thought. But you could make me a killer. And someday I will kill you, Tirus.

As the crowd stared, as the lions lay bleeding, Tirus raised his arms and addressed the crowd.

"The gods have let the desert rat live for another day!" the emperor cried. "She will fight and bleed for your pleasure during the next games!"

Most in the crowd rumbled and booed; they had come here to see her death, not the loss of lions. But some were still chanting her name.

"Atalia! Atalia! Desert lioness!"

The guards stepped forward and grabbed her arms. As they pulled her out of the arena, Atalia looked back one more time. Across the distance, she met Tirus's gaze. She gave him a small smile.

You're next, Tirus.

The guards pulled her out of the arena, down the tunnel, and back into her cell.