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I spent the next few months in the ring, fighting more and more Holdmates to stay fit and gain experience. There were homogenous styles among most the young men, which I exploited with my tactically cunning mind.

Turned out I had a knack for beating up boys.

I could read their movements and anticipate the next strikes well before they happened. Though many of them were faster than me, even stronger, I had been well-trained by Master Lukain.

According to some active fighters who watched my matches, I had a defensive-minded approach that worked well against the full-bore aggressive offenses of the younger Holdmates.

I chose my moments precisely, lashing out only when I knew I could bring down an adversary in a flurry of well-timed attacks.

My fighting style kept me from depleting my energy too quickly, often outlasting opponents with sheer tenacity.

They did warn me of facing an opponent who had more endurance than I did, and what a challenge it would be. The older grimmers were enthusiastic about watching such a fight.

My streak of three victories in successive months started to breed contempt from many of the boys in my age bracket, who felt I’d been given an unfair advantage with solitary tutoring from our leader.

On the other hand, their contempt was offset by the begrudging respect I gained from the young men who actually saw my bouts take place in the Firehold.

I was so curious to learn from them what a true shadowgala was like—a battle outside the Firehold, where we had to face people who wanted us dead rather than wounded. Unfortunately, watchers were never permitted to stay long enough after my bouts to tell me.

I would have to bring it up to Master Lukain, I decided. It was odd he never stuck around either—not for a congratulatory nod, a smile, or a pat on the back. It was almost like he was disappointed he had schooled me so well, or was ashamed I was defeating his male slaves.

It was an exhilarating time. The duels, which happened on a monthly basis, filled my days with preparation, constant drilling, and shot me out of the languid stupor I’d felt after seeing Father Cullard and the new Broken flock.

I had more bruises and aches than ever before. I was practically covered in purple and yellow spots, all hours of the day. There was a target on my back, and I welcomed it. I heard rumors from the girls that some of the men were vying to be my next opponent.

“To bring down the ‘Bitch-Queen,’” Helget told me with a smirk one day during second meal. “I heard them colluding to, what was it? Oh, yes, ‘Put the whore in her place.’”

Her words made me smile.

One thing I hadn’t suspected was the outpouring of support and delight from the girls over my successes. Many of them saw me as a weapon to exact revenge on specific boys who had harmed them—even trying to help choose my next opponent as if I had a choice in the decision.

No women were allowed in the Firehold to watch the bouts firsthand, since none of them were active fighters. Even so, embellished recitations of my matches made the rounds in the tunnels.

One of the girls, Imis, was good with letters.

She started writing down the accounts of the battles.

During days when I had a match, Jinneth told me Imis gathered no less than two dozen girls in a room to read her play-by-play retelling of my fight.

Imis had a connection with one of the active fighters who was giving her information about the fights as an inside source.

Two days after my latest victory, after the night meal and too much ale, Imis asked to sleep with me, saying, “Show me how strong those thick thighs of yours really are.” She jokingly begged, “Squeeze my head and snap my neck, Bitch-Queen.”

At least I thought it was a joke.

I awkwardly denied her.

Then there was Jinneth, my greatest cheerleader, who stayed in my shadow and by my side.

Aelin, the one who had violated my friend, also asked to share a bed with me.

Her words were even more vulgar and luridly detailed than Imis’ request, which I’d thought was impossible. Aelin’s words made me blush.

Helget wanted, according to her exact words, “A warm body to press against that doesn’t have a cock attached to it.” After her wretched violation from Peltos, she never wanted to see another human cock again.

I was flattered by the adoration I received from the young ladies. The sapphic response was heartwarming and showed me these poor girls were more repressed and vexed about their positions than they were letting on. They would never say such things to Master Lukain, for instance.

The Grimsons had no qualms with same-sex relations.

We were not a religious or chaste group.

As long as dalliances did not get in the way of chores or training, our superiors didn’t care.

In fact, rumors tallied more young men fucking other men—and women with other women—than conventional male-female combinations.

I supposed it was only natural when the sexes were separated and compartmentalized in specific holding areas, cursed to only be around others like them for most hours of the day.

There was a third sleeping area too, for those who did not align themselves in conventional ways. This space, claimed for the “interfolk,” was designated for young men who had discovered their femininity and for girls who had realized they were not cut out for womanly duties.

Technically, I could have been interfolk, since I did man-chores and fight-training.

I didn’t claim myself as such. There were only six out of sixty Holdmates who were considered of the “third” sex.

Surprisingly, they were not mistreated by their peers, as they would have been in the Above where life was even crueler than it was here as vassals for a grayskin slaver.

It was absolutely baffling to me that there was more dignity, honor, and uniform acceptance in an underground slave pit than there was in the wider world above us.

I found my new celebrity status jarring, distracting, and unexpected.

I thought the women would be jealous, angry, or spiteful I was fighting the boys and doing something so different than they were.

But they were exulted by my victories, claiming me as one of “theirs,” even though I had never slept in the women’s quarters.

As a fighter, I was relegated to the men’s quarters, which were luckily heavily watched and guarded so no untoward business or vengefulness ever took place during sleeping hours.

Truth be told, I felt safer sleeping in the same vast chamber with the young men in the Firehold than I ever had with the Diplomats on the streets or the Broken in the almshouse.

Master Lukain had let it be known early on that any retaliation or clandestine, nighttime assaults would be met with a swift execution.

The six youths I’d arrived with had witnessed him impale that boy for asking a simple question, so we believed him.

Plus, we had all seen what happened to Peltos for raping Helget.

It was surprising, considering many of the boys were going through their changes, where they matured from boys into men. All my life, I had seen the emotional shifts that accompanied those bodily changes, leading most men to become more feral and driven by base desires.

Not in the Firehold. Lukain trained his slaves well.

He kept us on a tight leash, so to speak, and crafted us into disciplined, skilled fighters with dignity and stoic reserve.

He allowed us to eat together—allowed the boys and girls to fornicate to get their aggressions out, so long as it was out of ear’s reach—and he provided a place to safely lay our heads.

We had been chiseled into highly skilled warriors over months and years.

In my mind, we could give any of the Bronze guards a run for their money on the Floorboards.

I knew I would never get a chance to test that theory since my life had taken a different trajectory than the lawmen on the surface.

But my confidence swelled to such levels I thought I could take anyone on.

And then it all came crashing down.

It was a single fight that tore my self-worth apart and forced me to face humility with new eyes. I had never been disillusioned I would remain undefeated in the Firehold . . . yet part of me hoped I might be.

Then I fought Rirth. According to the girls, he was considered the “biggest dog of them all,” despite his size. He never lacked female acquaintanceship because he could be charming. He was never as outwardly hostile and ugly as Culiar—his friend—had been to me before I put him in his place.

Rirth was shorter than Culiar. More compact. I underestimated him, thinking I could use my size advantage to my benefit.

But he was also more serious, better taught, and smarter than Culiar. He was quick , too, which led to my downfall.

Five minutes into the bout, which lasted seven overall, I knew things were going badly.

I was tiring. I’d finally found an opponent who could conserve their energy better than I could.

Rirth was a head shorter than me, twice as fast, and he used that speed to effortlessly run circles around me.

The man never seemed to tire, while I labored and felt sweat building on my forehead, neck, and beneath my chest.

Rirth didn’t smirk at me. He didn’t give me a smug expression when he slapped his wooden dagger against my arm in a pressure point that forced me to unhand my sword.

His next strike, with his sword, found my hand and broke at least two of my fingers. It angered me more than it hurt and drove me to my own ruination.

Rirth took care of business, waylaid me with swift strikes that did little damage but added up over time, and claimed his victory with a hard roundhouse kick to my face once I was staggering on wobbly knees from so many stinging wounds across my body.

I recalled a blurry vision of spittle and blood slashing across the sky in an arc before everything went dark.

When I awoke, I was in the infirmary for the second time.

This fourth fight, two years in as a Grimson, proved to be the wakeup call I needed to reach the next level.

When I awoke from an hours-long stint of unconsciousness, Master Lukain, Jinneth, and surprisingly, Rirth himself, waited at my bed.

I frowned at Lukain. “I failed.” My words came out over split lips, an aching jaw, and a bruised tongue that had swelled to three times its normal size after the kick Rirth delivered to my face.

“We all fail,” Lukain answered. “There’s always a bigger fish, little grimmer.” Rirth was smaller than me, but I understood his point. Fixing me with a small smile, he added, “The way you bounce back from this defeat will show your true character.”

Rirth nodded at our master’s words. “When I first began sparring Culiar, I could never defeat him.”

I blinked at the young man, short yet handsome and spry.

I was shocked he was showing me respect like this, coming to the infirmary after defeating me.

It spoke to a dutiful quality in him I admired.

A humbleness I could learn from, because he clearly wasn’t here to gloat about his victory.

Lukain would not have allowed him entry into my recovery room if that were the case.

“It was his reach, you see,” Rirth said, clicking his tongue. “Could never get away from his long, gangly arms. Then I learned to pivot, to shift my momentum, and I drilled for weeks with new techniques.”

He stopped talking. I tilted my head. “And?”

“And he hasn’t beaten me since.”

I matched his wry smile with a frown, nodding slowly. Then I gulped down my pride, closed my eyes, and sighed heavily. When I opened them, I spoke with a flat, sober tone. “Would you show me how, Rirth? I would be honored if you would tutor me.”

He thought for a moment, pursing his lips. His face took on the same seriousness it had when we were fighting. “So long as you can stand being around Culiar for any length of time. He’s vexing, but he’s still my friend.”

I smiled, wincing from the attempt, re-splitting my lip. “Deal. I can handle it.”

“Then I have no qualms showing you whatever bit of wisdom I might have to pass down.”

My chin dropped. “Thank you.”

Lukain said, “Not so fast, little grimmers.” He looked at us, then at my hand, which was splinted. “Surgeon says two of your fingers are broken. It’s the little bones in the littlest fingers. They may take months to repair. You’ll be useless until then.”

Anguish formed a knot in my belly. “Useless?”

“In the ring. Sparring. Dueling. I will not permit you to fight while you have injuries of such an extent. Culiar has been out of commission for three months now thanks to his broken collar, and he still has more to go.”

“Damn,” I hissed, shaking my head. He was right. There was no way I could go against his words. “Now I know how it feels to be lame.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Lukain scolded. “The wound is only physical pain for now. It will become emotional pain as the days turn into weeks and the weeks turn into months. Hold fast to your convictions and goals, Sephania, because your journey is just beginning. It will be a bumpy one.”

Rirth said, “My offer still stands once you are healed.”

I acknowledged them with small nods, and then they left the room, leaving only me and Jinneth.

She patted the blanket over my leg. I winced from an unseen bruise there. Smiling, my friend said, “Looks like you’ll be snugging with us girls for a while, yeah?”