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The months following my recovery were grueling. Lukain was right: the days became depressing as I learned I was not invulnerable. Worse than that, I was frail . Human.

No wonder the Olhavian vampires have such an easy time keeping the Nuhavian humans down here. If they’re immune to all the sickness and scarring that wounds humans, we don’t stand a chance against them.

I’d still never met a fullblood vampire. As a child at the House of the Broken, listening to Father Cullard’s boogeyman stories of the monsters, I had shuddered and prayed I never would meet a vampire.

Now as a young adult I was actively attempting to do just that. My liberty depended on attending a mysterious shadowgala in Olhav and fighting to unchain myself from Master Lukain’s grip.

I didn’t know how it worked. The specifics of “fighting for my freedom,” and what I must do—how many duels must I win? What am I given when I leave the Firehold? Anything? Will Lukain stay true to his word?

I figured those questions would be answered if I ever made it to the summit of the mountain. For now, I needed to focus on my recovery, my tutelage, my sanity.

The time I’d spent training for fights was adjusted toward rehabilitation. I put in the same singular focus on making sure my hand recovered as I had in making sure I could defeat my adversaries in the ring.

While someone like Culiar’s broken bone took so long to heal because he drank too much, fucked too often, and often re-aggravated his wound, I had no such issues.

Every morning, I would exercise my wrists and hands. Once the splint on my two leftmost fingers was removed and replaced by a bulky bandage, and then a thinner one, I worked to try and stretch my fingers and open and close my fist.

It was excruciating at first, almost like I was fracturing the digits all over again. The tiny bones in my hand were annoying. Each one needed to heal correctly, congruously, connecting with sinew, cartilage, and muscle, if I wanted any chance of wielding a sword again.

I didn’t blame Rirth for wounding me. He had only been doing his duty. I blamed myself for letting it happen—not being quick enough to prevent it.

The young man often came to me in the eating hall to converse, even as Culiar scowled from another table as if he thought I was trying to steal his best friend.

Then, three months after the initial wound, the strangest thing happened during a random eating hour. It was Culiar who approached my table.

At this point, because of my luminary status as a female fighter, I was surrounded at the table by girls. Jinneth, Helget, Aelin, Imis, and a new friend of ours named Palacia.

Palacia was one of the six interfolk—born a boy before transforming and accepting her place as a girl at the age of thirteen. She was now an eighteen-year-old beauty with luscious blond hair flowing down her back, a slim frame, and a kind smile.

Palacia was lovely to be around. One of the highlights of befriending her was watching the boys squirm as they struggled with their obvious attraction to her, while flipping insults at her constantly.

The most hot-blooded young men in the Firehold fought against their desire for a girl who had a cock—one that put theirs to shame, as I had noticed one night when I accidentally walked in on Palacia mounting Imis in one of the empty workrooms.

Times had changed. I had a coterie. A pack.

So when Culiar approached my table, he did so with reticence and suspicion and slight fear in his eyes.

It gave me great satisfaction to see him fumble all over our table before placing his hands in front of him and sighing to gather his wits. “Here,” he grunted, and then reached into his tunic. He pulled out a small bottle of greenish liquid, which he set down in front of my dinner plate.

“What is this?” I asked. “Poison?”

Culiar rolled his eyes and carded a hand through his hair.

He glanced across the table at Palacia, who beamed at him.

His cheeks went red. He muttered, “It’s a .

. . salve. Got it from Old Endolf the alchemist. Rub it on your hand.

It’ll help the healing process go faster.

It, erm, did wonders for my collar. Something about it seeping into your bones is soothing.

I don’t know—ask Endolf. Could be magic, science, you know how he is. ”

I did know Old Endolf, the Grimsons’ scholar and alchemist who rarely showed his old, leathery, curmudgeonly face.

I also knew Culiar. I thought. And this was not him.

Scratching my cheek, I stared down at the bottle then up at him. Over his shoulder, I saw Rirth watching us from a different table. “Did Rirth put you up to this?”

Culiar gave a quick headshake. He was nervous rather than bombastic, and I appreciated this version of the young man much more than the snide, offensive one.

“No,” he said, struggling to find the words. A full minute passed. “I . . . have recognized you are not the enemy I thought you were. None of the Grimsons are. We have actual adversaries to defeat once we reach the shadowgalas in Olhav. Enemies who aren’t part of us.”

My head tilted. My flock of girls stayed mute, shocked into silence rather than their usual chittering.

“Are you saying the Grimsons are meant to be allies, Culiar?”

“Allies, comrades, compatriots. Call it what you want, Sephania,” he scoffed. With a single nod, he turned to leave, walking toward the waiting group of young men near Rirth.

“Thank you,” I called out. “For this.”

He froze and looked over his shoulder.

I held the bottle of green liquid, wagging it. A small smile crept up. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve heard my actual name pass through your lips. It’s usually ‘Bitch-Queen’ or ‘cunt’ or some variation of the two. I think my favorite was ‘slut-hound.’”

Culiar’s lip curled. It was so close to a smile I could have mistaken it for one.

Flaring his nostrils with the near-smirk still on his face, he said, “Don’t get used to it, cunt.”

It was four months of recovery—the salve Culiar gave me helped knock that down from six—and then six months of continuous sparring. Some of the sparring was concurrent with my healing, since my right hand still worked.

Lukain could only keep my stubborn ass out of the ring for so long.

Finally, after almost a year, and my third year in the Firehold, I had rounded back to where I was when I’d made a name for myself in the dueling arena.

I was seventeen summers old, in the full bloom of my womanhood.

My growth spurts had ended and left a strong presence in its wake.

I was in peak physical condition for who I was—my curves were not going to shrink, neither was my height.

My overall size fluctuated, but not enough to make a difference in the ring.

I had grown into who I was always meant to be.

I worked around my deficiencies and weaknesses to turn them into strengths.

Being a thicker person meant I could take more punishment.

Being tall meant I had long strides and could veer around opponents.

Being wider than men made them underestimate my breadth, reach, and ability to turn my guard, because they were so used to fighting other narrow-hipped men.

Rirth made good on his promise of tutoring me in his sprightly ways. He showed me footwork to practice, stances to study and adapt into my fighting style. Many of the patterns he showed me were ones Lukain had never used or expressed interest in because Lukain was tall like I was.

Rirth was impressive because he had adapted a unique style all his own, due to his size. It was an admirable trait. I considered him perhaps the best active fighter in the Firehold.

He paid me a great compliment one night by saying he considered me the best.

“Don’t tell the other boys I said that,” he drawled, before breaking into a zigzagging rhythm across the room that utilized bent knees and angled trajectories to dance around an opponent.

I laughed. Trying to mimic his movements was nearly impossible for someone of my stature, but I tried my best. Thankfully, he was patient, going over the same patterns ten, twenty times before moving onto something new.

“There’s a reason I’ve only been showing you footwork and lower-half techniques over these past few months.”

My eyebrows lifted.

He dipped his chin at my hip, where my wooden sword hung. “There’s nothing I can teach you there. You’re better with the blade than me.”

My brow lifted even higher, close to my hairline. “You really think so?”

“I know so. You have reach over me and skill beyond mine thanks to everything Master Lukain has shown you. I’m not just trying to get in your pants when I say you’re the most complete fighter in the stable. The fact you’re a woman is irrelevant.”

My eyes wouldn’t move from him. And here I thought I would be rivals with Rirth and Culiar for the rest of my life, the way they treated me at first.

“You are trying to get in my pants, though,” I countered at last, trying to make light of his compliment. “Is that what you’re saying?”

He snorted. “Who wouldn’t?”

I blushed furiously, not expecting that answer. The man’s head only came up to my tits, yet here I was, flustered and tongue-tied like a whelp in front of him.

It was dawning on me why he was such a sought-after commodity among the womenfolk in the Firehold.

Even more impressive was seeing how someone’s demeanor could change so drastically when you exhibited true grit, determination, and skill, like I had over the past few years.

People took notice of those qualities. I had not asked for handouts or easier duels simply because of what was between my legs—or not between my legs, in this case.

Rirth crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “Now stop gaping at me like an ape and work on the technique I just showed you.”

I resumed the circuit of duels throughout my third year. By the end of the year, I had fought nearly every active Grimsons fighter there was to fight. Three of the only men I hadn’t dueled—besides some recently activated fighters—were Antones, Old Endolf, and Master Lukain himself.

Month in and month out, I went through the routines of preparation, fighting, and recovering.

I didn’t win every fight, because Lukain had trained all the boys to be fighters, and there were some good ones.

Especially the bigger men who were now in their early twenties.

Even though I was bigger than any other woman in the Firehold, it was hard to compete with someone like Kemini.

Funny his name had “mini” in it, when the stubborn bastard stood like an oak tree, almost seven feet tall. He walloped me good in my initial fight once returning to the ring, knocking me out cold with a harsh backhand I practically ran into.

I was lucky none of my bones were broken that fight.

I redeemed myself a few fights later when I managed to swing Kemini’s legs out from under him and he luckily—or unluckily, for him—smacked the back of his head on the outlying fence and fell asleep for a while. Rirth’s footwork techniques had been a gods-send during that bout.

In a separate duel, a more experienced, older fighter got a good hit on me when I stopped utilizing Rirth’s maneuvers and got full of myself. I had told myself I’d never underestimate a fighter again, but there I was getting tossed on my ass after doing just that.

My days were spent healing and heavily drinking to numb my wounds.

Even a victory led to countless bruises, aching joints, and worn muscles.

Lukain warned me to be careful with the ale because it would dim my senses and make me useless if I overindulged.

I would regress and lose everything I’d learned.

I listened to the grayskin and remained focused . . . but drinking was certainly a crutch for a while during that third year.

By the end of the year, my record stood at eleven victories and five defeats. It was a commendable ratio. No one could deny it. Especially coming from the first female dueler in Grimsons history.

After defeating Kemini to earn my final victory of the year, the ring remained quiet except for his lazy snoring.

“Match, Sephania,” Lukain said.

The twenty-member audience stayed quiet as usual.

No clapping or congratulations followed my victory.

Only Kemini’s snores and my heaving, hard-breathing gasps made any noise in the room.

The watchers had grown from sixteen to twenty over the year with the inclusion of four more boys Lukain activated to fight.

I closed my bared teeth, reverting to a more civil version of myself once the battle-lust was gone and victory was mine.

Then Lukain did something different.

He stayed in the room.

“With that, Sephania, it is time.”

My head snapped over to where he stood on the other side of the fence. “Time, Master?”

His nod was deep and knowing. “Time to embark on what you came here to achieve.”

I inhaled sharply. It can’t be true.

“There is a shadowgala taking place in a month. Just past your nineteenth summer-day, if I have it right.” His smile was small and meant everything. “I’d like you to be one of three fighters to represent the Grimsons there.”

My expression was blank for the longest time. As the announcement came, I was dumbfounded. Blood rushed in my ears from the fight, continuing to pound from the news.

I’ve . . . done it. I’ve made it.

This time, the first and only time, the audience of veteran fighters did cheer, congratulate and salute me, and pat my back as I exited the ring.