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CHAPTER

Forty-Five

N O ONE HAD ever looked at Neema the way Katsan did on the fight platform. Her hatred pierced so deep, it felt almost like love.

The last fight of the afternoon. Shal’s hope that the weather would turn had been dashed. The heat rippled the air, scorched the lungs. Neema sluiced the sweat from her face. Eight protect me and remain Hidden.

No, we’re on our own, Neema.

Tala’s fight with Ruko had been closer than expected, mainly because she hadn’t spent the previous two hours yoked to a wagon. For the first time, the Tiger contender was bleeding when he returned to his corner at the end of the first round. It caused a stir, not just in the stalls, but down the contender line. The Visitor’s lips were pressed into a bloodless line—his version of a smile. When it came to the second round, however, the balance shifted. Tala was not a weapons master, and had never fought without the option to stop. Twice she was cut—once across the thigh, once across the back. She was lucky Ruko’s blade did not bite deeper. Or perhaps her Guardian was watching over her, on this Day of the Ox.

In the final round, her prodigious stamina kept her on her feet. Ruko was slowing down again. Tala, seeing her chance, moved in to strike… A roundhouse kick came from nowhere to take her out. The Ox contender, who never fell, slammed hard to the canvas.

Ruko hadn’t been slowing down. He had been dissembling. He watched, dispassionate, as Tala made a valiant attempt to get up, then wrapped a bare foot over her throat. Tala began to choke.

The bell rang out. Victory to the Tiger contender.

On his balcony, the emperor rose and applauded both contenders. This was how it should be done.

The first fight had been gruelling. The second was ugly. Fox vs Monkey. Until now, the crowds had enjoyed watching Cain fight. But Cain liked Tala, and respected Katsan and the Visitor. Havoc was another matter. Cain gave him no quarter. Havoc had been formally trained in the Monkey style since he was six years old. So what. Cain had been fighting since the day he was born. Havoc wasn’t his opponent; he was his enemy. After the first round, the Ox contingent had to come out and rinse the blood off the canvas.

In the middle of the second round, Havoc tried something complicated with a hinged staff. Cain headbutted him. The crowd groaned in sympathetic pain as Havoc staggered back, blood gushing from his nose. Broken. Some survival instinct kept him on his feet through the last round, but as soon as Vabras rang the bell, he collapsed, and had to be guided off to the medical tent, eyes swelling shut.

Cain called up to the imperial balcony as he passed, “Is that what you had in mind, your majesty?” But the emperor had retreated to the shadows.

After that, the fight between Shal and the Visitor had felt like a ballet. They returned to the line to muted applause. The Dragon Proxy had lost yet again, on purpose—but as he could not win points, he could not lose them either.

Sol, who had been napping, lifted his head from his breast. Our turn, Neema.

In the stalls, the remaining spectators waved fresh streamers, purple and red, to welcome the last two contenders. Bear versus Raven. The emperor came forward again, resting his knuckles on the balustrade.

Neema stepped out from the contenders’ pavilion, into the punishing heat. The cobbles burned beneath her feet as she made her way to the platform. As she walked, she reminded herself of the advice Cain had given her. Katsan was a formidable warrior, with twenty years of experience to draw from. That strength was also her weakness. She thought she had seen it all. “Surprise her,” he’d said.

So here she was on the platform, waiting for Vabras to ring the bell. Katsan’s thick blonde hair was freshly plaited and pinned into a tight bun, and she had changed into a fresh uniform. The five red slashes across her chest looked like a promise of the blood to follow. She was a warrior, a true warrior—her stance strong and certain, her intention blazing from her bright blue eyes. I will kill you.

“Contenders, prepare!” Vabras barked.

They settled into fighting stances. Neema’s heart beat hard against her chest, as if it wanted out. The blood roared in her ears.

Breathe, Neema.

She hadn’t realised she’d stopped. She took a shuddering gasp. I can’t do this, I can’t…

The bell rang.

“For Gaida,” Katsan yelled—a battle cry—and surged forward.

From the first moment, it was brutal. Neema tried the same technique she’d used during her fight with Ruko—yielding and shifting, conserving her strength. But Katsan’s attacks were relentless, and every one of them was meant to kill.

Neema was stepping back from a strike when she faltered. Self doubt. Should she move to the side instead, was that better? That tiny hesitation was all Katsan needed. She jabbed her fist into Neema’s stomach.

Neema gasped, doubled over in pain. Before she could recover, Katsan had grabbed her in a headlock. The fringes of Neema’s vision turned grey. She stamped desperately on Katsan’s toes until she was released. Not a warrior move, but it worked.

A moment’s respite, no more. Another few seconds and she was on the ground. Katsan pinned her down, and drew back her fist. “Justice,” she hissed.

All that hatred, all that righteous fury, channelled into a single strike. It would break Neema’s jaw.

—Sol!

The plan—

—Do it!

The world didn’t stop. He lacked the strength for that. But time slowed, stretching out long enough for her to think. She studied the trajectory of Katsan’s fist as it moved on its straight path towards her. She wouldn’t have time to deflect it.

Katsan’s fist loomed closer.

Wait.

Wait.

Neema gritted her teeth, fighting the instinct to move.

She felt the air pressure against her face. Another fraction of a second.

Now.

At the last possible moment, she wrenched her head further to the right.

Katsan’s fist smashed into the platform, brushing Neema’s left ear. Eight, that was close.

Time snapped back to normal.

Neema rolled free and jumped to her feet. Katsan was on her knees, cradling her hand. She’d put her whole force into the blow; her knuckles were split open and bleeding. This was Neema’s chance, while Katsan was vulnerable. She had to press her advantage, or—

Vabras rang the bell.

“No!” Neema wheeled on him. “That was not a full round.”

“To your corner, contender,” Vabras replied, evenly.

He was giving Katsan time to recover—the Bear contingent was already rushing up with bandages and iced water.

Neema stamped back to her corner. Sol was making short, pitiful distress calls in her chest. He’d worn himself out trying to save her. She was on her own.

Glancing over to Katsan’s side, she saw the Bear warrior flex her injured hand and wince. Her sword hand. That was something, at least.

Neema hurried down the steps to retrieve her weapons. As she approached the chest, alarm flared down her spine. The Samran Hound who’d been shadowing her all afternoon was standing beside it. He looked smug.

“Get away from that,” she snapped.

He gave a sarcastic smirk as she kneeled down and opened the chest.

It was empty. The sword, the hammer, the iron claw, the knives and daggers. All gone.

“Contender Kraa,” Vabras called. “Return to the platform, please.”

Despair washed through her. How could she fight a weapons round with no weapons?

“Thirty seconds,” Vabras warned.

She put her head in her hands. They’d won. The emperor. Vabras. They’d killed her.

Neema, Sol croaked. Look. Under the hinges.

The iron war fans. They were still fixed into the padded lining, black on black. The guard had missed them. She snapped them free and slid them from their covers. Folded up like this, she could use them to strike and jab. Open, they would shield her from Katsan’s blade. Maybe. Just maybe…

Sol, drawing on the last of his strength, sent an image to her mind. A memory. Tales of the Raven , spread open to a story about the Raven Warriors of Anat-ruar, in the days when this island had been their home. They had trained here on this spot for thousands of years. Defended the monastery from invaders. Her kin. Her history.

Katsan stood waiting on the platform, her hair gleaming like spun gold in the late afternoon sun. Her hand was wrapped in bandages, blood seeping through along her knuckles—but it remained steady as she raised her sword. Neema turned her wrist, drawing an eternal eight with her fan. Katsan’s eyes narrowed at the choice of weapon.

Surprise.

Vabras rang the bell.

Katsan lunged.

Neema snapped open her right fan, deflecting the blade. She swung her left fan like a baton into Katsan’s ribs. It was like striking rock.

Find a soft bit, Sol suggested.

—I don’t think she has any.

Katsan swung again. Neema was ready for her. The stories Sol had told her all these months, the dreams she had thought were nightmares—they were woven into her body, they flowed through her. Her fans snapped open and closed as she turned her wrist, coiled her arm. Such an elegant weapon. Beautiful, deadly. The edges razor sharp. She glided her left fan across Katsan’s stomach. It sliced neatly through her tunic, opened a thin red line.

Katsan drew back—not in pain, but confusion. She had never encountered this style, forgotten for centuries. The flick and snap of the fans disturbed her, their dance through the air. The way they changed their purpose back and forth—baton, dagger, shield, razor. What troubled her most of all, was Neema herself. Where had she learned these skills? Who had trained her?

Her distraction cost her. With each failed attack she grew more frustrated, more careless. She thrust, and thrust again, and each time Neema parried, and pressed her advantage until…

It was an accident.

Katsan swung her sword down in an overarm sweep. Neema slashed up with her fan to deflect it. But instead of striking the sword, she carved deep into Katsan’s right forearm. The razor-sharp edge of the fan sliced through skin, muscle, tendons.

Katsan’s sword clattered from her hand. She stood there, wide-eyed with shock at her ruined arm. Blood pulsed from the wound. The fan had hacked her open to the bone.

Too much blood. Way too much blood.

She fell to her knees.

Vabras had not rung the bell. He stood frozen by the sight—what Neema had done, and how she had done it.

Kneeling down beside the fallen Bear warrior, Neema ripped her colours from her arm and made a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. Katsan was praying under her breath, preparing herself for her next journey on the Eternal Path. “Great Bear of the Mountain, guide my spirit home…”

“You’re not dying,” Neema said. “Katsan. Open your eyes. Stay with me.” She could feel the crushing weight of guilt hanging over her, ready to drop. She waved frantically to the Bear contingent to join her.

Katsan’s face was death white, her breathing shallow. She was letting go.

Neema pressed her lips to the Bear warrior’s ear. “Live,” she hissed. “ Live— and I will tell you everything .”

Katsan’s eyes snapped open. The anger, the desire for justice, still burned through her. Enough to make her hold on.

The medics stretchered her from the platform. “We’ll have to amputate,” one of them said.

“She’ll live,” Neema said. She was sure of it.

In the stalls, people were jumping to their feet, running down the aisles as if they planned to rush the platform. Had they really seen what they had just seen? Vabras, returned to himself, signalled to the Hounds to restore order, push people back to their seats.

Neema looked up at the imperial balcony. The emperor was staring down at her, open-mouthed. With a sharp, defiant gesture, she flicked the blood from her fan. It sprayed out, fine splatters on the platform.

Vabras rang the bell. “The fight is over,” he said. “Victory to the Raven contender.”