The Final Strife

It couldn’t be.

“Sylah?”

“How’s it hurting?” Sylah drawled back.

—

Sylah had always been able to best Jond, even when she was smaller than him.

The joba seed high had mellowed to a warming hum, settling her into battle wrath like slipping into a bath. Mooncycles of fighting the withdrawal seizures, and it had come down to this moment. She’d needed to win without her body giving out on her, she needed the lightness to fight Jond’s dark. It was the only way.

Anoor had barely made it through the first round, and that was only because Yanis was drugged. There was no way Anoor could fight Jond and win. The Stolen were sharpened against a whetstone for years. Only a Stolen can beat a Stolen.

Jond thrust his axe in her direction, but she knew the move. If she deflected it, he’d pull her toward him with his other arm and strike her side. Instead, she sprung to the right and swiped her blade between his shoulder blades. The sword clanged against his armor.

He flipped backward and was back up again in moments, but not before she pounced on his back.

“Sylah, you won’t get away with this.” Their helms knocked together.

“I already have,” she whispered.

He snarled and, with an impressive feat of strength, threw her over his shoulder.

She spun in the air and landed on her feet, but the sword skidded out of her grip across the ground. Sylah fed off the turmoil of the crowd; it reminded her of the Ring. At least she had Loot to thank for that.

He lunged toward her, the axe held high.

Sylah wondered if Anoor had yet woken from her slumber. If she would be watching Sylah lose for her.

No. No. No. No.

As the axe came down toward her, Sylah dove for the sword and wrapped her fingers around the hilt. In one clean motion she rolled onto her back and struck upward. Straight through the gap between his armpit and his chest plate.

It was a shallow cut, but she wanted to go deeper.

As she withdrew the blade, she held it up to the crowd. The blood ran down the tip toward the pommel, coating Sylah’s hands in Jond’s blood.

—

Anoor had come to the realization she wasn’t going to win against Jond. That meant he was about to make her bleed. Everyone was about to see her Duster blood. These were her last few moments alive.

Anoor stood up; she needed the privy. Servants had begun to make ready for the final combat, ensuring the arena was clear of any blood. It gave the competitors a much-needed break. Anoor ignored the chants of her name as she walked toward the privy next to the arena entrance.

“Anoor.”

A voice she recognized caught her attention. She turned to see Kwame leaning over the railing at the front. The Embers around him were unamused that he was blocking their prime position.

An officer had already been called to drag him away.

“Stop.” Anoor waved away the brute who had Kwame by the arm. “It’s okay, I know him.”

The officer raised an eyebrow but let go of Kwame, who gave Anoor a rueful smile.

“Thanks.” He rubbed his shoulder. “Can we talk? It’s really really important. Like the most important thing you’ll hear all day.”

Anoor doubted that. She jerked her head toward the entrance. “Meet me by the competitors’ entrance, I don’t have long.”

Anoor relieved herself, which took longer than she would have liked with all her armor, then went to meet Kwame.