It seemed I'd made an impression.

As I advanced, I felt the crowd's eyes on me, a sea of bated breaths and wrinkled noses. Although, I was pretty sure their attention had less to do with skill and everything to do with my bizarre, semi-illegal performance.

I was the small one who'd surpassed expectations. The speedy underdog in the blue helmet. The twig with thorns.

And so, the Tournament proceeded, weeding out the boys who didn't meet certain physical and mental qualifications through a series of creative and wildly entertaining trials.

In one event, we had to cross a playing field without being struck by bulbous, painted arrowheads, and darting around in unpredictable patterns had served me well. For another, we completed an obstacle course fashioned with ropes, monkey bars, and a climbing wall.  I'd beaten Mason by a handprint in that race, though he'd insisted I'd had a head start—the milksop.

Finally, though, we reached one of the most anticipated and beloved trials in the Tournament: The Deadlock.

A trial of close combat, it served as a testament to a soldier's swordsmanship.  Each contestant would fight one of three skilled soldiers, and if he managed to stay on his feet for two minutes, he passed.  If he was knocked to the floor or pushed out of the fighting ring, he was eliminated.  And the crowd lost their absolute minds over it.

Lifting the bottom of my visor, I chugged down a canteen of water as the top-ranking contestants face their opponents first. The order helped even out the fight some. That way, when the soldiers or vets grew weary, they only had the worst of us left to school.

That was fine with me—I'd take any handicap I could get my hands on.

In the far-right circle of the stadium, a broad-shouldered boy fought an indestructible force of a man, their swords clanging loudly at each collision. Matching with an active-duty soldier was frightening enough on its own; I couldn't imagine facing someone so burly and experienced as a greenie.

Still, the boy held his own. 

In the middle ring, Mason sparred with an older, nimble soldier.  As the veteran lunged for him, Mason reeled back—his foot landing an inch away from the border of the circle. But he didn't appear unnerved by his opponent's skill set. If anything, the challenge seemed to excite him. Dipping his chin, he planted his feet and took the offensive. 

The two fights were definitely entertaining, but the audience hardly paid them any attention.  Instead, all gazes were pinned to the third circle and the boy with the red helmet. 

This soldier was younger than the others and extremely fit—exactly what the mind conjures at the thought of a chiseled soldier. Frankly, it wouldn't surprise me if he turned out to be a low-ranking officer or a drill sergeant on leave. Every thrust was smooth and vicious. Each parry effortless and instinctual. He didn't even feel the need to wear a helmet.

Despite all that, Will pushed him further and further to the edge of the ring, relentless.  He spun and sliced and dipped and whirled, and before any of us could process what happened, he'd knocked the soldier to his tailbone.

He'd won.

A bit of water dribbled out of my awed, parted mouth.  In seventeen years, I'd never seen a contestant beat a trained and war-scarred soldier.  Not until now.

Gilmore shook his handbell, signaling the end of the sequence, and the other two contestants sheathed their swords, entirely unaware of the incredible scene that had just graced our eyes.  For once, Gilmore seemed stunned into speechlessness, and he left the crowd to their screaming.

Well, that confirms it, I decided, allowing myself a small, proud smile.  William Tooms was the red helmet, and anyone who'd ever attended training with him surely knew that.   

He offered a hand to the defeated soldier, and the man laughed, clasping the teen's forearm. As soon as Will pulled him to his feet, his opponent clapped him on the back and congratulated him, and the sportsmanship triggered another round of applause.

I wondered if, beneath the visor, Will wore a radiant, toothy smile. A content expression none of us had ever witnessed.

I'd like to think he was.

As he walked away, my eyes trailed back to the middle ring.  Mason stood in the center of his own circle, still as death, and although I couldn't see his face, I knew his triumphant grin had long since faded.

I stood across from Mason's opponent, completely regretting my life choices.

Yeah, okay, so I'd taken pages of meticulous notes on fighting techniques.  I'd practiced on my own since childhood, attacking wooden beams, sacks of grain, and fictional enemies.   But I hadn't sparred with another living soul since Tom had left.

Seven years ago.

I knew I had potential, that I had it within me to learn, improve, and excel with a sword, and the chance to engage with a trained professional was something I'd always dreamed of. It just never occurred to me that I'd need to unveil my total lack of experience to obtain it.

Luckily, I didn't have much time to panic.  Before my brain could compile all the ways I was guaranteed to fail, the bell rang, and a steel blade came flying for my head.

I bounced away, keeping my sword low to protect my knees and shins.  I'd seen enough Deadlocks to know soldiers never sought to maim or injure the contestants. They only aimed to knock the boys off balance or drive them out of the ring.

Success hinged on defense.

My opponent stalked the rim of the circle, much like a vulture closing in on carrion, and while his sallet-style helmet exposed his face, I didn't recognize his wrinkled features, angry eyes, or hairy lip. But I wasn't a big fan. 

"Come on then," he taunted after I made no attempts to initiate our bout.  "Quit acting like a little girl. Make a move already."

It was sometimes frightening how easily I could be provoked. 

Growling, I flew forward, swinging wildly for the soldier's breastbone.  The clash of our weapons sent vibrations up my arms, and I pushed off our grazing blades only to spring at him again, anger refueling my exhausted body.

This old war vet wouldn't annihilate me, and I downright refused to lose to Mason's opponent. So I fought the hardest I'd ever fought, channeling everything I'd ever learned from Frost and Will and Tom. Chopping the air. Slicing at armor.

A windmill in a tempest.

I really...had no idea what I was doing.  Jabbing, dodging, parrying—it was like I'd unlocked something inside, some inherent, feral fighting style.  But whatever it was, it appeared to be working.

Do you see me, Dad? I thought distantly. Don't you see what I'm capable of?

I dodged the vet's next advance, and I even managed to make contact with his metal tasset—something the crowd thoroughly enjoyed.  However, the spike of laughter caused a shift in the fight.  The bad kind.

Suddenly, the soldier was no longer holding back, not with his pride on the line.  I felt it in the ferocity of his swing, in the swiftness of his step; he was done playing games.

I shuffled back, raising my arms to defend myself as he pummeled away at me, sword striking again and again. Harsher movements and fiercer sounds. Panicked, I forgot to take the breadth of the ring into account, and right before my heel kissed the chalk, some small, inner voice whispered a forceful stop!

I wobbled, teetering backward, and just as the soldier prepared to deliver the finishing blow, I reached through the junction of our swords and grasped his breastplate. 

And that was when the bell chimed, capturing a picture worth painting—a young contestant bent backward over the ring, clinging to the armor of her opponent.

Both feet safely inside the circle.