As everyone registered the change in alliance, the energy in the colosseum crackled and shifted. We were still vastly outnumbered.

But we stood a chance.

A bulky figure cut off from Trebalda's army and dashed toward me — Ruck. The guard beside me whipped around to face him, but Ruck stabbed through the man's throat. While the opponent still clutched his throat and gasped for breath, Ruck snagged the keychain from his pocket. With two succinct clinks, he freed my wrists and ankles and ripped off the gag. Then he thrust the guard's sword into my hands and jerked his head toward the center platform.

"Save him, Toom."

The agonizing helplessness of the last two days channeled into a savage power that coursed through me like liquid fire. Without another glance at Ruck, I shot to my feet and lurched toward Niako.

The seven Claimed still surrounded the platform, as motionless as the statues ringing the colosseum and eerily unaffected by the bloodbath beginning around them. The executioner's eyes tracked Makash, who now scrambled up the stairs to the royal balcony. The two guards on the platform grasped Niako's arms, oggling the approaching army. When they spotted me, one hopped down and charged toward me.

I parried the guard's swinging blade and stabbed through his chest. Then a soldier raised her sword in my peripheral, and I jerked my sword free and lashed out just in time to redirect her blow away from my body.  As I smashed my sword's hilt over her head, the remaining guard on the platform shoved Niako over the wood block. The executioner raised the axe high overhead, and a silent scream shredded my aching throat.

I would not be in time.

Then the executioner's eyes widened and shoulders jerked. A second later, he toppled forward to crash down on the platform, a blade buried in his back. Behind him, Zaria sprung up onto the platform and yanked the blade free. When the guard released Niako and spun to face her, she slashed through his throat in one concise movement.

The guard's blood still spattered Zaria's white-blonde hair as she sliced out again, this time through the ropes binding Niako. For one brief second, she caught my eye, and her head ducked in a barely perceptible nod. Then she wheeled around and bounded off the platform into the fray.

I scooped up the sword from the felled soldier beside me and raced toward Niako. Ahead of me, a soldier stepped up onto the platform, but I jabbed the blade in my right hand up through his back. He flipped back toward me, and I dodged the body and leaped up onto the platform.

Niako drew his gaze up from the discarded rope to meet my eyes. "Toom."

I flipped the sword in my left hand to offer him the hilt. "Is this one alright?"

Niako accepted the sword a split second before movement flashed behind him. Before I could open my mouth to warn him, Niako swung around and sliced through the incoming soldier's chest. The man slipped backward and toppled off the platform.

With a shrug, Niako said, "It will work."

Then soldiers rushed the platform from all sides.

Without another word, we positioned ourselves back-to-back at the center of the platform. The clanging and screaming around the colosseum faded to a tinny ring as my vision and hearing narrowed to my immediate surroundings.

The attackers streamed past the ring of Claimed as though dodging poorly placed furniture. Some of our attackers fell before reaching us, pierced by arrows from Trebalda's archers. When a soldier or guard vaulted the platform, one of us rushed forward to meet the attacker while the other covered from behind. When two or three approached at once, we both responded with a blur of parries and strikes. 

The last time we fought back-to-back, we faced unskilled ruffians with crude weapons. We now battled the best soldiers in Rakim. And yet, my every blow landed with power and accuracy, aligning with Niako's movements in a choreographed dance.

Meanwhile, the Claimed shifted back slowly from the piling bodies like retreating from the splash of a rising tide. At one point, I plucked the sword from a felled soldier near Stro to offer it to him, but he met the offering with a lifeless stare. When I attempted to involve Princess Anopa, she refused to meet my eyes.

Around the platform, the heaping carnage forced new attackers to scale fallen comrades to approach us. Perhaps I would once have balked at this gruesome testament to our success, but the memory of Niako's submerged head pressing up against my hands in the water pail incinerated my misgivings. Now that I could fight back, I would do whatever it took to protect Niako. Even if I had to obliterate all of Rakim.

One more slash, one more slice, one more spin, and I faced...

Nothing.

I staggered, unbalanced by the abrupt absence of stimulus. Around us, the battle sounds slowed to an occasional clanging sword, whizzing arrow, or subdued cry.

I shifted to face Niako, observing his quick breathing and hunched stance. Then I scanned the colosseum. The armies now appeared even, yet swords and bows dangled near sides as all eyes pinned the front entrance. When I rotated to determine the cause of the sudden halt, my heart leapt into my throat.

A copper banner fluttered in the breeze before an army led by Mitzy. Her voice wailed across the colosseum.

"Fooja's army is here. Surrender to Queen Trebalda, or prepare to die!"

The movement around the colosseum petered to a standstill, and all eyes swept toward the nobles' balcony, the only section of the colosseum still unblemished by bloodshed. Amidst seated nobles, Makash stood gaping.

"I.... don't understand. Kalasiki's army should have..."

Mitzy's eye caught my own, cut to Niako at my side, and then drifted to the left of the arena. Following her gaze, I spotted Ruck, chest still heaving with exertion and face shiny with sweat. With a smile, Mitzy turned her attention back to the nobles' stand.

"Kalasiki's army appeared quite formidable," said Mitzy, "Up until half of their soldiers donned copper broaches. Then the other half quickly surrendered. From what I hear, half of Kulas's swordfighters also belong to the Legion of the Three-Legged Lion, so the archers from Busk and Bund must be having no trouble at all."

Makash emitted a growl and shook his head, pressing his fingers to his temples. "That's not possible. Kalasiki and Kulas both own slaves, and they would not relinquish that advantage for some whimsical movement."

Mitzy opened her mouth to reply, but a Rakim soldier with a copper broach spoke first.

"The rich own slaves," he said. "But the rich don't fight wars."

For a moment, Makash stood rigid. Then he swiveled toward Trebalda, spearing her with a gaze as sharp as the tip of a sword. With his buoyant wig, chiseled face, and broad frame, he appeared superhuman... almost. But every impressive feature drew attention to some inadequacy he had never quite obscured. He was not superhuman.

He was subhuman.

"Fine," said Makash with a conciliatory dip of his head and a spread of his hands. "You wish to duel with me to spare our people, sister? I accept your challenge. Meet me on the center platform to fight for the crown."

A gasp of relief fluttered down from the nobles' balcony, but most of the colosseum erupted into an aggravated babble. One voice near Trebalda rose up above the rest.

"My Queen, please," said Alaski, bow still clenched in her hand, "Do not risk your own life. Your people need you."

Trebalda cocked her head at Alaski. "My people need a champion, not a coward."

Then a chilling sob pierced the air. In the corner of the arena, Zeb's limp body draped over Zaria's knees, his auburn mane sweeping the sand.

"Your Majesty," Zaria choked out, "We have sacrificed too much for this victory. Now let your people destroy your enemies."

The colosseum fell quiet as Trebalda gazed at Zeb, expression somber and shoulders slumped. Then her eyes drifted around the rest of the colosseum, lingering on torn bodies. Protruding bones and caved skulls. Unseeing eyes and blood-soaked sand.

Then Trebalda said, "These are all my people."

And she strode toward the center platform.

Perhaps it was the gravity in her voice, effusing regret and certainty. Perhaps it was the power in her stride, the wind billowing her fluffy curls, or the searing force in her gaze. Whatever it was, something in the air changed, and protests died on lips.

Niako jerked on my hand, tugging me off the platform. We stepped over the piled bodies and passed the ring of Claimed to join the Trebalda's army at the outskirts of the arena. Then I watched Makash trudge down from the stands and toward the platform with the smug glee of a schoolyard bully. Doubt squirmed in the pit of my stomach.

Tilting my head toward Niako, I whispered, "What if she loses?"

Without looking my way, he said, "She won't."

"Niako, she's not blessed."

"She's not," he agreed, "But she's better than him."

"And what if being better is not enough?"

Niako turned to look at me and froze, eyes narrowing and brow furrowing. "Toom, you're... you're hurt."

I glanced down at my blood-spattered chest and shook my head. "It's not my blood."

"No, your arm." Niako clasped my wrist, flipping it over to expose my forearm. "You've been cut."

I dropped my gaze to see a nasty gash splitting my upper forearm. Blood soaked the shredded sleeve of my tunic and dripped down onto the sand. In response to the gruesome visual, sharp pain flamed up my arm, but I could not fathom when the injury occurred.

I said, "Oh."

Niako hissed a breath through his teeth and ripped off a piece of his own torn tunic sleeve in one quick jerk. He worked with quick, clinical movements belied by a tremble in his fingers and the biting of his lip. I reluctantly held still as he wrapped the fabric around the wound twice and tied it off tightly.

Despite my pain and apprehension, a smile tugged at my lips. That little tremble and the flicker of worry in his eyes professed his feelings as clearly as any declaration. This little bit of unpleasantness changes nothing.

After all the horrors of the last couple days, he still loved me.

I cleared my throat. "Niako, I wanted to tell you —"

But Niako's attention had already turned to the center of the arena.

Trebalda's gaze flicked between the unresponsive Claimed still ringing the platform as Makash thumped his chest and basked in the rapt attention of the crowd. Then Alaski and Trebalda began to clear the bodies, weapons, and wood chopping block from the platform, and Makash addressed the colosseum.

"Let it be known, I did not wish for this ending. I tried to provide a way out to spare all of these innocent lives, but my efforts were cast aside. Alas, I am now forced to destroy my own sister in this barbaric duel." He shifted to shake his head at Trebalda with an audible exhale of disappointment. "Trebalda, what do you have to say in your defense?"

Though eyes around the colosseum all turned to Trebalda, her own eyes remained on Makash. "Swords only. No one intervenes. Whoever is left standing claims the throne."

Makash jerked his sword from its sheath, and the scratch of metal echoed in the now quiet colosseum. Trebalda's sword slipped from her sheath silently as she stepped forward to face him. Brother and sister tapped their swords together in the center, Makash's hilt gripped in two beefy hands and Trebalda's clutched in her one hand. The sun kissed the two blades and scattered fuzzy blotches of light over the platform.

Silence captured the colosseum — breath trapped in lungs, feet trapped in sand, and eyes trapped on the two blades which would determine the fate of Najila.

The fight began.

Makash swung with formidable force, and my heart clenched in sick anticipation. Despite Trebalda's strength and prowess, she could not possibly parry such a blow with one arm. However, she did not attempt a parry. She dodged, and she countered.

Makash flipped her sword aside and lashed out again. Muscles rippling and feet pounding, he forced her back toward a corner of the platform. She swerved to evade again, neck inches from Makash's blade and heels inches from the platform's edge. Makash flipped his blade around to lash out again.

Behind Trebalda, Stro twitched.

Niako's hand snagged mine and gripped tightly.

Trebalda ducked the blade and spun toward the center.

Makash attacked with fearsome strength and speed, but Trebalda leaped, prowled, and struck with a mesmerizing blend of power and grace. As time passed, Makash thrashed out with increasingly clumsy technique. His wig slipped crooked and flopped to the ground, exposing his shiny scalp and diminishing scruff of hair. 

A calmness settled over the colosseum as the outcome grew clear. 

Then Makash lifted a booted foot.

My chest constricted as I remembered the horrifying crack and unnatural twist of his opponent's knee during the Challenge Day competitions. A frantic warning froze on my lips, too late to change the impending disaster.

Then Trebalda released her sword, snatched Makash's boot inches from her knee, and wrenched his foot up into the air.

Makash flailed in a futile attempt to maintain balance. Then his sword flung from his grasp to bury in the sand near the topaz Claimed, and his back thumped the platform. Trebalda stooped to grasp her sword once more and paced forward to stand over Makash.

For the first time, panic choked his barely audible voice. "Trebalda, you know I love you. You are the only one I have ever truly loved. Would you really end my life?"

Trebalda stiffened, but her voice remained calm. "I don't think you know what love is."

"Then show me," he gasped.

An achingly long moment passed in silent stillness. Then Trebalda slid her sword back into its sheath.

And Makash wrenched a dagger from his boot.

Makash sprang toward Trebalda while a blur of copper flashed behind him. As Makash thrust the dagger toward Trebalda's chest, Stro tackled him from behind.

Makash whipped around, flinging off the painted intruder. As the two men grappled over the dagger, Trebalda yanked out her sword once and darted toward Makash.

Just before she could reach him, Makash shoved Stro to the ground and slit his throat.

Blood spurted up and splashed Makash's face as he swiveled to face Trebalda. He pushed a hand against the ground and began to stagger to his feet, but the hilt of Trebalda's sword smashed his forehead, sending him sprawling backward onto the platform. Before he could lift the dagger once more, a swarm of color caught the sunlight. Six more painted people clambered onto the stage and converged over Makash.

Princess Anopa yanked the dagger from his hand and chucked it aside as the rest of the Claimed descended upon him. Then his massive body disappeared under a storm of clawing hands and kicking feet. Beside the fallen copper body, a blinding flurry of gold, obsidian, sapphire, ruby, amethyst, and emerald ripped out dripping chunks of flesh and gouged eyes. Screams of pain broke into whimpers which faded to silence.

A moment of complete stillness.

Then Anopa stood, blood still dripping from her hands and mouth but chin propped high. Around her, Makash's other five remaining Claimed rose to their feet to join her, macabre beacons of justice in the still blazing light. Behind them, Makash's body splayed across the platform in an unrecognizable heap of crooked limbs, hollow eye sockets, and shredded lumps. 

Together, the Claimed faced Trebalda. Together, they sank to one knee.

Anopa raised a black-painted hand toward Trebalda. Blood tracked bright red through the black paint of her forearm and drizzled from her elbow. "Queen Trebalda, I trust you to lead Najila and Trog toward peace and justice."

Trebalda inclined her head. "Princess Anopa, I am honored to serve you. Please rise to your feet. You no longer bow to anyone."

The Claimed pushed up to standing, and Trebalda gave each of them a nod before rotating to acknowledge the rest of the stadium.

"If anyone objects to my rule, you may choose imprisonment with the promise that the heinous treatment of prisoners will no longer be allowed. However, all who declare fealty to me will be absolved of any crimes and may serve the new regime."

Around the arena, a unanimous response manifested as the remaining Rakim soldiers and guards dropped to their knees. Even the noble's stand swept into a stuttered bow to the new queen. Just one lone figure cut through the rest, pushing through the crowd into the arena — Astoria.

When she reached the sand of the arena, she stopped and drew back her shoulders. "I will also serve Queen Trebalda."

Trebalda's gaze swept to the sky for a moment before returning to her mother. "Unfortunately, Mother, I don't believe you are capable of accepting my authority."

Astoria shook her head. "Not capable? This is my dream! I have always wanted to see Najila ruled by a queen."

"True, yet there is one thing you have never understood. If the woman who rules turns a blind eye to the starving, enslaved, and even Claimed women of Najila, then women have gained nothing at all."

Astoria's gaze flitted to the immobile guards on either side of her as she licked her lips. Then she said, "I can... I can provide counsel."

"Not the counsel I wish to receive."

"I can be your mother."

"It's a little late for that."

A ripple of rueful laughter scattered the crowd. Astoria pulled her shoulders back further.

"Trebalda, please. I only exiled you because I knew it would make you stronger."

Trebalda tilted her head. "Very well, then I will return the favor. You may live out the rest of your days on a desolate mountain in Bund."

Astoria huffed a disbelieving laugh. "You know I am not well suited for such a life."

"Then it will make you very strong," said Trebalda.

Astoria's breath hitched, and her shoulders dropped. Then she spun on her heel and fixed her gaze on Niako.

"Niako! My sweet child, you can't let this happen. I may not have been a good mother, but I have loved you. Persuade your sister to listen to reason. "

Beside me, Niako flinched as though slapped. Then his eyes flitted to me, as though I might hold the answer.

I held no answer, but I held his hand.

His shoulders relaxed as his gaze returned to his mother. "Don't worry, Mother — I'll visit you. Probably."

Then he turned back to me.

Trebalda gave further orders, and the colosseum fell into organized motion, but my world narrowed to the man beside me. His eyes dropped, his brow furrowed, and his teeth trapped his lower lip. 

I traced two fingers from his temple to his chin, expunging Makash's foul touch. "Niako, are you —"

Then my gaze met his, and my throat closed around the words. Because at that moment, the never-ending stream of thoughts always dancing in his eyes screeched to a halt. At that moment, I saw only unfiltered carnal desire.

Longing screamed through my veins and swelled my chest, a pressure building toward bursting. Too hot, too fierce, too much. Trembling with the effort to remain gentle, I combed one hand through his curls.

He grasped the back of my neck and yanked me toward him.

For the first time, Niako's movement was utterly graceless. Lips bruised, teeth clacked, bodies collided. His right hand tugged on my hair while his left raked down my back.

The almost-pain heightened the sensation of the moment, drowning me in delicious bliss. When his body shivered against mine, my craving rocketed still higher. Yet a small part of my mind still remembered what I needed to say, and some inner power demanded me to pull back.

I parted our lips and trapped his wandering hands with my own.

"Wait," I rasped. "I need to tell you something."

He jerked back a step and blinked twice. When his gaze focused and his breathing evened, he nodded. "I'm listening."

Under his bright gaze, so tender and so alive, my prepared words jumbled. "My father... dinner with my mother, and... and there was a mouse."

I watched him struggle to maintain his air of respectful solemnity. And I watched him fail, lips twitching and voice quaking in a barely suppressed laugh.

"A mouse?"

I swallowed and shook my head. "Fuck it. I love you, Niako."