My weapon is an extension of my body, more lethal than my fists, less predictable than my heart. My most traitorous organ is silenced for the time being, so long as I concentrate on the staff in my hands and the beast beyond it.

We circle one another, edging away from the fire and into an open piece of ground far-removed from any tents. The god of night has gifted a moon that is both full and low, painting the ground below our feet an almost blistering white. As I study my opponent, I forcibly ignore the increasing size of the crowd surrounding us. The commotion thunders around me but I tune out the cheers and blur my eyes to the faces, closing myself off to all distractions.

Jaron's stride is long but unhurried. Having stood alongside the chieftain in battle many times I am well-versed in his strategies. He conserves his energy while I remain on the lookout for a sudden, powerful strike. Jaron's strength is his greatest advantage, but what he possesses in brute force he lacks in speed.

He draws to a stop and abruptly throws off his cloak. The bulky garment crumples to the ground like a dead animal, where its feathers immediately begin to gather dust. The smug look on his face tells me that my tactics have been assessed as well.

This should be a very interesting fight.

I take a step the left, watching to see how he reacts. He doesn't so much as flinch, revealing what I suspected. He's waiting for me to make the first move.

So, I make it a good one.

I feint left again, then plant the end of my staff in the ground and vault myself into the sky, swinging forward which as much force as I can muster and aiming to kick him full in the chest.

Jaron dodges, throwing up an arm and barely managing to knock me aside. I take advantage of his lack of balance and thrust the staff back as soon as I hit the dirt, scoring a hit across his ankle and sending him crashing to the ground.

He recovers quickly, jumping to his feet with a terrifying speed for someone his size. I scrabble to keep hold of my weapon, managing to block his blow but sending a sharp pain rocketing from my hands down to my shoulders. I shove Jaron back, rolling out of the way of his next strike to shouts and roars of encouragement.

Dancing backwards, I toss my weapon from side to side, grimacing as I flex my hands to alleviate the sting in my palms.

Jaron watches me from a few paces away, a cruel smirk drawn on his face. I buy myself a few more precious seconds by making a show of rolling my shoulders, purposely exaggerating Jaron's advantage. Even though I am playing up my injuries, the power at which Jaron attacks is genuinely shocking. I ignore the knot of fear beginning to tighten and concentrate on his movements, needing him to burn some energy as my reserves are already depleting rapidly.

Jaron doesn't let me down. He shoulders his weapon and takes two lumbering strides, aiming for my ribs. I tuck into a ball and escape to the side, ducking under the spear but staying within reach. He swipes again and I once more dodge. Grunting in frustration he spins in place, finding the spot I occupied moments earlier conspicuously empty.

I emit a sharp whistle from behind, raising my staff and striking him across the face.

The cheers grow louder as Jaron falls back. I breathe shallowly, willing some strength back into my limbs. The Waster chieftain seems to be recovering as well, rubbing his chin as he regards me. The smug look on his face has been replaced by an expression a good deal more satisfying.

Respect.

My victory is short-lived as Jaron suddenly springs to life and races towards me.

I dart away reflexively but this time, he's prepared for my techniques. I am blocked by his lowered spear and only barely manage to throw my own weapon up in time. Switching tactics I abruptly go on the offence, knocking his blade away and sweeping my own staff before me, forcing him back. We battle back and forth, each impact sending lightening bolts ricocheting through my limbs. Jaron suddenly traps my weapon beneath his own and extends a burly arm, catching hold and then tossing me as though I were no more than a burlap sack. Sky rushes past as I am thrown into the air and sent crashing into the wall of spectators. My head spins and I am helped to my feet, cheeks burning and legs shaking while I struggle to right myself. Someone hands me back my staff and I nod my thanks, my eyes finding Jaron at the far side of the circle. He has his own weapon gripped with both hands and is leaning against it.

He's getting tired, too.

Good.

I walk slowly, tracing a path around the perimeter. Jaron mirrors me, his dark eyes growing more unsettling by the second. We're both breathing heavily now, clenched teeth glinting in the moonlight.

Simultaneously, we strike. I rush forward, sweeping my staff beneath his own and shoving it away while I spin in place. My momentum isn't enough to unsettle him and he is ready for me when I turn around. Spear collides with staff and I stumble back a couple paces, immediately going on the defensive as the oversized weapon falls down upon me again, the impact causing my bones to rattle. The knot of fear in my stomach clenches tighter as a chilling thought worms it's way to the surface: I can't win this.

Drops of sweat blur my vision. Falling back another step, the ghost of an idea crosses my mind.

I only need a little strength. Just a little.

The colour red flickers from the corners of my mind, coaxing me, tempting me.

No.

I drop to the ground before I can second-guess myself and yank my staff out from under the chieftain. His eyes open wide in shock and he stumbles, thrown momentarily off-kilter by my sudden disappearance. My fingers close around a fistful of sand and I fling it upwards, buying myself a couple more precious seconds. A stream of curses greet my ears when the sand hits Jaron's eyes and I fight to get back on my feet, nearly managing it before something collides with my side and forces the air from my lungs.

Sprawled on my back in the sand, I am granted a look at the stars above. I fight for breath, the taste of blood filling my mouth while a heinous fire sparks my ribs. As I gasp up at the sky a colossal silhouette spoils my view. Jaron's shoulders heave while he raises his spear and I realize vaguely that I have lost hold of my own weapon.

Tucking my knees up into my chest, I propel myself backwards. The blade pierces the indent I left behind as I search wildly for my staff, heart sinking when I spot it broken in two pieces and lying several yards away. Jaron yanks his spear free and swoops it down. I turn my back, allowing the blow to glance off my shoulders but earning yet another painful wound.

"Had enough?" Jaron's voice is hoarse and barely audible over the furor surrounding us.

I keep my mouth clamped shut, not wanting to reveal how winded I am. The red cloud creeps in further, choking me and urging me to accept its hand. The agony in my ribs and shoulders is nearly blinding in its ferocity and it's all I can do to remain upright, weaponless as I face my adversary.

"Apparently not." Jaron's voice is accompanied by the whistling of wood slicing through air and I react purely on instinct.

Ignoring the spasms of pain that accompany movement I angle myself out of the spear's path, at the same time bringing my leg up and down on top of it. The action consumes every ounce of energy I have left but has the desired effect, sending the opposite end of the spear rocketing into Jaron's jaw. He flies backwards, unleashing a stream of unholy words as I make a mad dive for his dropped weapon.

We're both on the ground now. I thrust the point of the spear upwards, missing Jaron's ear by mere inches. Great, meaty hands wrap themselves around the handle alongside my own and the rough wood begins to ease down towards my throat. The cheers of the spectators have morphed into a deafening roar, the commotion fading away as spots form before me. Jaron's already-impossible weight turns leaden and the blackness creeps in further, pulling me under as my energy finally gives out.

Something streaks by my nose and Jaron leaps back, dropping the spear and staring wide-eyed at feathered shaft of the arrow burying itself in the sand between us.

Collapsing forward onto my hands and knees, I struggle to see into the crowd. A lanky shadow has shouldered its way through the throng and now stands leaning against his bow, watching us.

I blink and Luca's features swim into focus. He wears an expression that I've never seen before and his gaze is dark as his eyes flick back and forth between myself and the still-stunned Jaron.

"This ends now." Luca says firmly. "There will be no more discourse."

"Stand down." The command is undermined by Jaron's clumsy attempt at standing. "Luca, how dare you interfere."

"How dare I?" Luca throws his bow to the ground in an uncharacteristic display of anger. "How dare you, either of you."

"It is not your place—"

"To stop the two of you from killing one another?" Shaking his head, Luca radiates disappointment. "So much waste, already and you let your egos add to it."

Jaron's massive shoulders draw up nearly to his ears. I long to stand and speak my own piece but don't yet trust my legs to hold or my lungs to hold air. Kneeling useless on the freezing sand, I curse my weakness and the bitter taste of shame gathering in my mouth.

The chief casts a surreptitious glance at the gathered Wasters and I notice that a cut marrs his cheek and that his jaw has already begun to swell. "The Runner has not yet defeated me. Until this fight is won, there can be no chieftain."

"Look around you, Jaron." Luca gestures. "This is defeat. Your people are not cheering for you." Nodding in my direction. "They are cheering for her."

I finally manage to push myself to my feet, my weak knee shaking as I clutch a hand over my ribs and straighten as best I can. Jaron stares at me, his expression unreadable as he watches me fight to stay upright. Luca slips soundlessly past his brother and makes his way over to me, reaching behind my back and shouldering some of my weight. I sag gratefully against him, biting back a groan as my injuries cry out their protest.

"After everything this tribe has been through, you would turn against your own." Although I refuse to meet his eyes, I know Luca is addressing us both. "You always said that your tribe is your family."

"She is not my family." Jaron growls.

"No?" Luca grabs hold of my right wrist and thrusts it out towards Jaron. The sight of the bright blue tattoo decorating my forearm causes my cheeks to grow warm and the crowd to fall silent. "Is this the mark of someone you do not consider blood?"

This time, even Jaron has the decency to look away. My skin burns beneath Luca's touch, the memory of Jaron tracing the intricate design into my flesh blooming painfully. I recall a time when being welcomed into Jaron's tribe was enough to sustain me through the darkest of nights, back when I was left floundering in the wake of losing Will.

"Then let us finish this for good." Jaron's somber words bring me to focus. He projects a well-practiced voice over the gathered Wasters, Miners and mercenaries. "Luca is right. The Runner and I have been fighting one another when we should have been fighting alongside our brothers and sisters. I submit now that if you wish to remain united against Babel, that you go and stand behind your choice chieftain."

A moment's hesitation, then the camp gradually comes to life and shuffles into motion. One by one, they come to gather at my back, leaving Jaron alone with only his mercenaries standing behind him.

What should have been a great triumph seems more akin to a cheat. Waster chiefhood is meant to be earned through combat and despite Jaron beating me handily, I find myself the victor. Once again, my penchant for deception has brought me what I wanted only this time, winning doesn't feel the way it should.

Jaron remains as still as a mountain, appearing every bit the chieftain I could never hope to be. An eternity passes before he eventually stoops, picking his discarded cloak up from the ground and shaking it free of sand. Within two strides he is standing before me, cloak outstretched.

Luca releases his hold but lingers close by while Jaron drapes the feathered garment over my shoulders. With a tight nod he stands back, clenching his fist over his chest.

"The tribe has chosen well." The former chieftain declares. "It is only the truly brave that would willingly face me in combat." His brow gives a slight twitch. "That, or the truly mad."

I smile a little, despite myself.

"I pledge my loyalty to you, the Runner." Jaron raises his chin. "You shall have my blade—and my respect—for as long as there is war to wage."

"The Runner!" Someone shouts and the cry is picked up ten, twenty, a hundredfold. I concentrate on standing firm beneath their cheers, waiting for the shame to disappear, waiting for the swell of pride to wash over me.

But there is nothing. Only the sickening sounds of an audience hailing a fraud and an accompanying hollowness. The feathers adorning Jaron's cloak irritate my bruised face and I fight the urge to tear it from my back, reminding myself that this is just another disguise. With the Wasters unquestioningly under my command, I am one step closer to finishing what I started.

And when she's gone, I can cast this costume back into the dirt where it belongs.