“Why would I do that?” I spin the keys around my finger. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re okay fighters, but…”

“Not as good as you.”

“Something like that.” They’re actually a bunch of washed-up has-beens, in my humble opinion. Don’t get me wrong, they could kick anyone’s ass in Purgatory, just not mine.

“So, what are you up to?”

“Look, I’m not going to meet any Furor fighters.” But I am going to the thrax tournament. I’m such a bad liar, I was hoping to sneak out without a Maternal Inquisition.

Her chocolate eyes narrow. “So, where are you going?”

“Hanging out with Cissy.” At a thrax tournament, but I leave that part out.

Mom stares at me for a long moment, then nods. “Okay, have fun.”

“Thanks, Mom. I’ll be back soon.” Because once they see I’m wearing sweats instead of some stupid ball gown, I’ll get to leave. My grin stretches extra wide.

My plan’s so freaking awesome.

I drive Betsy to the thrax compound, park her on a dry patch of field, and follow the crowd. Everyone’s in traditional thrax dress and glaring at my ratty sweatpants and gray hoodie. I glance at my watch. If I leave in the next ten minutes, I can still catch reruns of I Love Lucy on the Human Channel. Sweet.

I follow the thrax crowd. We hike through the trees and onto a wide meadow covered in mud. By the forest’s edge stand five large tents. Each one’s bigger than my house and in a different color: yellow, bronze, purple, blue, or black. Beyond the tents lies an oval tournament green—it’s the only place around that is green—and it’s surrounded by a shoulder-high wooden fence. Two long spectator pavilions overlook the green, one on each side.

Squinting, I take a closer look at the pavilions. They’re raised platforms covered in stepped rows of seats. Wooden poles hold a cloth ceiling over the audience’s heads. Flags and lanterns hang everywhere.

Cissy stands near the tournament green, looking lovely in a simple medieval dress of emerald fabric with long loopy sleeves. I wave. “Hey, Cissy!”

Her jaw drops as she runs to my side. “Myla, you showed up.”

“That I did.” I gesture to my sweats. “And this is what I’m wearing. Who do I talk to so I can get kicked out?”

“You’re supposed to be in a traditional gown. Like me.”

“Drat.” I snap my fingers and make my ‘aw shucks’ face. “I guess I’ll have to go home.”

Cissy chuckles, her head shaking from side to side. “You’re not getting out of this so easily. They have emergency dresses around here.”

“They do?” I freeze.

“Oh, yeah. Unlike you, I did some homework on the thrax.” She sighs. “Why didn’t you call the dressmaker I gave you?”