“There, now. You’re all set.” Bera gestures to the store of weapons. “What would you like? A blade? Crossbow?”

“Nothing, just me.”

The blood drains from Bera’s face. “What will you fight with?”

My tail pops over my shoulder and waves in her direction. “One guess. Let’s go.”

We march out of the tent and through the crowd. Stares and whispers surround me. It’s awesome. Bera guides me to one end of the tournament green. On the field, the Earl of Horus battles the Arachnoid. He’s going after the legs too. Dumbass.

“Now, wait here, girl. The Earl has a few more minutes of time. If he doesn’t kill the demon by then, it’s your turn.”

I watch the Earl of Horus hack away at the Arachnoid’s shin. It’ll be my turn.

While I wait, I stretch and crack my neck. Cissy steps up beside me, her eyes big with shock.

“Myla, what are you doing here? What’re you wearing?”

“Armor.”

“You’re supposed to wear traditional dress.”

“I am following tradition. The Queen told me to fight the Arachnoid, and it’s tradition to do what the Queen tells you, right?” I wag my eyebrows up and down.

Cissy grabs my upper arm. “You mean that nasty spider monster out there? You’ll get killed!”

“No, I’ll have a good time.” I pinch her cheek. “You worry too much. Arachnoids are easy-peasy.”

A silver trumpet blares. The Earl of Horus walks off the tournament green to encouraging cheers from the crowd.

Bera steps forward, sets one hand on the wooden fence and swings it open. “Your turn, girl. Make Gurith proud.”

I stride onto the tournament green. The crowd falls silent. Somewhere in the distance, a cow moos. Worried voices whisper that I’m not carrying a weapon.

I smirk. That’s what they think.

The Arachnoid charges at me, its long legs a flutter of movement. I wait until it’s a step away and jump high, gripping the upper half of its nearest leg. Arachnoids keep the top of their limbs level; you can use them like a gymnast’s parallel bars. I haul myself up until my belly rests on the spider’s upper thigh. Swinging my body 360-degrees, I spin about the spider-leg and into the air. I somersault upwards, landing on the demon’s tiny body.

In the corner of my vision, I see Lincoln standing by the edge of the tournament ground, an empty muzzle in his hand. He stares at me intently, his face unreadable.

What the blazes does he want?

I lose my footing, slide straight off the demon, and land on the ground with a whump. A gasp sounds from the crowd.

Focus, Myla.