Oxanos is nearing the edge of his comfort now. He doesn’t sweat, because his kind never sweat, but he’s gritting his teeth in concentration. As we reach the second chorus, I spin away, and clap twice more. Oxanos’s eyes go wide. I hear the gasping echo around the room. My cousin answers. The pace doubles again. I spin back to the Ashlord, but he’s far from ready.

I move my hips faster than he can match. My steps are lightning, his a flawed and broken thunder. He loses me on a turn and I dance a cruel circle around him, eyes fixed with fury. This is not how the Contested goes. When they televise their galas, it’s always the Ashlord leaving the Dividian dizzy by the end. But Oxanos is not my king. I am not his slave.

He loses me, again and again, and suffers red-faced through the embarrassment of trying to catch back up with my steps. I answer without mercy. I punish him through perfection. I stomp my feet and swing my hips and toss my hair until he knows, at least tonight, he is nothing but a sideshow. When the music ends, I’m sweating and breathless.

It’s traditional for the loser to bow, but the Ashlords are fond of telling us they only bow to the gods. Oxanos glares around the room, then at me, before setting his jaw and walking out the front door of the bar. It’s quiet. The only sounds we hear are the door banging shut, his boots crunching in the desert dark. No one’s foolish enough to cheer or shout or celebrate, but Amaya slips a cold drink into my hand. She taps the neck of her bottle against mine and smiles.

“Look sharp, girl. I don’t think that’s the last Ashlord you’ll have to outdance.”

Chapter 5: True Freedom

Daddy’s got us set up well before the Crossing match begins.

His private box in Lady’s Stadium is normally the opposite of private. He’s always believed with the right drink and the right view, any man will be willing to make a deal. I’ve watched him cozy up to oil tycoons and ship builders, tobacco farmers and war veterans. I didn’t know the scope of what he was planning, but every conversation was a brick in the road to a second Rebellion. He’s been crafting his war quietly, patiently.

Which means his final pitch is for me.

He’s got his money, his troops, and his rebels. All he needs now is a face to put on the posters. The other seats sit empty. It’s just Antonio Rowan and Daddy, sipping their drinks and talking up the two teams below us like a game could possibly matter right now.

“I like the kid from Panhandle,” Antonio is saying. “Fastest quickling I’ve ever seen.”

Daddy makes a thoughtful noise. “Never seen him before.”