I slide to the right, arms tired. Zion senses weakness. I’ve been sparring with Ayala’s cousin for six days now. I’ve learned to set my feet before parrying a blow. I’ve learned to ignore the ringing sensation in my hands after a particularly sharp contact. The hardest lesson has been in humility. I thought this would be a matter of will. I thought I could just clap my hands and outdance other Ashlords the way I outdanced Oxanos. But for six days I’ve been completely outclassed in our makeshift dueling arena.

Zion is just twelve years old.

Compared to the riders I will face, he is a child.

He jabs the tip of his switch forward. I bat the weapon to one side, but he turns the reflected blow smoothly into a second swing. Instinct has me backpedaling. My own raised arm barely deflects his attack. Reverberation shakes me from elbow to hip.

He cuts forward again, resets his footing, and brings in a blow from overhead. This time my weapon spirals from my grip. I stand there helplessly, and the only thing that stops Zion from cracking my skull in is Ayala’s voice. “Stop.”

Zion steps back. He glances to her and then back to me.

“You did better that time,” he says.

Like Ayala, he’s kind enough to lie.

“Let’s take a break,” Ayala says. “Come back in an hour, Z.”

He nods and ducks out. My chest is heaving. It takes effort to pick myself back up as Ayala fetches the fallen switch. She sets the thing back in my hand and shrugs it off.

“Dueling isn’t your thing. Let’s try the whip again. You’re more natural with it.”

Dueling isn’t my thing. What an understatement. I can feel the bitterness building. Each new day adds to the foundation of my doubt. I am not ready for what awaits me in the arena. Still, I force myself to follow her across the sunlit room. She paces off the appropriate distance and I loosen my switch into whip form.

“Remember your stance,” she coaches. “Steady body. Firm arm. Flicks first.”

I fix my eyes on the half-rusted railing that fronts the distant wall. It takes effort and concentration—especially after getting run around by Zion—but I bring the whip overhead. The motion is smooth. I hear a satisfying snap. The glass tips graze the edge of the pipe.

“A step closer,” Ayala suggests.

I slide forward and bring the whip up again. My wrist gives a delicate flip and I marvel at how fast the leather snakes out. This time it coils twice around the pipe, glass shards digging, and I almost drop the weapon in shock. “It worked,” I say. “It actually worked.”