The drums picked back up as Bulan and Luntok began to circle each other on the platform. The sun had set fully now. In the glow of the torches, Luntok’s blade gleamed red, his face half basked in shadow. Laya didn’t need to see him to know what he was thinking. That this was his victory. That Bulan couldn’t rip this away from him. He wouldn’t let her.

And Bulan⁠—Laya wanted to scream at her sister. Couldn’t she have chosen another moment to prove her worth?

Bulan attacked first from the upper right. Luntok blocked with a flick of his sword. Unlike in his previous fight, he shifted immediately into offensive mode and attempted a low strike to her knees. Bulan parried and maneuvered out of his range.

With frightening speed, they continued to exchange blows. The crowd roared as they watched them dart back and forth across the platform in a perverse imitation of a dance. Luntok had speed and strength on his side, but Laya had watched her sister train her entire life. He couldn’t match Bulan’s eye for weakness. Bulan pursued every opening he gave her, no matter how fleeting. She forced him to defend and counterattack again and again, refusing to let him catch his breath.

Luntok’s chest heaved, slick with sweat, as he came at her with an outward strike. She deflected and returned his attack, aiming at his ribs. This time, Bulan didn’t need to exert quite as much effort to push him back. He was slowing down, tired. Any physical advantage he lorded over her was useless. Bulan broke free from the breakneck rhythm they’d fallen into and thrust forward, aiming straight for his groin.

Below the platform, Laya fumed. No, Bulan, don’t you dare.

Luntok parried in time but lost his balance. He regained his footing and stared at Bulan with wild determination in his eyes. Bulan met his gaze with equal fervor. Laya’s heart raced. She knew what was next to come.

Bulan whirled her sword and advanced on Luntok in relentless, fanlike patterns. He tried to gain the upper hand, tried to fly above her. Each time, Bulan dragged him back to the ground, breaking his graceful footwork. His frustration built. He grew sloppy. Bulan feinted, tricking him into a forward lunge. Then she spun around him and swiped at the tattooed plane of his back.

Luntok cried out, and Laya gasped. The cut was angry and long and red, but it wasn’t deep. The true damage Bulan had inflicted was to his pride.

He whipped around, snarling. “You’d wound a man with his back turned?”

“Don’t be a baby,” she shot back. “That was a fair blow.”

In the shadows, his jaw tightened. “What are you trying to prove?” he asked in a low voice.

“I’ve got nothing to prove to you.”