The corners of his mouth curled into an unkind grin. “You’re a decent warrior, Bulan, but you’d have made a terrible queen,” he said, loud enough for the watching crowd to hear.

Bulan froze. A look of alarm passed over her face for a brief moment, but Laya caught it. Luntok had noticed it too.

Laya’s eyes narrowed as she gazed at Luntok. Bulan may have challenged him to an unfair fight, but he had no right to speak that way to a princess. To Laya’s sister.

Bulan swallowed hard. In the torchlight, Laya could see the glint of tears threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes. But Bulan didn’t crumble at Luntok’s taunts. She squared her shoulders. Raised her sword above her head.

Bulan refused to let him win.

After the tournament, no soul in Maynara would dare underestimate Bulan again. Laya watched, horrified, as she descended on Luntok like a charging bull. No clever strike could hold her back. Any restraint she might have afforded him vanished. She aimed for his heart, his throat. Her blade threatened to maim, to disembowel. Laya recognized the power radiating from Bulan’s body with every movement⁠—that immeasurable, godlike rage.

One mistake, and Luntok tripped over himself trying to match her. He dived for her in a center thrust. She sidestepped him and grabbed his arm. Without hesitation, she switched the angle of her weapon and jabbed the hilt straight into his gut. Luntok doubled over. She raised her sword again and drove the hilt straight into the side of his skull.

Laya gasped as the force knocked Luntok to his knees. Bulan kicked the sore spot. The jeering grew louder. Bulan didn’t care if they cried foul. She drove the hilt onto his wrist. He cried out, and his blade clattered to the platform. Bulan couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Once more, she raised her sword and brought it straight down on his head.

And Laya⁠—Laya could no longer bear to watch.

“Stop!” she screamed, thrusting out both palms.

Before Bulan’s hilt could make contact, the air above the platform split. A violent blast of wind nearly sent Bulan hurtling from the platform’s edge. She skidded backward, away from Luntok, her sword swept from her grip.

Laya clambered into the ring and threw herself at Luntok’s side. She cradled his swollen face in her hands, not caring who saw.

“Laya,” he groaned, leaning into her palm.

She smoothed back the hair from his bloodied brow and hushed him. Her heart sank as she inspected the damage. An angry, purple splotch had already spread across his cheekbone. After witnessing the force with which Bulan had struck his head, Laya knew it was a miracle Luntok was still conscious.

“Bulan, you absolute maniac,” Laya breathed. Her shoulders shook with anger. She couldn’t bring herself to look at her.