He grabbed her throat. She gasped, struggling to breathe. When she could see again, she found his face near hers, a smile twisting his halved lips. She tried to swing her blade, but he caught her wrist, pinning her arm to the wall. She struggled, kicking, but couldn't free herself.

"So deformed . . ." He thrust out his tongue and licked her crooked jaw—a long, languorous movement that left her dripping with his saliva. "So sweet. But not hurt enough. Not yet. Look at my wound, darling." He turned the burnt side of his face toward her, forcing her to stare at the grooves and rivulets. "Soon your whole body will look like this."

Still clutching her throat, he sheathed his sword and lifted his torch, which had fallen during the duel. He brought the flame near her cheek. She winced and tried to turn her head away but could not. She sputtered and blackness spread across her. All she could see was the fire. All she could feel was the pain. She closed her eyes for fear of them melting.

"We will begin with burning your face," he said.

She couldn't move her right arm; he held it pinned to the wall. She kicked hard, hitting his knee. His leg crumpled. They fell together and she grabbed a fallen stone. She sprang up, slamming the rock into his temple.

He grunted.

His fingers released her, and Laira gasped for breath.

She wanted to collapse. She wanted to simply breathe. Instead she lunged forward, swinging the rock again. A shard of granite the size of her fist, it drove into Zerra's jaw. She heard the crack as the bone shattered. Two teeth flew. His chin drove sideways with a sickening crunch.

He fell to his knees, clutching his face with one hand, and managed to lift and thrust his blade. She parried and swung her sword down. The bronze drove deep into his arm and thumped against bone. He screamed and dropped his sword. Laira kicked it aside.

She placed the tip of her sword against his neck.

"Beg me for your life," she whispered.

Suddenly she trembled. Her voice was hoarse. Her knees shook.

"Beg me!" she shouted.

He stared up at her, eyes baleful. He said nothing.

"You will die here," she said. "Beg for life."

He stared, silent, his jaw shattered. His arm hung loosely, slashed open; she saw the bone and tendons. He managed to slur, blood and saliva dripping down his chin.

"What . . . do . . . you want?" He coughed out blood and teeth. "To be a huntress? Tell me. Tell me what you want."

She shuddered. In the darkness of the tunnel, she saw her again. Her mother smiled at her, stroked her hair, and told her bedtime stories. Laira ran with her through the forests, collecting berries, laughing and speaking in Eteerian. She remembered joy. She remembered warm embraces, safety, love.