He’s not the only one. Vaughn and Blake, and even Sydney now, watch my drills and smile smugly in the corner of the room.

I don’t need to hear them say it. Their eyes and laughter communicate clearly enough: no Scion would ever select me.

Each night there’s a cycle: I tell myself I don’t care what they think. Then, because I’m not used to losing, frustration wells inside, spilling into my limbs and burning muscles, and I push myself to get better, train harder. Later, while William heals my wounds—three broken fingers, a broken elbow, a bruised kidney and ribs—I remember that I’m not planning to stay. That this isn’t truly my life. And the cycle begins again.

Only Whitty and Greer seem to take pity, but any kindness they show me during our sparring matches is immediately caught by our trainers, who deal out punishment to us all in the form of laps or push-ups or tire flips.

Wednesday night goes horribly.

“Sydney, you’re up. Pick the weapon.”

Sydney walks to the rack and pulls the quarterstaff. By now I know that she and Blake are in a silent battle to become Pete’s squire, so I’m not surprised she picked the staff. We’d never be friends, but after the hellboar trial she’d at least treated me with respect.

I already know Owen’s going to call my name. I feel it in my gut.

“Bree.”

At the end of the line, Vaughn’s laughter is a deep, mocking rumble.

“Can it, Schaefer,” Gill warns.

Greer uses the distraction to lean close. “You’re taller than her and have a longer reach, but she knows that and will go for the sweep.”

I nod a silent thanks and make my way to the rack. When I turn back to the ring, I see Sel slip through the open door and take a seat on a bench near the wall.

Owen lays out the rules of engagement. “A match is won when your opponent yields or when they take a step outside the line.”

We step inside the blue ring and stand in starting positions, staffs at an angle across our bodies, one grip facing down, the other up. Owen gives the signal.

Sydney whips up; I block before it hits my ribs.

She dances back. I surge forward for a strike to her shoulder. She blocks. Counters with a low swing. Wood cracks against my shin, and pain blazes up to my knees.

Satisfaction glows in her eyes. She’d been waiting for that opening, and I’d walked right into it.

I stand—her staff flies toward my neck—and duck.