Sydney, in an orange tunic, smiles back and struts to the ring. I’d never seen the Line of Bors’s sigil up close—three bands across a circle. She doesn’t seem to be at all concerned about the outcome of our fight. I shake my shoulders to loosen them up, and force the fingers of my right hand to stretch wide before grasping the handle of the rubber dagger. Sydney and I take our stances: balanced over bent knees, body and vital organs behind the knife, blade up and forward in a hammer grip.

Gillian signals the start.

We dance—Sydney attacking, me dodging—long enough for sweat to build on our brows. I manage to avoid every attack, but I only get in one of my own: a swipe that she blocks, with effort. She lunges underneath our elbows, and I leap back—only to hear a whistle.

“Out of bounds, Matthews. Round to Page Hall.” Gillian claps. Match over.

Damnit!

I’m angry about losing to a simple misstep, but the fury in Sydney’s eyes almost makes up for it. She’d never expected me to last even that long in a match and, from the looks on a few of the others’ faces—including Gillian’s—neither had anyone else.

When I take the bench, Nick and I lock eyes. He wiggles his shoulders as if to say, Shake it off.

I get one round to rest before my next match. Had Vaughn’s dagger been real, Greer would have been fully disemboweled.

When Gillian calls his name, Blake stands. He flexes his broad shoulders, pulling against his tunic, the dark yellow of Owain. Then she calls mine.

Right away Blake presses his advantages—strength and height—with a powerful overhead strike. I block, but it’s clear that if we stay on his terms, the win will be about sheer force more than speed or fancy footwork.

I’m faster than he is. I know I am.

I have to keep moving.

His arm and weapon rain down again and again, each crack echoing in my ears like a thunderclap. Every block sends a teeth-jarring reverberation into my elbows. Three minutes in, my thighs burn. Countering him takes every muscle in my body just to remain upright.

“Everyone leaves an opening. Find it, then throw everything into it.”

Blake pauses to pace around the ring. “Give up, Matthews.” I’ve been up close and personal to Sel’s snarl; Blake’s watered-down version would make me laugh if my lungs weren’t on fire. Our breaths come in hard, labored pants. “You can’t block forever.”

He lunges.

I snap my staff up longways to block his two-handed midbody strike, but it takes everything I have to keep the weapon in my shaking hands. My fingers spasm around the wood, barely keeping it in a grip.

He retreats.