He lunges in this time. The salt spray of a cold wave over the ship’s edge drenches us, and I can barely see the flash of metal as he disguises his thrust in the water. It’s hard to follow, harder to dodge, but I drop my center and pray. Something nicks on my shoulder, a split-second feeling of fabric getting caught and then freed, and my arm gapes, exposed to the air, my tunic severed on that side.

I back up on my heels as far as I can, almost slipping. The sailor crowd undulates around me, and then pushes me back into the circle. I look down—no blood. It’s a miracle the stitching on my tunic stayed intact enough to cover my chest. I look up again at the beneather, his elegant face serious. He meant to nick me.

Ah—that’s what he wants.

Blood.

I get it now. That’s why he’s going all in, every time—because the first one to draw blood is the winner. The opposite of Cavanos rules. The antithesis of Avel, and even the Endless Bog. These are his rules. The bodyguard of the prince of Cavanos’s rules. No. Malachite’s rules.

Just Malachite.

“Fine,” I mutter, tearing the flapping, useless sleeve off. “I’ll play.”

The sailors try to grab the cloth, hooting as I flip my sword and walk in. In to Malachite. Up to him. If he wants to face me head-on, then that’s what I’ll give him. No Weeping. No tricks. Just me. Just Zera.

He doesn’t know what to do. I see it in his eyes—no one walks right at their opponent. Lunging, stabbing, angling. All those things. But not walking. I want to show him, though. What it means to ask for me. What it means to face who I am.

I grab for him, his shoulder, his wrist, whatever I can get, but he flicks his blade at me, trying to make space between us. It’s a light effort from him. But a light effort from him still hits hard. I know that, but I won’t block it with my sword. That’s not what he wants.

That’s not what I am.

I put my palm up at the last second, the blade tip catching in the meat of my hand. Bones crunching easily, the fragile ones, and a searing pain cutting canyons up my spine. But there’s still enough flesh there to stop the momentum. Malachite’s eyes widen, the widest I’ve ever seen them, and he quickly pulls the blade out. The cheering of the sailors dulls, and I let it carry my feet forward, into the beneather. Into Lucien’s bodyguard, his friend. My friend.