‘I told you,’ Satyabhama said, spitting the bitten flesh from her mouth. ‘You have no idea.’ She grinned, her teeth pink with blood as she shook the ruined shield from her arm into the mud.

Kalyavan’s mouth opened wide in surprise as he stepped back, clutching his injured hand to his chest. And then he grinned. ‘Now we got us a fight!’

Storm cursed. Kalyavan seemed determined not only to win this but to make a show of it. To show everyone who had called him a Mlecchá that he was a warrior to be feared. He spread his arms wide, urging the crowd to cheer louder. Applause can be addictive, Storm knew.

She had bitten her nails bloody with the tension. Helplessness made her want to rip someone’s innards out. Satyabhama spun with savage speed, sword sweeping in a low cut. But Kalyavan jumped, bringing his Assyrian steel sword on the War Mistress’ neck. The ruby crowning the crosspiece glowed red, like the eye of a maddened bull. Satyabhama ducked and stepped around the blade. She kicked dirt into Kalyavan’s face. He staggered back, almost stumbling. Before he had a chance to regain his balance, she thrust at him. Kalyavan instinctively parried. Thrust, thrust, parry, slash, parry, block, block. They moved back, only to descend upon each other like vultures battling over the last piece of dead meat. And not once did the grin leave Kalyavan’s face.

MISERY hated the way Kalyavan grinned. Hated this charade. This wasn’t some comedy play. A battle was going on for fuck’s sake! Was she the only one who remembered that the Greeks had breached the Iron Curfew? The Mathurans should have used this distraction to plug the hole. Instead, everyone had joined the Greeks to gawp at the fight, as if they had sauntered in for a feast. They were all bellowing like animals in a slaughterhouse.

Meanwhile, the two warriors circled each other again, eyeing an opening, weapons thrust high, feet pawing the mud. Misery had to admit the two were good. Really good. Kalyavan was wielding a longsword, but handled it like a rapier. He laughed as he picked up his left leg to deftly dodge a low cut of Satyabhama’s sword. Misery found nothing funny about any of it.

But then she saw something. A parry from Kalyavan that was just a wee bit late. She could see Kalyavan had grown sluggish. He was still attacking, but no longer feinting. Yet he still grinned, expertly blocking Satyabhama’s thrusts. How is he so fucking confident even when he is lumbering and panting?

In that moment it hit her. The prophecy Calm had told them about in the tent. It was the source of his strength. Not in some divine-cosmic-power way, but because it made him feel invincible. She looked at the stump where her arm should have been, and then at the axe she held in the other. Satyabhama had told her once that sometimes when you believe something strongly enough, you can will it to be true. That is how Misery had become a soldier. Kalyavan was the same. His strength lay in his overconfidence. His power lay in the belief his soldiers had in him. Time to fucking shatter it.