Cyanide sliced one of the remaining three orbs with her claws, as her own orb dropped out of view. The insects tagged the Donkamin representative. He came to stand next to her on the arena floor.

“Are you bound by Fate?” The First Scholar inquired. “This is your question. You have a hundred moments to contemplate.”

Cyanide didn’t bother with waiting for 100 moments. “Yes. That which shall be, will come to pass.”

The Donkamin twisted his neck to the side, stretching it to two feet. My stomach tried to crawl out of my body.

“We are the architects of our future. Fate is an empty concept.”

Cyanide smiled, showing her blue gums and gleaming white fangs.

“If everything is predetermined, why should one try to do anything at all?” the Donkamin candidate demanded.

“Of course, one should try. The future is unknowable, and we are blind to what’s to come. Our life is a test by which we are measured. To earn your fate, one must prove they are worthy of it.”

“There is no evidence that fate exists.”

“There is no evidence that one has a soul, and yet here we are.”

“I have no soul,” the Donkamin candidate stated.

“Then I shall not speak with you any further, soulless one. Our dialogue would be pointless.”

Cyanide turned around and went back to her seat.

Okay. That was over quick.

The First Scholar waited until everyone was seated and spread his wings. “The final two candidates may come to the floor.”

Two ramps unfurled from the Team Smiles and the Temple sections. Amphie was the first on her feet. She’d practically jumped up. A long purple gown accented with geometric white and black embroidery wrapped her figure. The color was beautiful and deep but desaturated rather than vibrant. It was less of a ball gown and more of a formal state dress befitting the spouse of a Sovereign. Her dark locks crowned her head in an artful arrangement—not a hair out of place. Black sandals decorated her feet. It was all very tasteful and dignified.

Lady Wexyn also wore purple, but hers was an unrestrained celebration of amethyst. Her translucent gown flowed at the slightest breeze, iris-purple in the center, then transitioning to a fiery rose, and finally turning an exuberant yellow. Her hair was pulled back from her face into an elaborate rose secured with a spiky golden ornament that looked like stylized sun rays. The long slit of her dress opened as she walked, giving everyone a glimpse of her tan, round thigh. A dozen anklets tinkled with tiny bells as she moved, and when the breeze swept the hem of her gown aside, I saw that she was barefoot.

They stood side by side, an elegant, somber inhabitant of a palace and the woman of light and color who would’ve been at home in a flowering meadow.