“We’re the same,” she says. “We’re no different.”

I stab at her and she springs back.

“We’re nothing alike,” I tell her. “You’re a monster.”

“Am I?” she says. “Why? What makes me the monster and not you?”

“You betrayed us. Me. Malik. All of us. You, and your brother, you killed Vidhan. He was kind. He loved you. And you killed him. He didn’t deserve that. But I’ll tell you what he does deserve—vengeance.”

Mara looks at me, deadpan. “You see?” she says. “We are the same.”

Then she does something I don’t expect. She lowers her weapons.

It’s as if she’s decided to give in. Either that, or she’s resting. And because neither of these two scenarios seem possible, my senses go into high alert.

Suddenly, Mara reaches out and, with the back of her fist, slams a red button on the wall. The outside door—the one that snatched us from the water—heaves open.

A gust of wind sucks me towards it.

Mara attacks. Thrust. Cut. Parry. A lethal choreography.

And, all the while, the ship plummets to its inevitable demise.

Ra becomes an extension of me. It’s as if I was born with the sword in my hand. When I move, the sword moves. When the sword moves, I move.

We dance back and forth. Attacking. Defending. Counterattacking.

But Mara’s movements are becoming tight. I see the fatigue in her eyes. Wielding two weapons, instead of one, is exacting a toll.

You’re tired, I tell her in my head.

She stumbles. Rests on a fighting stick, tip to the ground. I’ve caught her a few blows, not many, and not with much effect, given her suit appears impregnable—but the hits have left a reminder in her skin. I can tell. She’s not unbreakable. Her swagger is leaching away. She swings weakly. Rests again, breathing hard.

“So,” she says. “You’ve learned…to fight.”

“No,” I say. “I’ve always known.”

I spin and kick her in the chest and she staggers backward.

She reaches the open door and teeters back, staring at me.

“Tell me where Malik is!” I shout over the tumult of a shrieking engine and the tortured wind. “I know he’s not dead. Tell me, and I’ll let you live.”

She glares at me and says nothing.

I bring Ra down powerfully and strike a fighting stick out of her hand. It flies into the ether. I move the sword to within an inch of her neck. “Tell me!”

“My brother!” she yells. “He’s gone to sell him!”

“He’s what?”

“Venetian Skin Traders. Pathfinders fetch a hefty price in the River Camps of Paris Nouveau. They bet on them. In the Fight Arenas!”

The wind screams, the engine thunders.

I look at her in fury, battling an urge to sink the blade into her jugular.