She advanced through the snowy cloud, her teeth gritted, blade still raised. I lifted the poisoned dagger; the thing was no longer than my palm, with no hilt to speak of. I couldn’t block with it. I threw it at her like a dart. The dim light glinted off it as she batted it away with her dagger.

Nothing. I had nothing but a humming in my bones and two empty hands. I was aware, suddenly, of how soft my flesh was, how delicate my skin.

The door burst open. Three Imperial guards charged into the room, weapons drawn.

Meraya lifted a hand. The spilled tea rose from the ground in droplets, coalescing before her.

All three guards hesitated. “Alanga” left one pair of breathless lips.

She sent globs of tea rushing at their noses and mouths. Two of the guards had the presence of mind to dodge. The third dropped her sword, choking on the liquid.

Before Meraya could regroup, the other two guards were upon her.

She pulled moisture from the air outside, tried the same trick again. But her control was unsteady and Jovis had been working with the guards. They were quicker than most and the water splashed harmlessly against their shoulders. She must have lost control of the tea she’d sent at the third guard, because the woman was pushing herself to her feet.

Meraya struck out with a foot, and one guard went shooting back, slamming into one of the teak pillars with a crack. The other two converged. They had a longer reach with their swords, and though Meraya was strong and quick, and had good aim with a throw, she didn’t seem as skilled in close combat.

A blade sliced the flesh of her left arm. She gasped, but didn’t drop her dagger. The two guards pressed her until her back was at the wall.

“Look – her wound!” one guard cried out.

Beneath the tattered shirt I could see the bleeding stopping, torn flesh closing. It was a credit to Jovis’s training that neither guard fled. “She bleeds. That’s all that matters,” the other said, pressing forward.

The rest of the fight was quick and brutal.

They took turns striking at her. She blocked haphazardly, flinging her arm out, leaving the rest of herself open. They took full advantage of her inexperience. Blood soaked her tunic; her breathing echoed from the pillars. As each new wound knit, they scored another in its place.

I wanted to tell them to stop. She was like me. But I couldn’t admit that, not in front of the guards.

And then a blade was sticking between her ribs, angling toward her heart, and another sliced at her throat.

Too late, too late.

Even then the wounds tried to knit. So they struck her again. And again. She gasped, her throat thick with blood.