I take a deep breath. If I’m very fast and very lucky, I can take out one or two before a sword pierces my throat.

The guard closest to my side grunts. He topples over, a cheese knife sticking out of his back. It’s Pedrón.

Before anyone can react, Pedrón punches another guard in the face, felling him with a single blow. Aldo is swinging at me again, but Pedrón has opened up some space for me to maneuver, and I dodge, rolling out of the way.

The sword of a fallen Guard lies at my nose. I grab it, leaping to my feet.

The Guards are occupied now, for my fellow recruits have engaged them, weaponless though they are. I catch a glimpse of Iván dodging a downward stroke like someone who has practiced the move a thousand times. He dashes past his opponent’s guard, then rams an elbow into his kidney, exactly the way I did with Valentino months before. The imposter Guard drops to his knees, and Iván easily disarms him.

The rest of the crowd has pressed itself into the walls, as far away from swinging blades as they can get. Tristán and Juan-Carlos have killed their initial attackers and have leaped from the dais. Tristán holds a sword to Ariña’s throat. Juan-Carlos and Carilla crouch before the prince, ready to engage anyone who approaches.

Aldo circles me, his sword at the ready. “I know how well trained the first years really are,” he says. “But they’re outnumbered. You can’t win this fight.”

“But we can still fight this fight,” I say. “And you will still die.”

“You would never kill one of your friends,” he says, but for the first time, fear flashes in Aldo’s eyes. Fear can make adversaries even more dangerous. He advances on me.

His right shoulder lifts, and I ready my own sword to parry . . . but it’s a decoy move, meant to lure me into position.

I register my mistake a split second before a second blade, a small dagger, arcs toward my belly. I dodge, but I’m not fast enough; the tip swipes my shirt, slices it. Blood wells, and a blink later, pain screams through my abdomen.

I’m wounded but not gravely. If I had not dodged, Aldo would have carved me open.

I resist the urge to clutch my side, to keep my lifeblood from dripping to the floor, before I remember that it doesn’t matter anymore; the sorcerer is dead.

So I focus on Aldo instead, who is circling again, just out of reach. He means to wear me down, frustrate me into making another mistake.

I won’t make another mistake.

Just like Hector taught me, I feel the solid earth beneath my feet, breathe deep through my nose. My sword is an extension of my arm, which must be mighty and fast.

Aldo attacks with a flurry of swipes, but I counter them all. I am speed and light. I am power. He dances back, attacks again. I defend only, letting him bring the fight to me. He’s the one who will wear down, the one who will make a mistake.