All eyes are on me, the failed princess. From the crowd, faintly at first, comes a chant: “Choose, choose, choose . . .”

The spear would give me reach. The dagger would complement my speed. The short sword would be a decent compromise between the two.

“Choose, choose, choose.”

I reach for the dagger. My hand freezes midair.

“Choose, choose, choose!”

I turn to Valentino, clasping my hands behind my back.

The crowd goes still.

“Recruit Red! Are you refusing to fight?” DeLuca asks.

“No, sir!”

“Then choose a weapon.”

“No, sir!”

My opponent’s mouth parts slightly, understanding dawning.

Sergeant DeLuca says, “What do you think you’re—”

Loud and clear so everyone can hear, I say, “I don’t need a weapon.”

My declaration somehow fills the space, and the other boys shift away from Valentino and me, enlarging our fighting circle. The arena is deadly quiet.

“I meant it,” Valentino says. “I won’t soften my blows. Even if you refuse a weapon.” As if to emphasize the point, he whirls the ax around, testing its weight and balance. His forearm is corded with muscle, and his ax, though wooden, is hefty enough to break my bones.

I ground my feet to the earth, feeling the warmth of the sand through my boots. I breathe deep through my nose, relax my shoulders. Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.

Someone in the crowd above us yells, “Olé, Ciénega del Sur!” Ah, that’s it. That’s where I’ve heard Valentino’s name.

“You’re the son of Conde Astón, yes?” I say aloud. “Of Ciénega del Sur.” The speaker of the chamber of condes, who so gleefully announced my failed adoption to the entire court. Valentino is his third son, and therefore in little danger of inheriting.

Valentino says, “But we leave all that behind to become Royal Guard, right?”

“Right.”

“Are you going to gossip like little girls?” DeLuca says, “Or are you going to fight?”

“You haven’t told us to begin,” I point out.

“Begin.”

Valentino moves so fast it’s a blur, slicing at a diagonal as if to cleave me from shoulder to opposite hip.

But I’m faster. A diagonal blow must be dodged at the highest point, and I barely manage it, swiveling to the side so that the ax meets air.

“Nicely done,” Valentino says, already back in place.

“You spoke true about not softening your blows,” I say. His weapon would have shattered my collarbone if it had landed. Maybe he’s trying to kill me.

He grins, casually whirling his weapon. It seems light in his hand, as if it’s made of nothing.

His shoulders reveal his next move a split second before the blow comes, and I’m already throwing my head back as the ax blade sings through the air a finger’s breadth from my nose.

I’ve been drilled in this maneuver so many times that I’m not even thinking, just reacting with muscle memory as my dodge becomes a leg sweep. I twist to the side as I fall. My hands hit the sand as my foot arcs out, crashes into Valentino’s ankles, knocks them out from under him.