“Stay out of it!” growls Beto. “This is none of your business. It’s between us and Red.” He kisses me on the forehead; his hot, wet lips feel like slugs against my skin. “Isn’t that right, little mula?”

Mula.

The pressure in my chest becomes a maelstrom. Tears leak from my eyes.

“Aw, poor Red, are you cry—”

With all my strength, I bite down on the fleshy part of his palm. Beto yelps, lurching backward as wonderful, glorious air fills my lungs.

The others are startled enough to loosen their grip. I fling myself over the side of the cot and onto the floor. I’m on my feet in an instant. “Get her!” Beto yells.

Beds creak as everyone around us wakes. I’m trapped between bunks, my back to the wall, as Beto and two ducklings approach. In the dark, they are looming shapes, like the shadow monsters from my nightmares.

Hold back, a tiny voice says. Don’t hurt them. But the maelstrom has me firmly in its grip now, and I’m helpless against it.

A shadow shoulder swings back, priming for the punch. I dodge left, grab his forearm as it sails past, use his own momentum to slam his fist into the wall.

He doubles over in pain, cradling his fist. I take the opportunity to grab the back of his head and smash his face against my swiftly rising knee. He shrieks as his nose shatters.

I lift my heel, shove it into his broken face, and send him reeling backward into the arms of his friends.

“Who’s next?” I say, advancing. I am fire. I am a thunderstorm. The remaining two shadows start to back away.

Someone grabs me from behind, squeezes my neck, pins my arms to my sides—a fourth person I didn’t notice before. The other two shadows see their opportunity and attack, fists flying.

Pain explodes in my abdomen. In my cheekbone. Everything freezes. The bunk room disappears. Instead, I see blue-stained fingers and iron ladles.

A glass heron sitting on a fireplace mantel, poised to take flight.

Distantly, I know I’m being pummeled. I should defend myself; someone taught me exactly what to do. But I’m helpless, because the blue-stained fingers are coming closer. They hold a vicious-looking quill; no, it’s a needle. I’m about to get a tattoo.

“Please,” I whisper. “Not again.”

Someone screams. Not me. The pressure against my throat lessens.

“Red!” someone yells.

The pain in my cheekbone sharpens to a brutal here and now because I am Red. I am Red Sparkle Stone of Joya d’Arena and a Royal Guard recruit, and someone is attacking me.

I raise my leg and slam my heel into my attacker’s instep, crunching bones. I whirl on him before he can recover. He reaches feebly for my neck, but I’m faster. I send the heel of my palm up into his chin. His head snaps back and his teeth crunch. He staggers, disoriented, and I fell him with a swift kick to the groin.