We rush each other, teeth and claws bared and searching for any inch of exposed skin. My shoulder stings from a bite I should have dodged, but the heat of the wound drives me forward like a new flame. Leaping up, I use the wall of the arena to launch with my hind legs and try to hit her with my helm, but the other lioness reads my thoughts and dodges. As I twist to meet her again, she bats her wings hard, sending dust and debris into my nose and eyes. A moment later, she slams into my back legs, and I’m knocked off-balance, tumbling into the sandy ground.

Around us, the audience cheers, flowers gripped tightly in their hands. The blossoms, blue as the uniform of warriors, will be thrown to the victor.

My opponent’s angry snarl rings loudly in my ear, spurring me to action. I jump to the side, flaring my wing, hitting her in the eyes as I do. Feathers snap and splinter in a shower of gold, and I brace myself against the ground. I shove my body weight into hers, the interlocking plates of our armor scraping shrilly against each other. She catches a bit of my wing in her jaws, and I yowl in pain—but she’s done exactly what I hoped she’d do.

Shifting my weight back onto my left side, I hook my right paw between her belly and her leg, knocking her off-balance.

The other combatant digs her teeth farther into my wing as she falls, batting her own wings so hard that we’re both lurched sideways with the force. I tighten my frame and twist quickly until my paw meets a vulnerable place at her throat.

I hold there, lifting my head to the sun, and let out a victorious roar.

A high trumpet sounds, followed by applause like rain. I back off my opponent. She shakes her head, blinking rapidly as blood continues dripping into her eye.

“Damn, I thought I had you,” the other warrior-elect says.

“You fought well,” I return, brushing my wing against hers. “I got lucky.” It’s not entirely true, but her expression brightens at my words. I’ve had more arena practice than she has, whereas she could best me in an archery tournament any day.

Across the arena, the royal pavilion is draped lavishly in gold cloth and weighty bundles of white blossoms, but neither the king nor queen are there. It had been empty all morning, so the previous fighters had told me. My heart sinks. I was hoping the king would make it in time. Instead, a warrior named Ezra—a swordsman in his early thirties who helped train the both of us—leads the formalities.

“Well done, warriors-elect,” says Ezra. “And congratulations to you, Rowan.”

“Thank you, warrior Ezra,” I reply.