Amaris jutted her chin slightly, arching a brow at the challenge. She remained baking in the heat, still tasting the chalky cloud of dust from her fight with Malik and the fine, powdery grime that it had scattered. She could use a water break, but rehydration would have to wait. She smiled. “And if I beat him even after you’ve worn me down, all the better I’ll be proven.”

A few annoying, fly-away pieces of hair had tugged loose from her braid during her fight, interfering with her vision. She raked her sweat-soaked strands backward, ready to spar once more.

Malik still wasn’t pleased. He crossed his arms, arguing, “Look at her! Our snowman is as red as a strawberry. It’s not a fair fight.”

Amaris knew he was right about at least one thing. Her cheeks burned as though she’d set her face on a skillet on the hot, windless day. She knew she’d need to rub tonic all over her body once she left the ring to prevent sunburn.

She waved Malik off, saying, “We’ll keep it simple. Hand-to-hand. I’ve got this.”

Odrin had been sitting off to the side, pride on his face. He shouted into the ring, “Give our little tomato-colored rabbit a chance! If she says she can do it, my money’s on Amaris.”

He’d meant it as encouragement, but her heart squeezed with emotion at his words. Odrin’s pride was as rejuvenating as it was distracting. She wouldn’t let him down. She shook the fatigue from her limbs, rolling her neck as she prepared for round two.

Ash took a few steps toward her, allowing the tension to build before entering the sandy space reserved for sparring. His red hair was fully tied up, not in a braid like Amaris’s, but in a knot on top of his head in the same fashion as Malik’s. The sweat clinging to Ash was from their morning run, and if she wasn’t mistaken, Ash’s sweat only underscored his distinct sweet smell of autumn’s dying leaves. She’d always wondered if it was a fae quality—the lure of scent—though now wasn’t the best time to ponder such attributes. She was quite confident she smelled of dirt and sweat and need of a bath.

Ash offered a foxlike grin, unable to keep the thrill from his eyes. Amaris had enjoyed the transformation of watching her sparring partner’s daily opinion grow from disappointment to appreciation, to downright competitiveness. At long last, Amaris was a formidable force.

“You sure you can take me without your sword, Ayla?”

“My feet haven’t been rooted in a long time, Ash!” she goaded. “Though I suppose imagining me as an oak tree will only make it easier for me to best you. You know as well as I do that underestimating your opponent will get you killed.”