And once I finally cemented my place as the next Achran ruler, I would venture out into the desert to hunt for the Desert Boys myself. I wouldn’t be scared of the scorpions that hid in the sands. The desert would’ve chosen me, and I would show it my gratitude by ridding it of the gang of thieves that continued to bleed it dry and poison it with its presence.

I admired myself in the mirror once Latia finished. Behind me in the reflection, two dresses lay folded on a shelf. One was a thin, gauzy gown. The other was a traditional wedding dress. It was bright blue, like crystal clear water, and covered in dangling, multicolored ribbons. It was said that each ribbon represented good luck to the guest who tore it from the dress. It had been brought down on the chance I didn’t win the fight.

I had no intention of wearing it. I’d already decided that when my seventeenth birthday came next month, I would burn it. Or maybe I’d hike as far into the desert as I could and fling it away to face the same future as all my failed suitors.

Next to the dress lay one thin gold bracelet. That I wouldn’t discard. A swirling pattern that resembled dunes was embossed on its surface. It had been my mother’s engagement bracelet.

Another Achran tradition. One bracelet worn on the left arm meant a girl was engaged. If I lost, I’d have to put it on along with the dress. And after the wedding, a second bracelet would be added to the right wrist as well.

I’d kept my mother’s as it was one of the few things of hers I had, preserved for me only because mothers were supposed to pass down their engagement bracelets. But that didn’t mean I actually wanted to wear it. I’d always thought of them more as shackles than symbols of love.

Somewhere through the ages, it had also become tradition for husbands to give their wives a bracelet for each year they were married. Some of the ladies could barely lift their arms due to the weight of their bangles.

That would never be me. I’d rather be incapacitated in the arena than by jewelry.

There was only one piece of jewelry I did want. My mother’s crown.

I thought they had burned it along with her body almost ten years ago. My father had let me think that when, weeks after her death, I’d asked him for it, for another piece of my mother, because I’d wanted to wear it someday. But he’d surprised me before my first fight in the arena months ago, arriving at the gladiator prep area with the crown in his hands.

I’d gasped when I saw it. Its jagged metal peaks rose gallantly upward, sharp enough to prick a finger and strong enough to withstand almost anything. It encapsulated everything the desert was—sharp and unyielding but regal and strong—and everything I wanted to be.