I nodded as Rodric receded back into the darkness of the tunnel. Then, I was alone facing the wooden doors. In a few spots, you could almost see through the gouges the tigers had left.

I took a deep breath.

My mother had taught me an old sand dancer tradition; they used to sprinkle sand over their feet before every performance, asking the desert to guide their steps. I slid my sword from its scabbard and bent down and grabbed a handful of sand, releasing it over my weapon and offering up my own prayer to the desert. It was my way of keeping my mother with me, of asking her to help determine my path. And my husband.

Only two more fights until I earned her crown.

Outside, I could hear the crowd roar.

I moved my head from side to side, loosening the muscles in my neck. Then I jumped a few times, tucking my legs high up under me, making sure everything was in place and that my movements weren’t restricted. I shook the tension from my arms and wiped my sweaty palm on my tunic before gripping my sword tighter. Then, I waited.

The doors creaked open, and the sunlight blinded me. I held my sword above my head as I entered. My heart rate drowned out the crowd, and I took measured breaths as I moved forward into the arena.

My eyes immediately went to the man entering through the other door to my right. It was Lord Hamic’s son, Hardesh. He was tall. A good head taller than me, but he didn’t have the amount of muscle Rodric had. His dark sideburns were visible under his helmet. He was about twenty-five years older than me. His first wife had died some years ago, after giving birth to two daughters.

Some said he’d killed his wife when she didn’t produce a son. It was a practice whispered about in alleyways and at the wells, but never openly. Whispers that became more frequent after my father instituted a law allowing two children per family back when the drought began so we wouldn’t deplete our water resources.

Some men still clung to the old belief that a man’s strength was determined not only by his sword arm but by how many sons he had, because once only royal sons were allowed to fight in the arena against select male challengers when they turned sixteen in order to secure their right to rule. Thus, if a man had daughters, he was thought weak, that the desert wished to end his line by not giving him anyone to fight in the arena.

That changed with Tamlin. He had only daughters, but the people loved him and agreed that the desert had chosen him to rule. It was only fair to give his line a chance to continue. So when a son wasn’t born, the oldest daughter was given a chance to claim the throne—as Tamlin’s daughter Rainnina had done. She only had to beat one challenging opponent per month during her sixteenth year in order to claim the throne. But Tamlin had also insisted that if any opponent beat a royal daughter, the suitor would win the right to rule and would marry her.