“That’s right”—I let one of his blows slide off my shield—“because no one can touch me.” I could have knocked him out with the edge of my shield right then. He’d left an opening in his defense when he’d gone for my legs, but I didn’t take it.

The whole point of the fight was to show the world what I could do, that I was a force to be reckoned with, that I was my father’s daughter, stronger than any man—strong enough to rule the desert.

I dropped into the sand and slid my sword across the cords of his sandals. They flopped away from his hairy legs, leaving his feet bare.

Hardesh hopped around in an attempt not to burn his feet.

The crowd roared with laughter.

I relaxed my stance and waited for him to regain his. What I didn’t count on was how angry I’d made him.

Hardesh bolted forward. I parried his attack, but he kept pressing onward. His sword clanged against my shield with enough force to send me stumbling backward. I dug my feet into the cooler layers of sand to keep my balance.

The crowd booed.

I didn’t have time to bring my sword up to block his next blow. I flipped my shield higher to stop his sword from biting into my thigh, but his weapon skimmed down the shield and cut into my calf. One sandal strap split in half. Blood spilled down my leg.

I gritted my teeth, refusing to cry out. Droplets of blood buried themselves in the sand at my feet. I was supposed to be untouchable. I wasn’t supposed to take any hits. Any signs of weakness in me were signs of weakness in the monarchy.

And there were no weaknesses in the monarchy.

My father’s eyes bore into my back.

Hardesh lunged for me again. I blocked his sword with mine and rammed the edge of my shield into his face. He tumbled backward, landing hard on his back. Thick blood squirted out his nose and pooled in the dirt around him. He rolled around, groaning and covering his nose with his hands, but he didn’t get up.

I aimed my sword at his throat, proving to the crowd and my father I could’ve ended his life if I’d really wanted to. Then, I yanked it away.

My chest heaved from the exertion and from my own stupidity. I resisted the urge to hurl my shield into the sand by curling my fingers so tightly around my sword hilt that my nails bit into my palm.

I sought out my father in the stands. His squat, round eyes—so unlike the almond ones I’d inherited from my mother—stared down at me. Something sinister flickered in his glare. Something I recognized all too well. I shouldn’t have let my opponent get close enough to hit me.

Back when my father had been my trainer, he’d collected dozens of fire-legged flies and locked me in an empty room inside the palace one night. He’d released the flies into the room, saying I’d only be let out when I made it through a night without any new burns. I had to be so fast, so aware of my surroundings that I was untouchable.