Latia returned with a jar of salve and dressed the wound when I emerged, wrapping it in layers of soft muslin. Then she spent several minutes rubbing thick lotion into my skin, kneading her hands across my arms and legs until the scent of coconut clouded around me. She never wiped the excess off her hands, instead discretely smearing it across her own face.

Once she finished, she wove colored ribbons—a different hue for each opponent I’d beaten—into my hair and helped me step into the white gown. It was my father’s favorite color because it got dirty so easily, which is why most people in the kingdom didn’t wear it. But after being dressed in my thick armor, it felt like I wasn’t wearing anything at all.

At least it was better than wearing the wedding dress, and now I only had one more suitor to go. But first, I had to face my father and his disappointment.

I tried not to think about that as I exited the arena.

Six guards fell in around me as we walked toward the gate that led back to the palace. No air moved in the tunnel. The fabric of my dress clung to me as I began to sweat waiting for the gate to be thrown open. I wished I had my sword strapped to my waist or a dagger laced to my leg. Going through the crowd was always worse than facing the arena. Sweaty hands clawed at me, begging for money and water. Dirt smeared across my body. Fingernails dug into my skin. Calloused hands tore out strands of hair and ribbons without discrimination. Others shouted insults and threats, as if it was my fault they didn’t have anything to drink.

And I wasn’t allowed to fight them.

They didn’t blame the real culprits—the drought, the increasing sandstorms, and the Desert Boys. No one knew how many boys existed or where they hid between raids, but they were the ones dooming my people to a life spent with sand clogging their throats and not enough water to quench their thirst. I’d heard it whispered in the palace that they could drain a well in a single visit.

That’s why the south well had been closed off for the past month and water rations dropped to two buckets a day. Yet, they still blamed me. Or, more accurately, they took out their frustration on me. But once I beat my final suitor, I wouldn’t have to spend my days training under Rodric’s watchful eyes. No, I would spend them scouring the desert for the Desert Boys’ hideout. I would find them and finally set my people free from the terror and thirst they caused.

Then they’d stop treating me like they always did when I left the arena.

One of the guards pressed in closer. “Some fight today,” he said.

I turned toward him. A pointed nose and graying hairs stuck out from under his helmet. Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed Sievers was on duty. He’d been one of my training partners when I was still learning how to fight. He was more careful with his blade than most and had pressed me to try harder without threatening to injure me if I misstepped or swung too early.