Steam seeped out as my father opened each mouth, searching for the purple tongue. When he found it, he ripped it out and slurped it down. They always tasted like the razmin flowers smelled, and usually I loved eating them.

But in light of the day’s events, everything turned my stomach.

Course after course was brought out. White-tongue teaser snakes, whose own purple tongues mimicked those of the three-headed lizard to lure in prey, entwined on skewers. Dead scorpions posed with their tails aloft rested on platter after platter. Lily pad lizards, still bulbous from floating in the lagoon, steamed inside razmin leaves.

I forced myself to eat a bite of snake as I waited for my father to announce my next opponent. My mother had always served me white-tongue teaser snake when I was sick as a child. She’d said it would settle my stomach. But the snake only ended up reminding me of those stupid rumors about Cion and did nothing for the knot growing in my stomach. Still, I forced myself to swallow.

Several scales that hadn’t gotten scraped off before cooking clung to my father’s lips and shimmered in the firelight as he chomped off the midsection of a snake. He flicked the scales off his lips, and one landed on my lap. I didn’t dare move to brush it away.

Eventually, the sand dancers stopped and the traditional Achran dancers took their place. Men and women in garments the color of sand stood in a circle around one dancer—the sun dancer—dressed in a short yellow garment. A servant with a torch came forward and the sun dancer extended her hands, coated in a thick green substance. The servant lit both her hands and the tops of her feet.

As soon as the servant exited, the outer ring of dancers moved in unison around the sun dancer. They circled her with arms linked over each other’s shoulders—signifying Achrans’ unity in fighting the constant battle the sun waged against us. Then they started kicking sand, trying to be the one who put out the flames the sun dancer held.

Nobles around us were taking bets on either how many loops the dancers would make before putting out the fire or who would be the lucky dancer to put out the last flame and claim victory over the sun.

Only after a short dancer extinguished the last flame and the applause died down did my father rise from his chair.

The room went silent.

“Close the curtain,” he called.

The white sheets swung downward and swished together, blocking the entryway. My father loved this part because the anticipation was like waiting to see what was behind a chosen door in the arena. And I used to love it too.

“My daughter has faced eleven men who would claim my crown for their own,” he said. “She is ready to face her last opponent. Should this suitor be strong enough to be our next leader, he will beat her in single combat if the desert wills it.”