A match raged within between nonchampion Deiman gladiators to warm up the crowd. Ash saw only part of their battle, two warriors hurling each other back and forth with stones.
The crowd above stomped and cheered.
Ash and her escorts reached the end of the hall as one of the Deiman fighters dropped to his knees. He lifted his hands, coated in bloodstained sand, and shouted his surrender.
Most of the crowd booed at his weakness; some cheered for the victor. Regardless, their match was ended, and an announcer’s voice cut over the throng:
“Two Kulan champions will take the ring!”
Servants scurried out from other halls and deftly set up for the fight.
Ash couldn’t breathe. This was it. Her first arena match. But she wasn’t fighting some feral stranger; it wasRook, who had always saved the best armor for Char, who had tried to make Ash a chocolate tart for her birthday one year but accidentally swapped salt for sugar. He’d been mortified, but Ash had laughed herself to tears.
Ash curled her hands into sweaty fists and stepped out of the darkness.
The arena’s stands were full. A few people milled about the stairways, searching for seats, while a vendor sold hot wine and meat on sticks. In the very center of the pit there was now a shallow brick bowl that held twigs coated with sticky-sweet ignition liquid—Ash could feel the extra intensity in the igneia—and flames crackled hungrily on the fuel. Next to it, a rack of weapons waited, knives and swords and a single shield.
With a relieved sigh, Ash took a step toward the fire, her fingers reaching out to the heat. She had igneia for this fight. She had her fire. Everything would be fine, as long as—
Rook entered the pit from the opposite tunnel.
A trumpet cut through the audience’s murmuring. Silence fell.
The final pieces of Ash’s resolve slipped through her fingers when blue flames filled a viewing box, so bright they pierced her eyes.
Ignitus materialized out of his fire, flames curling away into his oiled hair, his draping orange-and-blue tunic. The box he had chosen was so close, he’d be able to see every bead of sweat on the gladiators’ bodies, and Ash could see just as much of him, his scowling look of anticipation.
Ignitus had come to watch her fight Rook. Or to watch Rook fight her?
Terror ate up Ash’s stomach, rose into her throat. Her eyes went to Rook, who watched Ignitus. There was something off about his face—his response to what Ignitus did was usually anger, furious rage that was so beautifully Kulan it lit him up like a flame. But now Rook looked sad almost. His face was red, his eyes swollen.
What had happened?
Ash’s mind reeled, her breaths coming in tight gasps.
“Rook Akela,” an announcer bellowed, “five times great-grandson of the fire god, will fight Ash Nikau, great-granddaughter of the fire god, to progress in the war. This elimination fight begins”—the announcer paused dramatically—“now!”
Fuel and flame. I am fuel and flame.
Ash stumbled forward, her heart a brick in her chest. Her eyes stayed on Rook, expecting some hidden signal from him or a mouthed command.
Rook didn’t move, lost in staring at Ignitus. The crowd roared, cheers turning to hisses, and finally he blinked, shaking himself to life.
He and Ash met to the left of the fire bowl, the rack of weapons between them. Rook took a dagger; Ash followed, her palms sweaty, her heart beating so fast it hummed in her chest.
“What should we do?” Ash hissed. “Am I to win?”
“Fight!” the crowd demanded. “Fight!”
Ash’s grip tightened on her dagger. She couldn’t stand here having a conversation with her opponent. But Rook was staring at the sand between their feet. He hefted the dagger in one hand while his other remained tightly clenched around—was that a scroll?
“Rook,” Ash tried. She hated that her voice wavered, but, burn it all, she was terrified, shaking, and she needed him tolook at her. “Rook, what happened?”
He moved. He didn’t draw on any igneia; he just dived at her, thrusting his knife for her middle, and she parried by instinct. He swung again; she dodged. They’d sparred before, and it felt like that, the two of them dancing around each other. Each jab from Rook thundered up Ash’s arm, and she blocked most of his blows before he’d completed them.
The crowd rejoiced. Cheering, stomping, an orchestra that multiplied Ash’s anxiety and made her miss a block when Rook drove a fist into her shoulder.
She flailed back with a dull yelp, but he hadn’t struck her with his knife-wielding hand. Sweat poured down her face and matted the reed armor to her chest and legs.
