With a sigh of dread, I head for the dorm lavatory. As I step in, I look up, meeting my own gaze in the mirror above the lavatory sinks—and freeze in shock.
The woman looking back at me is more alien than ever before. And she’s… gorgeous.
Luminous olive skin. Wide hazel eyes shadowed with shimmering purple. Long, thick lashes. Full, wine-red lips. The purple dress hugs every line of my body with sensual grace, turning sturdy to elegant. Athletic to erotic.
Gone is the rugged street fighter from the slums. In her place is a powerful, elegant woman who looks like she can seduce a man as easily as beat him down.
And somehow, the jewel in the crown of this impossibly feminine vision is all that silver-white hair. The twins have pinned some of it up in an effortless chignon, but the rest cascades around my shoulders like curls of living ice, framing my face in a way that softens the features I’ve always thought were coarse.
I’ve become a stranger to myself.
The lavatory door bangs open and jolts me out of my dazed self-contemplation. Izabel and Venna enter, dressed in matching slinky, low-cut navy blue gowns. They smile at me and begin making themselves up in the mirror.
Something inside me instantly shrinks when I see our reflections side-by-side.
Despite the transformation, it’s clear that we’re not the same. Their refined, willowy frames tower over me, practicallyscreamingelegance and sophistication. Their faces are twin visions of delicate beauty, utterly antithetical to my own.
And they’re not the only ones. Every woman among the Bonded has that same air of elegance. That same graceful,willowy perfection. Even made up like this, I look coarse beside them—my frame much denser, my hips and shoulders wider, my muscles heavier.
The sense of not belonging returns in full force.
Beside these children of the Bonded, I look like exactly what I am.
Defective.
And if it will keep me protected tonight, well that’s just fine with me.
By the timewe arrive at the courtyard outside the arena, it’s near sunset and the air has a biting chill.
It’s a struggle not to gape at the enormous, impossible structure carved into the side of the mountain above us. Its vast, domed ceiling is supported by countless stone pillars and guarded by huge, elaborate carvings that stare down at us with unnerving intensity: direwolves and their riders poised for battle.
I’m relieved to see that the looming building is fully enclosed. At least it’ll be warm.
My fellow Rawbonds seem unmoved by the imposing architecture. Each pack is here with their leaders, standing in separate groups along the path leading up to the arena, waiting for the signal to enter. They look like a flock of young royals ready for a gala.
Even Stark is dressed up in a shining black suit. I try not to let my gaze linger on the way it clings to his powerful arms.
There’s a lot of hushed chatter and last-minute fussing with clothes and hair. The air is thick with anticipation.
Meanwhile, I feel even more like a walking mistake than I did before. Everyone keepslookingat me. Sidelong glances, blatant shock, consternation. Even anger, as though my appearance is some kind of affront.
It’s like I’m more naked in this stupid dress than I was in the baths when they were all ignoring me.
Suddenly, a familiar commanding voice rises from somewhere at the front of the path.
“Alright, everyone line up, two by two! It’s almost time!” I see Egith’s arm wave above the crowd as everyone moves to obey. “Hurry up, now! Nice and orderly!”
The packs begin to melt together as we fall in line. Izabel and Venna pair up behind me. Two more women pair up in front. In a moment, we’re all neatly in line—and of course, I’m the only one standing alone.
Egith paces by, checking us over. She pauses when she sees me and her lips compress, but she says nothing. Seconds later, she’s back at the arena entrance calling, “Best behavior, Rawbonds! The king will be watching!”
That sentence has new meaning, I think, as the hair rises along my arms.
My heart is in my throat as the big doors creak open and a rush of warm, heavily scented air washes over us. It brings the sounds of hundreds of high-born people waiting in the stands—a low, oddly decorous buzzing of many voices.
Nothing like the wild roar of the onlookers at my fights back home, despite the much larger crowd.
A small portion of the stands is visible through the doorway as the line moves forward. Rows upon rows of nobles in suits and glittering dresses, dressed notably more modestly than us Rawbonds. The sick twisting in my stomach is back at the obvious class distinctions. We’re here for their amusement.
