i

In the privacy of my dreams, I’m a warrior.

I’m still me, of course, just a tougher version of me. More valiant and fearless.

I’ve always loved those dreams, the ones in which I can wield a weapon without breaking a sweat, or cut a man’s throat without blinking an eyelash. In them, my body is honed and fine-tuned. My mind is as focused as any Canshai master of lore’s, and I, too, can move objects simply through my powers of concentration. My spirit is dogged.

No one can stop me. I am invincible.

I tried to summon those feelings now, as I lay facedown in the mud, blinking furiously against the grit blinding me, and spitting out mouthfuls of pond scum. Unsteadily, I wobbled as I rose to my feet, moving entirely too slowly, my legs trembling beneath me.

I am fierce, I tried again to convince myself, but that unblinking resolve I so desperately craved had been seriously shaken.

My weapon had disappeared somewhere in the slimy pit I had just pulled myself from, so it was only me . . . and my opponent. I needed to think quickly. I knew he wouldn’t wait long before striking again.

Staggering to my full height, which unfortunately was not nearly as impressive as his, I struggled to find any weakness in his defenses. He was both massive and armed, and, as if reading my mind, he lifted his steel blade to his forehead in a mock salute, his lips twisting into a sneer.

“Your Majesty.” His voice rumbled—a sound like thunder coming from deep inside his chest. “It seems you find yourself in a most precarious position.” His eyes narrowed as he closed the gap between us, and my heart stuttered. “Whatever shall you do?”

He lunged then, thrusting his sword toward me, the sharpened edge glinting as it sliced through the air. Fortunately, I recognized its trajectory and was able to react in time, dodging left at the very moment the blade arced right.

I felt the air ripple at my earlobe. Too near a miss.

But even as relief uncoiled in my chest, I felt my foot slide in the slick mud. I lost my balance and careened backward, falling hard once more. My breath rushed out in a painful whoosh as my spine connected with a sharp stone beneath me. My mind was still scrambled, trying to beckon my inner soldier, trying to conjure that fierceness within . . . to overlook the pain.

Warriors do not cry, I admonished myself silently. And then I dared a quick glance at his feet, which were still coming for me. He is a true soldier.

I swung my leg. It caught him right behind the ankles, hooking them, and I dragged as hard as I could, trying to sweep his feet from beneath him. My fingers clawed at the soil beneath me as I struggled against his massive weight, but I refused to surrender.

And then I felt him give. I felt him buckling above me, and he, too, was falling.

The moment he was on the ground, at the same level I was, I raised both my booted feet, my knees cocked and my thick heels aimed directly at his head. The blow could be deadly if delivered correctly. In the temple, just as I’d been taught.

I hesitated, staring into my attacker’s hard brown eyes. He’d had no qualms about hitting, kicking, pushing, and nearly stabbing me. I knew because I bore the bruises to prove it.

“What are you waiting for?” he jeered, his white teeth flashing, reminding me that he didn’t have mud in his mouth. “Finish it.”

I wanted to. I wanted to be the girl from my dreams. Tough like Brooklynn, or determined like Xander. Willing to kill if necessary.

But I wasn’t. And I couldn’t.

Sighing, I dropped my feet as I turned to roll onto my stomach so I could push myself up from the ground.

And then I froze as my numbed mind recalled the first rule of battle: Never turn your back on your opponent.

Before I could reconcile my mistake, he was on top of me. I never even heard him. He was stealthy, like a tiger. And I was at the receiving end of his claws.

The knife at my neck seemed to have materialized from nowhere, and there was a moment when my blood turned to ice as he dragged its blade along the base of my throat until its point converged with my hammering pulse.

“That’s what happens if you break rule number one,” he growled against my ear, his breath like fire. Then he withdrew his blade, shoving me back to the ground. And again, I found myself eating dirt.

“Dammit, Zafir,” I complained, getting to my already battered and bruised knees. “You knew I’d given up, there was no need to attack again.”

Zafir held out his hand, both as a gesture of submission and as a genuine attempt to help me up. I took it, but only because my back was still throbbing where the rock had jabbed me. “There’s always need for attack. Remember that.”

“I’ll never be a skilled combatant, will I?’

“No,” he stated flatly, gripping my hand and yanking me to my feet as if I weighed less than nothing.

I swayed slightly and glared at him, but kept my mouth shut. He was right, of course. I was inadequate.

I waited while he waded up to his ankles in the shallow pond to retrieve my sword—his sword, actually—and wipe it clean. Bending over, I stifled a groan as I hefted the one he’d been using from the ground where it had fallen. It weighed at least five times what mine did and had intricate carvings, not just around the hilt but continuing along the length of its curved blade. To anyone else, the carvings would appear to be gibberish.

To me, the girl who could understand all languages, they were poetic: Danii, a weapon forged of steel and blood.

I grinned over the fact that Zafir’s sword bore its own name. And that whoever had crafted his steel had lovingly engraved a message declaring not only its name but also its origin. I’d asked him about it once—about the origin of the weapon and the language engraved into its blade. He’d told me only that he wasn’t born in Ludania, and that the weapon had been an ancestral gift.