Samson was seated before a circular array of panels but straightened as Yassen entered.
“I thought you went to see the king,” Yassen said.
Samson pulled him close.
“Be smart,” he whispered. “One false move, and we’re both done for.”
There was no time to say more. Ferma strode into the room, a shimmer of steam clinging to her gamesuit.
“Your turn,” she said.
The gamemaster closed the door of the chamber behind Yassen. Sensors locked into their dockets on his suit, and he felt a familiar twinge of electricity zip through his veins.
A laser scanned Yassen’s body as the suit cooled and expanded, testing his pressure points and reading back his vital signs. There was a soft beep as the suit squeezed his right arm. The gamemaster narrowed her eyes. She cast a glance at Yassen but said nothing. She tapped something into the screen, and the suit tightened there, adding more armor.
Within a minute, it was done. Yassen walked out and looked down. The suit felt even sleeker, akin to his own skin. Except it was unblemished and unbroken.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said a lilting voice.
Elena stood beside Ferma. Her eyes traveled over him, sizing him up and, he noted, lingering on his shoulders and chest.
“I haven’t been in a gamesuit in a while,” he responded.
“Why is that?”
“Too many memories.” He remembered how light the pulse gun had felt when his handler, Akaros, had presented it to him upon his graduation. How natural it felt to load the chamber. How cruel it all seemed now.
“All right, fighters, down into the field,” the gamemaster called out. Two doors at the far end of the room opened. Yassen gripped Samson’s elbow and squeezed.
“I think if I make one false move,I’mdone for,” he whispered and descended into the training field.
The blue lights flashed. The lotuses on the ceiling began to spin as the magnetic field thrummed to life. Ferma faced him. The suit revealed her lithe body and coiled muscles, the result of a lifetime of training, fighting, protecting. He wondered what scars the suit hid for her.
She unbound her hair, and it fell around her shoulders in long, silky strands.
Yassen knew of the power of the Yumi. Their hair was their shield, their strength. It could harden into a million sharp shards that could cut through a man. He had seen it once when pickpocketing in Rani; an off-duty Yumi soldier had caught a man trying to force himself onto a young girl. She had pierced his hands with her hair and then dragged him into Coin Square for all to see. Only then did she take him to the hospital, handcuffed.
“Fighters, ready,” the gamemaster’s voice rang out.
Ferma knelt, and Yassen did the same. The sand felt warm underneath his fingertips. He glanced up and saw Elena watching. An unspoken challenge shone in her eyes but also a curiosity. He let his gaze linger… and then the bell rang, and Ferma shot forward.
She was fast—surprisingly so. Yassen barely had enough time to move as she whipped her hair forward. The shards scraped across the sand as Yassen twisted and spun, kicking her shin. Her hair whipped around, and he fought back a yelp as it struck his foot.
He hopped back as his suit recalibrated, soothing the bruised skin and reconstructing his torn muscle. Ferma turned slowly, her hair coiling. Her tawny eyes were bright. Yassen sucked in a deep breath as she stalked forward, wishing he had a weapon as lethal as Ferma’s locks.
But then the sand hummed and shifted below his feet. Yassen lunged backward as the ground caved in, forming a pit. Ferma tried to scramble to safety, but her foot slipped; the sand began to swallow her. She growled and twisted, her hair finding purchase over the lip of the pit. As she climbed, Yassen took his opening.
When she crawled from the pit and leapt to her feet, he landed his first real blow, square on her torso. She stumbled but did not lose her balance. Her hair lanced up, black and sharp. One blade sliced Yassen on his cheek, and he felt warm blood trickle down.
Clever.
Yassen wheeled around, sweeping his leg out, but Ferma was quicker. She jumped lightly out of his reach and then rushed him. Yassen weaved in and out of her blows as sand sprayed against his face. He began to feel the rhythm of her moves, the pattern of her advances.
And so began their dance. Every time she advanced, he retreated. Every time she twisted, he shot forward. Above them, Elena, the gamemaster, and Samson watched.
Sweat beaded on his brow, but despite himself, Yassen enjoyed this. This waltz. It all came back to him now. The flush of battle. The exhilaration of landing a blow. The adrenaline pumping through his veins.
Yes, he might regret the things he’d done for the Arohassin.But nothing, he thought as Ferma spun low,nothing can beat the rush of a game.
