Page 61 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

I take this as a no. He raises his free hand and unleashes a gout of flame, Myrkai power washing over me. My armor flares, but it’s mild compared to the concentrated heat he can deliver up close, a distraction rather than an attack. I charge, swinging left to get out of the blast, and he turns to meet me shield first. I lash out with one blade, then the other, Melos power leaving blackened streaks on the metal and notches in the rim. When he tries to counter, open hand darting forward full of white-hot flame, I step back and slash down, and he has to retreat to avoid losing his fingers.

For long seconds, we dance like this, my blades hacking at his interposed shield, him trying to get a hand on me without getting it chopped off. His power may be vicious, but it means he lacks reach, and we’re briefly at a stalemate. I become aware, for the first time, of the sound of the crowd, a vast, ocean-like roar of cheers, screams, and curses. As we circle, the officers come into view, the Butcher watching with a sneer, Zarun regarding us calmly over folded hands.

Ahdron backpedals, pelting me with small bursts of fire, hoping to wear me down. I bull through them, trusting my armor. Between the washes of fire and smoke, I watch him. I watch his feet, the way he drags his leg, and when the time is right I lunge.

He takes one strike on his battered shield, but I aim the other low, and he has to give ground. But he’s off balance, and when he puts his weight on his bad leg it folds. He goes down hard, shield ringing against the metal of the deck, and he’s wide open.

Step forward, reach down, thrust, and twist. The easiest thing in the world. I’ve already begun the motion when something catches my eye, movement in the stands, a familiar face forcing her way to the edge of the ring. Meroe.

Berun is beside her, but in that instant all I can see are Meroe’s eyes, wide as a cat’s at night. I hear her voice in my head.

“You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

“What?”

“Killed people.”

I see Shiro’s face. The girl who’d been unlucky enough to be in Firello’s when I came calling, begging through her tears. Hagan’s last look at me, his trust.

I see myself through Meroe’s eyes. Monster.

I don’t pause for long, but it’s long enough. Ahdron fights through and lets loose with another blast of flame, blinding heat raging all around me. I have to back away, gasping for breath, the pain from my armor rising to bone-deep agony. I can’t keep this up much longer.

“Surrender,” I manage. Now I’m the one gritting my teeth.

Ahdron, somehow, is getting back to his feet. Blood drenches his calf, and he’s limping, but he’s still up. He can see me weakening.

“Go rot,” he says.

The crowd is screaming, and my armor crackles and sparks. Through it all, I hear her calling my name.

“Isoka!” Meroe’s voice is hoarse. “Isoka!”

I lock eyes with Ahdron.

So I’m a rotting monster. It’s not like I didn’t know that already.

I come at him again, as his hand blazes white fire. A descending slash with my right-hand blade and he raises his shield to meet it. I bring the other blade around, and he twists to intercept that, too—

—and I let the blade vanish. I grab the jagged rim of his shield, green lightning shimmering and crawling as my armor touches the metal. I pull, hard, and he takes a stumbling half step forward, hopping on his good leg. Too close. I shift left, inside his guard, and as he tries to lean back and get his shield between us I bring the other blade up, an underhand blow that punches the spike of Melos power into his ribs. Then I spin away, fast and smooth, because he’s still flailing with his white-hot palm.

Ahdron stays on his feet for a couple of breaths, weaving like a drunk. His eyes find mine again, and there’s nothing in them but bewildered pain, as though he doesn’t understand how this happened. Then he coughs, and blood coats his teeth and dribbles down his chin. He falls, first to his knees and then facedown on the deck, and goes still.

I take another step back, letting my armor fade, the air wonderfully cool on my superheated skin. My breath is ragged, and my side feels like it’s been shredded, but I manage to turn to face the officers’ box. I can’t find Meroe in the crowd anymore.

The rage on the Butcher’s face is easy to see. The Imperial girl smiles and licks her lips, as though she’s seen something appetizing. The big warrior, who’d spoken to start the duel, gets to his feet.

“Isoka Deepwalker. Your challenge has been witnessed.” He nods, gravely. “Pack Nine is yours.”

For once, I manage to stay on my feet after a fight, though it’s a near-run thing.

Whatever custom kept the crowd out of the Ring while the fight was in progress apparently doesn’t apply once it’s over, because the spectators vault the wall and crowd around. The air is full of excited shouting in a dozen languages, young crew in the outfits of the officers’ clades mixing with scavengers and civilians. Objects were changing hands—bits of dyed crab shell, collected on long strings. Money, I realize, or what passes for it here. Of course they were betting on my life or death.

A group of younger girls pushes their way through the crowd to Ahdron’s body. Once they lift it, people make way for them. His blood patters to the deck as they bear him away, and one arm dangles limply. I wonder what they’ll do with him.

“Isoka!”

I have only a moment to brace before Meroe is on top of me, wrapping her arms around me and pulling me close. I feel hypersensitive, as though every nerve in my body had been scraped raw. There’s pain from my burns, the dull ache of exhaustion in my muscles, the twinges from old bruises. The slam of my heart against my ribs, slowing down from its galloping pace, and the rasp of breath in my lungs. Meroe, pressed tight to me, the frizz of her hair on my chin, the shape of her body against my own. The smell of blood, sweat, and burnt flesh.