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Ryn turned to go, ignoring Heva’s scowl from her seat. The feasting cave was packed now, almost every table full of prisoners eating. A pile of rice was on the floor beside a dropped bowl, and three prisoners were on the ground grabbing fistfuls of it.

“What’s your name?”

Ryn paused, her toes digging into the cold rock. She didn’t turn back even though the only person close enough to ask was the young man with the ribbon. But she hadn’t given him her rice to make an ally. There were no allies in this place.

And she wasn’t sure what name to give him. She wasn’t pretending anymore.

“Ryn!” Heva shouted at her, and Ryn’s gaze darted up to where Heva was abandoning their table to four ravenous prisoners shoving their way in with their elbows up. Heva signalled toward a bench at the back of the cave just as she got swallowed into the crowd and cut off from Ryn’s view.

Ryn. Short for Estheryn.

Estheryn Electus. A Weylin name.

“My name is Adassah,” she told the young man without turning to face him. She didn’t wait for him to give his name in return; she headed through the hoard of sweaty bodies in thin prison clothes until she reached the bench where Heva already sat leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. The former guardswoman stared hard around the domed room like she was studying faces and builds.

“Remember the things I taught you,” she said below her breath when Ryn sat down beside her. “Even the bit of training you had in the palace will be useful in the Fall Order.”

“Why does it matter if we win? Shouldn’t we lose right away to avoid fighting and getting hurt?” Ryn folded her arms and leaned back against the wall. Jagged stone dug into her shoulders.

Heva shook her head. “No, Ryn. We do not want to lose the Fall Order.” She wrung her hands together, showing her dirty nails nearly black in places. Then she tapped her foot against the floor.

Ryn raised a brow. Heva had barely even taught her how to swordfight, and it wasn’t like Ryn could do that here anyway. “What difference does it make? We’re all going to war regardless of who wins.”

Heva pulled her hard gaze off the room and settled it on Ryn, eyes partially obstructed by a tangle of hair. “The winner of the Fall Order will lead the burn division,” she said. “So, if one of those thugs from cave five wins, and we go out to the desert and are told to go drown ourselves in sinking sand to distract the enemy, we’ll have to do it, or we’ll be killed on the spot.” The stretched collar of her once-white shirt slid off her shoulder when she sat up straight. “Get it? One of us needs to win.” She pointed between herself and Ryn.

Ryn searched for the men from cave five as that sunk in. She’d seen them do enough horrible things to want to avoid them down here. She imagined one of them forcing Heva into quicksand.

Heva didn’t deserve that sort of end. But maybe Ryn did.

“I can’t do it, Heva,” Ryn said. It came out quiet—an apology. “I can’t fight.” She’d lost the ability to cry months ago, but dry heat stung behind her eyes. She couldn’t imagine raising her fists to defend herself, of fighting so desperately for a life that had ended up like this. Sure, she could have fought for Heva—but Heva could fight for herself.

Heva slapped her leg.

“Ow!” Ryn rubbed her knee and glared.

“Snap out of it or you’ll be beaten to a pulp the second you face your first opponent!” Heva scolded. She sniffed, then went back to sizing up inmates, biting her thumb nail and fiddling with her silver ring.

Ryn folded her arms and said nothing else for the rest of the breakfast hour.

A quick census was taken, and a large board was hung over the mouth of the cave with slots for wooden name cards. Tables were pushed aside, the rice was cleaned up, and a black circle was painted over the uneven floor, transforming the feasting cave into a torchlit fighting ring. Ryn watched in revulsion as the first pair of prisoners leapt at each other, breaking noses, pulling hair… It didn’t take long for the rest of the prisoners to get involved; cheering, shouting advice, spitting threats. Blue armoured soldiers had to hold them back.

The match was called when the larger man tossed the smaller one out of the circle. From her spot in the shadow of an inmate, Ryn watched a soldier head to the board and slide the winner’s name card into a new row of slots.

“Let’s try one further down the list,” a soldier with pink scars on his knuckles decided as he dragged a finger over the remaining cards. His finger stopped on one, and Ryn’s abdomen flinched. “Where are Adassah and Faro?”

“Divinities,” Heva cursed as she folded her arms at Ryn’s side. “Why couldn’t they just go in order?”

A young man with crooked front teeth stepped timidly into the black circle, brushing his brown hair away from his wide eyes as they darted around, waiting for his opponent to show themself. “By the Divinities,” Ryn cursed too. He was the same young man she gave her rice to earlier—the one with the red ribbon. His gaze slid over the crowd until it found her, and it was then Ryn remembered she’d told him her name.

He probably regretted asking for it now.

Before Heva could offer unsolicited advice, Ryn pushed her way through the inmates to the circle. She stepped on the ring of fresh paint, leaving black footprints as she entered. The young man—Faro—was tall, but he was almost as thin as Ryn. She scratched the back of her head, trying to remember Heva’s training, but everything was a blur now. From a part of her life she tried not to remember.

Faro crouched into a defensive position. Ryn mimicked him, a dizzy spell making her lashes flutter, and for the first time, she wished she’d eaten more rice when Heva had tried to force feed her. She shook her head, focusing on the fresh colours of the Per-Siana soldiers around the circle, the orange-flamed torches above, and the murmurs of nervous inmates.

A youthful soldier appeared at the circle's edge, his cape's navy hem hovering just above the paint line. He tilted his head with drawn brows. When he frowned, a small crescent-shaped scar appeared on his chin, white against a sun-treated face. He didn't spare Faro a glance; his light coppery gaze pegged Ryn where she stood as he lifted a small, embellished gold flute on a braided chain at his neck. He brought it to his lips and made a short, piercing note that cut through the silence.

A hundred voices all lifted through the cave as Faro leapt, grabbed Ryn, and tackled her to the ground. Breath left Ryn’s lungs when her back hit the stone floor, and she gritted her teeth, her senses rushing back as she pulled the one maneuver she could remember, wrapping her leg around Faro’s and flipping him onto his back. Dizziness returned with a vengeance at the motion—she didn’t see Faro’s knee charging her stomach until it threw her thin body backward over the floor toward the edge of the circle.