A glyph [https://i.imgur.com/ZLENX3y.png]

Boots on stone: Andra pricked her ears. The two men were returning. For Sam? His chest still rose and fell in the rhythm of deep sleep, his face relaxed and innocent.

The boots drew nearer and the men came into view. The same two, and they carried the iron collar which meant the pit for someone. They stopped outside her cage.

One whistled under his breath. ‘Look at them claws. Weren’t she nasty enough before?’

‘Limathael likes to play,’ said the other.

‘Creepy beggar. Gives me the creeps, anyhow.’ He rattled the handle of the iron collar across the bars of the cage. ‘Still, should make for a good fight.’

‘You think?’ The other man bent and peered at Cara. She hunched in the furthest corner, rocking. ‘This one’s about done. You know how they go, at the end? Don’t much care to live or die. No fight left.’

‘Well, that’s why. May as well get one last show out of it. Two lasker girls together, something you don’t see every day, punters’ll like that.’ He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Right, we’d better do one at a time. That one was bad enough before Limathael got his nasty little paws on it. No telling what it’s like now.’

‘No worries. I got the gas.’

Andra glanced at Cara, who hadn’t reacted. She didn’t understand human speech. Two lasker girls… So at last, here in this pit of hell beneath the earth, her hunt would end.

Andra didn’t fight the handlers as they took her to the pit. She went quietly, rapt with certainty, knowing all her long journey, all her struggles had come down to this moment, when the wrong done to her would be paid in blood.

Alone, she strode into the pit. Blood-scent hung heavy in the warm close air. Black sand crunched under her bare feet, and the crowd roared. She did not look at them, for they were not her concern. In the calm centre of her soul, she waited.

The door facing her opened and Cara stepped out. Under the bright lights, she cringed, blinking, a wraith of the girl she had once been: haggard, scarred, filthy, her eyes dead.

Andra flexed her hands. The new claws hurt her, but they were a weapon and Cara had none. But Cara too had been taken to the bad place, the place of cutting and change. What had been done to her there? What changes couldn’t be seen?

Cara raised her head. ‘Andra, please, I don’t want to fight you.’ Her voice was still the voice of the sister Andra had told stories to, the bright-eyed girl who had begged to be taken hunting. ‘Please.’

Andra growled. ‘You owe me blood.’

‘Then take it. Kill me.’

They stood facing each other, a breath apart, and Cara did not move. Humans jeered above them. They wanted to see a fight.

Do I hate her? She wanted to. Cara had killed the child, and she had cried to the skies for vengeance. She had sworn on the burning angel of her name to kill her. It would be easier if she hated.

Yet she did not. They were the same blood, the same flesh. To hate Cara was to hate herself.

Once, it had all been so clear. When she had found the small body cold in the snow, when she knew her sister’s guilt, when she set out to track her down, there had been no doubt in her, no confusion. She would find her sister, kill her, and then life’s familiar patterns could resume.

But now…

This was what humans had done to her. She was changed and she could never go back to her old life, her old self. Neither of them could ever go back. The wrongs done to her could not be undone. Only ended.

‘We fight,’ Andra said. ‘But not each other.’

‘There is no escape,’ Cara said.

‘Only one. Let us die well, sister. Together.’

Cara shuddered, but there was a spark in her eyes. She squared her shoulders.

Over their heads, the humans jeered and howled and laughed. They beat on the balcony with hands and weapons, urging action, impatient for the blood they’d paid to see.

Andra threw back her head and glared at them. In human speech she shouted: ‘You want blood?’ Some heard. Not all; they were too loud themselves. ‘You want blood? You are cowards. Dogs in the street would not shame themselves so.’

Some shouted back at her, their voices a meaningless noise, and some frowned in confusion, and some yelled for them to fight.

‘We are not a show for you,’ she yelled. ‘We are not beasts. You want fight? Come down and die.’

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Both pit doors slid open. From each emerged a man with snake tattoos. Both were armed with clubs. Moving as one, the sisters stood back to back.

‘The marked ones are changed,’ Cara hissed. ‘Watch out. They are fast, or strong.’

Andra crouched. The man facing her was taller than her, twice her weight. The red-and-green snakes on his arms rippled over thick muscles. He smiled, but his heart was pounding. She heard its urgent beat, smelt his blood hot beneath his skin.

He swung the club, a fraction too hasty. She dodged and lunged. Her new claws ripped along his arm.

She laughed. ‘Show me your blood, man. I drink it.’

From behind her came grunts and thumps, her sister’s sharp hiss of indrawn breath. The man lashed out with his club — fast, and better aimed — she caught it on her arm, and the blow numbed her.

Patient, she circled, waiting for an opening. Blood dripped from his arm. The claw wound was shallow. Next time, she must strike harder and deeper.

Cara tumbled past and sprawled on the sand, her face bloody. Her opponent raised his club to strike at her sister’s unprotected head. Andra raked her claws across his chest. Blood flew.

A blow hit her neck from behind, hard enough to kill her if she was not already turning. She kicked her man in the belly. He staggered back, lowering his club to fend off her claws.

She slashed at his neck, missed. And now there was fear in his eyes, and the joy of battle surged in her veins.

Something struck her shoulder and bounced off to fall to the sand. A knife, she realised. It lay between her and her opponent. The roar of the crowd was thunder breaking overhead. Men hung over the balcony, laughing as they dropped weapons into the pit.

Exultation surged. She snatched at the knife, but misjudged. The new claws clashed; she could not grip the haft. The club hammered down at her head. She rolled, felt the wind of it part her hair, and bounced to her feet.

Knives littered the sand. Cara had one, and slashed wildly at her opponent. He retreated, batting the knife away with his club.

Andra swiped at her opponent’s face. He flinched from her claws and swung his club at her body defensively. She danced away, grinning. She had his measure now; he was fast for a human, but not as fast as her, and strong, but not strong enough.

Her claws ripped his face open from eye to jaw. Blood spattered. His scream was lost in the shout of the crowd, and it was her they shouted for, her and her sister.

Cara cried out. She lay on her back. Her opponent hammered down with his club, smashing her upraised arm.

Andra leaped on his back. He dropped his club to wrestle with her. One hand yanked her hair, another pawed at her face. She gripped his neck with her claws.

He dropped onto his back, his full weight landing on her chest and spine, crushing her against the sand. Before she could catch her breath, he was on his feet and diving for the club.

She launched herself after him, claws scratching for his legs. He grabbed the club and lashed at her head.

Andra rolled to her feet. Sharp pain stabbed her side. A broken rib, she suspected; she’d felt something give when the man fell on her. Cara too stood. Her left arm dangled, but she was keeping the other man at bay with her knife.

Her own opponent scrambled upright. Blood streamed from his neck and arms and he swayed as he faced her. Like her, he was tired and hurt. She smiled grimly. The difference between them was that he expected to live today. She and Cara hoped only to die.

Though she would be disappointed if no humans died first.

Sa glyph [https://i.imgur.com/plK5EWM.png]

Straw tickled Sam’s nose. He lay sprawled on a hard surface, in dim light. Bars swam before his eyes. He blinked and slowly sat up.

Bars on every side, and over his head — he was in a cage. Strange. He stretched stiff limbs. His cage was one of a row, housed in what looked like an undercity corridor. In the cage facing him, a huge tawny cat glared with furious yellow eyes. The other cages were empty.

Why was he in a cage? The last thing he remembered was the ritual, a voice speaking in his head, and an unpleasant smell.

Oh. Hello. You’re awake. You’ve been asleep. Some sort of narcotic gas, but you should recover quickly now.

His mouth was dust dry. A foul taste lingered at the back of his throat, and he was stiff and sore from lying on rock. Otherwise, he felt alright, aside from the voice in his head, which wasn’t normal in his experience.

You aren’t mad.

‘Oh. Good,’ Sam said. The cat blinked at him sceptically and flicked its tufted tail. ‘But you would say that.’

Sam found the door of the cage. It was locked, of course, the mechanism beyond his reach. He shook the bars in frustration.

Do you want to leave?

‘Obviously, yes.’

Something odd happened inside his head: it felt like getting an idea, only his ideas had rarely been more complicated than ‘why not climb on the roof?’ This was more like a whole library of books — thick, complicated ones with no illustrations — unfolding into awareness, all at once.

‘Woah!’ His shout startled the big tawny cat.

Something wrong?

‘Don’t do that again.’ Sam frowned. ‘That was you, wasn’t it?’

I’m trying to help.

‘Well, could we start with something simple? Like getting out of the cage?’

Easy. Try this.

‘Oh. Is it magic, like Dad does?’ The way Dad explained things, the arcane arts always seemed dry and complicated and difficult. And this was simple. He just reached with his hand and mind—

The metal of the cage door tingled against his fingers. It felt alive; not like people and animals, but in a different way, slow and stodgy and tightly ordered. Bit like Dad, really. But it didn’t have to be so — within the stiff order, prickly little sparks of energy zipped chaotically back and forth. What looked like stillness was all busy movement, so neatly balanced that overall, nothing moved anywhere.

All one had to do was tip the balance, just a bit.

The bars of the cage exploded.

Outward, thankfully. Sam sat on the floor with his ears ringing, staring across at the big cat cowering in the furthest corner of its cage. Chunks of metal and glittering particles littered the floor between them. Fine dust hung in the air, still softly falling.

‘Oh.’ The cage had simply ceased to exist. Sam stood and dusted himself off. ‘Good. Now what?’

Up, I think.

Sam stepped into the corridor. There was only one direction to go, unless he could walk through walls.

You can if you like. It would be a shortcut.

Destroying walls seemed wrong — but on the other hand, people who locked boys in cages perhaps deserved to have their walls destroyed. The Voice liked his line of thinking; warm approval brushed his thoughts.

‘Straight up?’ Sam suggested. He wanted to see the sky. It seemed a lifetime since he’d breathed fresh air and felt the wind on his face.

Sure. Whatever you want.

‘All right.’ He touched the cage containing the big cat and blasted the door into nothingness. The cat cringed in the corner, too terrified to appreciate its sudden freedom. ‘Ready when you are.’