Ember stood in front of Roland, feeling the familiar surge of instinct that rippled through her veins whenever she had the misfortune of seeing him. His mouth was quirked in a disdainful sneer, and a single bead of sweat tracked its way down his temple. He had obliterated his last three opponents—toying with them, at first, drawing out their skills so that Ophelia could make an accurate evaluation, and then ending them quickly and decisively.

As much as she disliked him, there was no arguing that Roland fought intelligently, finding his opponents’ weaknesses and exploiting them within seconds. He had crept up the rankings to the 330s, which was technically below Freya, but Ember had little doubt that he would soon surpass her.

“Is everything okay?” Ophelia asked, and Ember realized that she and Roland had been staring at each other for the better part of a minute. She broke away awkwardly, an embarrassed blush creeping up her neck.

“We’re natural enemies,” she said uncomfortably, just so that Ophelia wouldn’t think that there was something more intimate between them.

Roland shot Ember a foul look, and Ember rolled her eyes. Only he would be ashamed to have me as a natural enemy.

Ophelia’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Is that so?” she asked. “I should have guessed. Well, carry on, then.” Ember groaned internally. She had hoped, futility, that Ophelia might have moved her to Michael’s group instead.

After giving them another minute to prepare, the instructor clapped her spiny hands together. “Remember, Roland, you’re guiding the fight,” she reminded him. “Ready yourselves.”

Ember closed her eyes, centering her consciousness. She examined her body mentally, identifying which muscles were weary from the run and which were in top form. Rather than attempting to ignore it, she leaned into the familiar hyperawareness creeping up her neck and activated her infrared vision, watching as it flooded Roland’s body with shades of yellow and orange.

When she looked up, the raptor’s eyes were fixated on her, half glazed over by instinct. In response, the muscles around her fangs throbbed painfully.

“You may begin,” Ophelia said.

She had barely gotten out the last word when Ember darted forward, aiming her fist at Roland’s face. Her knuckles grazed his skin, but then he was gone, his powerful wings propelling him five feet into the air.

She spun around to face him as he touched down, engaging him with a combination of strikes. He responded instantly, blocking her roundhouse kick with an elbow and parrying her punches with a flick of his wrist. She kept close to his body, swinging a cutting kick at his thigh and then sidestepping as he countered, ready to snatch him from the air if he attempted to take flight again.

They exchanged another round of quick, clean blows. Ember was doing well—stable, steady, her technique crisp and nearly flawless. It would be enough; she would satisfy Ophelia and move up to the first level.

She kept a tight hold on her mind even as instinct pushed at its corners. As she blocked a front kick with her forearm, she could feel the controlled power simmering beneath the surface of Roland’s skin. She could smell his scent, warm, musky, and tinged with blood. When an opening appeared, she sent a tight jab at his face.

She froze as his fingers closed around her fist. The corners of his mouth quirked upward, looking down at her with an infuriating air of superiority. ‘Know your place,’ his eyes said as clearly as if he had spoken the words aloud. He dropped her wrist like it was filthy, allowing her to retreat.

Then, suddenly, it wasn’t enough—he was holding back as he had with the others, and she wanted to push him, to be the one responsible for shattering his carefully calculated control.

A surge of energy came from deep within Ember’s chest. She attacked relentlessly, her fists aimed at Roland’s jaw, his stomach, and his temple. He matched her, their breaths mingling as he blocked the strikes, the sound echoing across the training grounds.

It was different than any opponent she had fought before. Instinct crackled between them like electricity, and she was aware of every part of him—the talons, still unused, gleaming at the end of his slender fingers; the sharp, arrogant eyes, dissecting her; the massive wings, stretched out slightly for stability.

Ember sidestepped a hook, drawing nearer to him, and narrowed her gaze onto his. And then, she opened her mouth slightly, flashing her fangs in defiance.

The raptor’s eyes lit up with unbridled fury. His wings snapped open, casting a shadow, and beat with full force against her. Ember half-stumbled, half-flew backward, breathless with adrenaline but burning with pride.

She stood to her full height, brushing herself off. Roland was staring at her, bloodlust rolling off of him in waves. The wind from his great wings stirred up the sand particles on the floor, whipping them into a frenzied sandstorm. Even from three yards away, Ember trembled beneath the pressure of each powerful stroke.

She backed up slightly, panting for breath, and shielded her eyes against the dust. Her muscles were tense, rock-hard coils. She felt Roland more than she saw him, tasted the flavor of his anger and his fear on her tongue.

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Ember lept forward. She shut her eyes against the sandstorm, relying entirely on her infrared vision. For a moment, she could imagine that his heat signature was that of a pureblooded bird’s, and hers that of a viper.

She tore through the gale of sand and wind so quickly that the world seemed to rearrange itself around her. She was a blur against Roland’s side, her eyes springing open and fixing themselves on his face, her own bloodlust rearing its ugly head.

They clashed brutally. Ember’s bony fists found his flesh, pounding, and his talons tore at her shoulders and belly. She seized a limb, twisting it with all of her strength, but then she was thrown, hard, by one of the great wings.

They attacked with pinpoint accuracy—no energy wasted on inefficiency, and each move aimed to kill. Roland grabbed at her with all four talons, but she dove to the side one millisecond before she would have been ripped to mincemeat. As she found her footing, she became vaguely aware of the crowd that had gathered to spectate and of Ophelia, watching closely; but then there was no one else but them again, two fighters locked into a battle as ancient as the earth itself.

Blood sprayed from her chest as Roland slashed his talons across her, shredding the fabric above her collarbones. She grabbed his arm, unbalancing him, and cracked her knee across his ribcage. He let out a guttural cry, and he was on her all at once, his talons pinning her against the coarse sand.

His long fingers wrapped around her neck, choking. As the nails bit into her flesh, Ember knew that he had won—that he could rip her throat out if he wanted to. Still, she sunk her fangs into his forearm, relishing the look of pain that stained his features.

The spell broke as Ophelia pulled him off of her, admonishing him. Ember panted, gasping for breath, as Jisu and Lance rushed to her side. Something poked into her lip, and she reached inside her mouth, tugging out her needle-like right fang in a glob of blood. She was reminded of the fight in which she had lost her canine tooth, although this time, she could already feel the new fang waiting to break the surface.

Ember’s eyes found Roland’s, and her mouth broke into a painful smile. He was an utter wreck, shaking his head at Ophelia with one hand clamped over his ribs, his arm dripping blood from where Ember had bitten him.

“Are you okay?” Lance asked, his tone concerned, and Ember realized that she must look slightly deranged. She only nodded in response, unable to put her jumbled emotions into words.

Jisu thumped her on the back, looking at her knowingly, and Ember noticed that the panther was also battered. “How was your spar with Michael?” she asked.

Jisu grinned, a little cruel and catlike. “It ended in a draw.”

“Congratulations,” Ember said, not altogether unsurprised. Michael was not a ranker, but he was a skilled fighter—a level two in the advanced class—and he had fought Jisu after sparring with several of their other classmates first.

“Attention, everyone!” Ophelia commanded, and Ember looked away from her friends. “As interesting as this is, it’s time to stop gaping and continue the evaluation. Michael and I will test the rest of you ourselves.” She pointed to the students one by one, re-assigning them to a group. Ember noted with a hint of self-satisfaction how Roland stood off to one side, looking awkward and suitably chagrined.

Soon, only Ember remained in the center of the training floor. The instructor’s eyes softened, and Ember guessed that she had redeemed herself by remaining lucid in the face of her instinct. “You’ve shown me enough, for today,” Ophelia said. “We can assess your weapon proficiency once you have healed.”

Ember looked down at the wound on her chest. “It’s not deep. I can fight today.”

An odd look kindled in Ophelia’s eyes, and Ember felt certain she would refuse. Instead, she sighed, waving a hand in an expression of surrender. “Okay. You’ve already surprised me today, so I’ll trust you.”

The rest of the evaluation passed in a haze. Ember heard her voice raising in support of her friends; saw Ophelia’s brightly-colored spines flashing hypnotically as she sparred the students; and tried to look properly contrite as the medic tutted over her wounds. Once she had recovered some of her strength, she sparred with Michael, putting up a decent enough defense before being disarmed. Then, finally, Ophelia once again called for the class to gather in the center of the training floor.

The fireworm ran a hand through her hair, looking over the class as a mother hen might look over a particularly troublesome brood of ducklings. “Today’s spar yielded some unexpected results,” she began, “but first, congratulations are in order. Out of the ten students that tested, six passed, and all of you pushed yourselves beyond your limits.”

One by one, she called the successful trainees to the front, presenting them with their new stripes. As Ember had expected, Jamarquis and Lance advanced to the first level, one student earned her second stripe, and another was promoted to the advanced class.

After announcing the four names, Ophelia paused. “I was particularly impressed by two of you today,” she said. “Although Ember was defeated, she held her own against a ranker for several minutes, and Jisu reached a draw with a member of the advanced class. Both trainees also showed remarkable proficiency with their weapons. This was especially admirable considering that they joined us only two months ago.”

The class broke into agitated murmurs, and Ember shot Jisu a look of apprehension, but the panther was sitting with a straight back and a confident set to her shoulders.

Ophelia cleared her throat. “In light of this, I believe that the only course of action is to promote them both to the third and final level of the intermediate class.”

Ember’s mouth dropped open slightly, and she sat in stunned silence until Jisu’s warm hand enclosed her own, pulling her toward Ophelia.

The instructor offered them a proud smile. “Here you are,” she said, presenting them each with three black stripes.

Ember clutched the fabric in her hand as she clasped Ophelia’s forearm in a fighter’s handshake. “Thank you,” she said earnestly, “what you said really helped me.”

“That’s my job,” the fireworm laughed. She raised her voice above the noise, throwing up her arms. “That concludes the first evaluation of the year!”

Raucous yells tore from deep within the students’ throats as they celebrated. A small group crowded around Ember and Jisu, and the panther wrapped an arm around her back, supporting her. She looked at her partner’s bruised face fondly, a little light-headed but ecstatic at their victory. Although she still felt the burn of competition, she was glad that they were taking another step in their journey together.

“Come on,” the cat said, “let’s go to the infirmary.”