It was impossibly loud inside the arena. Hundreds of voices rose and fell over each other, reminding Ember of the chattering of parrots. She tilted her head up, shading her eyes from the sun reflecting off of the hard-packed sand. The spectators sat in aisles stretched between the trees overhead, their faces obscured by distance, and the weight of their implied gazes made her skin itch.
She had visited the arena before—the first time for Roland’s debut—but it was different from the fighter’s perspective. She sat on the sidelines at the back of the 150-foot-long oval, close to the journalists, medics, and referees milling about along its rim. A cleaning crew was clearing up the remnants of the previous fight, which had left deep gauges in the white sand.
She twisted, looking at the announcer’s platform to her left. It was currently empty, but directly above was the lowermost aisle with the best view of the arena. Corax sat at its center, flanked by a dozen rankers who had come to watch the day’s fights, including Roland and Elliot. Her eyes raked over the headmaster for the umpteenth time that day: it was his first public appearance since his long absence, although Ember knew from Orthus that he had been back nearly a week. If he had sustained any injuries on his travels, he had taken care to hide them well.
“Ember?” someone called, and she turned to see Instructor Tarek approaching, his grey-feathered wings tucked close to his back. He offered her a canteen, and she took it, downing its contents in one gulp. It tasted faintly of salt.
“Thanks.”
He nodded, looking behind her at Corax. “Are you nervous because the headmaster is here? Don’t worry, it’s not unusual for him to attend debut matches.”
She looked at him sidelong, considering not replying. There was little she wouldn’t have traded to have Ophelia as her coach instead, although he had shown some cognizance by spending most of the day socializing with the other instructors instead of trying to speak with her.
“Something like that,” she said, the corner of her mouth twisting into a smile.
“How’s your condition?”
She flexed her fingers. Really, she could hardly have asked for a better day for a match—in the early afternoon just days from the official start of summer, it was the hottest it had been in recent memory, and the warmth worked its way into her muscles like a stimulant.“I’m good,” she said simply.
“Okay. I’ll be here if you need anything.”
Ember nodded, and she was saved from further conversation as the arena quieted around them; the announcer, Howler, was making his way back up to his platform. He was a primate Linnaean, easily recognizable by his flamboyant manner and his booming voice. For the day’s matches, he had worn an ill-fitting orange suit with fur sprouting from its sleeves like weeds from a potted plant.
“Go now,” Tarek said, using a wing to propel her toward the center of the arena. “Good luck.”
The announcer cleared his throat, wiping fat droplets of sweat from his brow. “Up next is our last fight of the day,” he bellowed. “Ember Whitlock’s debut match. She is a viper just out of her first year and a contender for valedictorian. You may recognize her name for her role in the recent incident with the human mercenaries, for which she has been awarded the Medal of Valor!”
There was a moment of quiet in which Ember’s stomach plummeted to her feet, and then a familiar whoop split the air—Carn’s, no doubt—and the spectators roared their approval. Something like pride swelled inside her, and a bundle of nerves loosened in her chest.
Howler attempted to wait for quiet, but the crowd had awoken, and even some of the spectators in the process of leaving had paused on the stairs. “Her opponent,” he continued, “is Cleo Belvoir, ranked 386.”
At his words, there was movement on the sidelines, where a female Linnaean with long blonde hair threw back the flap of her fighter’s tent, striding across the arena to join Ember. She was tall, with skin mostly covered by panels of yellow exoskeleton; a mouth framed by small, fang-like mouthparts; and two long appendages sprouting from the sides of her head, one of which ended in a claw. The most impressive, however, was her three-foot-long tail, capped with a barb. Her late appearance meant that her coach had been warned about Ember’s infrared sensing and wanted to avoid her gathering data before the match; a good strategy, which Ember acknowledged with a small nod.
“Cleo is a junior at university and made her debut this year,” Howler continued when the two fighters stood across from one another. “She is vice-president of Club Arachnida and is easily recognizable from her species, the yellow scorpion, better known as the deathstalker!”
Cleo raised her hand and a pincer, her mouth splitting into a smile, and the arena exploded with the crowd’s excitement.
Howler broke into an explanation of the rules, which were few: they were to avoid eye gouging, loss of limb, and crossing the boundaries of the arena. All the fighters already knew the rules well, so Ember watched Cleo as he spoke instead. It was an unfavorable matchup for Ember—vipers were not the natural predators of scorpions, and she was unaccustomed to fighting Linnaeans with highly developed mutations. Tarek had arranged the fight, claiming that her other would-be opponents had been unwilling to risk a match due to Ember’s notoriety, although she wondered privately if the Martial Eagle might be trying to slow her advancement.
It was clear from sight alone that some of Cleo’s mutations had developed poorly: the clawless pincer moved out of sync with the other, and there were gaps in some of the exoskeleton panels. Ember’s infrared flared to life, searching for more weaknesses.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
She froze. What she saw was a poor mockery of her usual precision, nearly useless blobs of color reminiscent of when she had first discovered her ability. She focused harder until a headache bloomed around her temples and she had to release her control.
She looked up to find the scorpion watching her knowingly. Her mind raced, trying to find what she had missed, and then the realization hit her like a blow to the head. Arachnids are ectotherms… cold-blooded. She had trained with reptiles, but the weather had been cooler then, so their heat signatures had stood out like those of fully warm-blooded animals. Now, when Cleo’s temperature was closer to that of their surroundings, it was impossible to tell anything distinctly.
The late appearance was simply to unsettle me before the match, then. Ember ran a hand through her hair, letting out an uneven breath. So this is the strategy of a ranker.
Howler called for the fighters to bow to each other, and Ember had no choice but to abandon her attempts at finding a weakness. “Thank you for accepting my challenge,” she said, making sure to keep her voice steady.
“Of course. May the best fighter win,” Cleo replied.
They separated, beginning to circle each other. Cleo’s tail wrapped halfway around her body, the barb poised to strike if Ember came within range. Ember knew from her research that the scorpion’s venom was her most dangerous weapon: although not fatal, it was neurotoxic and would be incapacitating.
Ember could feel the will to fight thrumming beneath her skin, though it was suppressed by the shock of her infrared failing and even more by anxiety. Her place on the Mainland Expedition—the only opportunity to get close to her father in a year—was dependent on her ability to impress Corax. Worse, she had to do it without her venom, since revealing it would expose her to the same scrutiny and obsession that her mother had faced. She could only hope that she was capable of carrying out the plan she’d shared with Mr. Ernold, unorthodox as it was, and that it would be enough to convince the crow.
She steeled herself and darted toward Cleo. It was a quick, testing move, just enough to bring her within the scorpion’s range. Seeing an opening, she struck at her stomach with a closed fist, but just as it connected the barb swung toward her at hip level. She jumped over it easily, retreating a few steps, only to jerk her torso back as the claw whipped over her head.
A gasp went up from the crowd. Ember retreated a few steps, gathering herself, but Cleo closed the distance, reaching out with her hands and claw. Ember used her forearm to knock the claw aside, but before she could counter Cleo bent at the waist as if bowing and her tail arched over her head toward Ember. She leaped sideways as the barb passed within a hair’s breadth of her cheek.
Ember watched from a half-crouch as the crowd shouted Cleo’s name. “Ember may be faster, but it looks like she is having trouble accounting for Cleo’s additional points of offense,” Howler commented. “At this rate, this match might end without her landing a blow!”
Ember cringed, although his assessment wasn’t inaccurate. Even though it took a fraction of her concentration, she activated her infrared again so she could track Cleo’s claw and tail more easily—she would have to take out at least one of them to have any chance of winning.
She approached Cleo again, throwing a combo that ended in a low kick to the thigh. It connected with a thwack, and the scorpion grimaced, her barb chasing Ember’s torso but missing as the viper twisted out of the way. Now with an opening, Ember landed a hook near her liver, feeling a panel of exoskeleton crack under her knuckles. She jumped back just as Cleo’s claw lashed out, scratching her upper arm.
Ember’s blood dripped onto the sand as the two faced each other. Howler was shouting in the background, and Cleo panted as she fought to recover from the liver shot, although she had taken less damage than Ember would have expected. She’s durable. If Ember kept trying to land quick blows and retreat it would only be a matter of time before she was caught. Luckily, she had never intended to win that way; only to familiarize herself with the exact cadence of Cleo’s attacks.
She faced the scorpion head-on, pushing closer each time Cleo countered her moves. She slipped into an opening, lowering her stance as if aiming for another body shot, and threw a punch with her left arm.
As expected, Cleo’s claw closed over her forearm in a punishing grip. Ember had positioned her arm so it would be grabbed at an area particularly dense with scales, but even so, she felt as though her bones might snap at any moment. Blessedly, Cleo did not intend to crush her, but to hold her in place. The scorpion leaned forward, still holding Ember, and the barb struck out towards her chest.
It was a terrible sight—the black-tipped tail speeding toward her, the wickedly-curved, three-inch barb gleaming as it caught the sun’s light—and for a moment Ember almost ruined her entire plan by fleeing too early. She could feel every sinew in her muscles as they tensed in anticipation, and then, as the barb came even with her head, she threw herself sideways.
She closed her legs into a tight tuck, her body rotating around where the claw still grasped her arm. She let out a gasp as it wrenched her shoulder nearly out of its socket, the skin on her arm flaying as it scraped against the serrated exoskeleton. Cleo, who had put all of her momentum into the forward motion of her sting, was unable to stop as the barb stabbed downward.
The scorpion let go of Ember as her tail slammed into the sand, but instead of fumbling, she let herself roll with the motion, clearly having trained to get back on her feet. But Ember was ready, and the instant her arm was released, she drew up her knee and clocked Cleo firmly in the chin.
The scorpion’s head snapped back, the whites of her eyes showing as she collapsed backward onto the sand. The buzz in Ember’s ears faded, replaced by the deafening cheers of the crowd. “Unbelievable!” Howler was shouting, his arms spread wide. “What advanced strategizing! An incredible debut for Ember Whitlock!!”
Ember spared a glance for Cleo, making sure that she was breathing, and then let her eyes flutter closed. When she opened them again, the medics had already reached the scorpion’s side, and she was coming to with a look of shock on her face.
With a deep breath, Ember turned her gaze toward Corax to gauge his reaction. At first, he seemed to be considering her, but then he turned as if to stand—to leave—and she was filled with cold dread. As she had feared, one win was not enough; he would surely turn her down if she asked for a place on the expedition now, when she was still low in the ranks, and there simply wasn’t time to claw her way up.
Making up her mind, Ember strode across the field toward the announcer’s stand. Howler fell silent as she approached, looking at her curiously. He met her halfway down the stairs, leaning in to hear as her voice rose above the noise of the crowd.
“You want… WHAT?” he asked in disbelief.
“To challenge someone else, sir,” she repeated, her eyes traveling toward the aisle above his head—for once not to Corax, but to someone by his side—someone she had made sure was in attendance by asking Morgan to spread the news of her debut. She pointed. “Him, sir, right there. That canine, Ryan Cox.”