The brawny man nodded at the announcer. A second later, a familiar voice rang out. “On the left! Valliant fighters from the loser’s bracket, Twain and Fell! On the right! Our visiting princesses, from lands afar! Clarita Tabbel and Brittany Blodhowl!”

Brittany lifted her arms to the crowd. They howled back, clapping and cheering. Clarita gave a shy wave.

On the other side, Twain rubbed his eyes, then shook back the hairs that had escaped from his braid. Sunlight pierced through where his hair no longer shielded his eyes, and he recoiled as if from a physical blow. Pain knocked against his forehead, then the back of his head, and radiated down his spine. Damn, that hurts. He managed a haphazard smile at the crowd. “You ready, Fell?”

Fell nodded, nervous.

“Don’t worry. You stand back. The princesses ought to be honorable folk. If I go down, surrender immediately.”

“But…” Fell hesitated.

“It’s an exhibition match. No need for us to go all out.” Twain grinned and rolled out his shoulders.

“Not that a drow could beat me, anyways,” Brittany chuckled.

Twain’s shoulders tensed. He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t call me drow.”

“Ooh, does skinny boy think he can beat me? Bring it on, beanpole.”

Strength surged through Twain’s veins. Anger burned to the forefront of his mind, pushing back the headache and the hangover. He drew his sword and stepped forward. Red tinged the corners of his vision, obscuring everything but Brittany.

Brittany flourished a scimitar off her back. “Shall we dance?”

“Ready! Fight!”

Sword and scimitar met in a clash of sparks. Brittany pressed down on Twain, but he held his ground, determined. Brittany’s superhuman strength gave her the upper edge. Slowly, Twain edged backward.

No! I refuse. He gritted his teeth and slashed back.

A surge of strength burst through his arms. Startled, Brittany fell backward. “How—”

Twain followed up the blow with a flurry. Brittany’s scimitar flashed, desperately parrying. Narrow slices opened up on her forearms and shoulders. He knocked the wide blade aside and stabbed her heart.

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“Brittany!” Clarita screamed.

From the sidelines, the burly man frowned.

Brittany looked down at Twain’s blade, then back up at him. She stumbled back a step. A few drops of dark burgundy blood rolled down her jacket. A single dribble of blood dripped from the corner of her lips.

She frowned and pulled her clothes from her body, examining the cut. “Ah, damn. Another ruined jacket.”

Twain drew back his sword, ready to attack again. For just a moment, dark light shimmered around his body.

“Truce, truce. The victory’s yours. Damn, that stings.” Brittany dropped her shirt and sheathed the scimitar. Through the hole in her jacket, her wound stitched itself shut, a strand of mysterious thread dancing back and forth to shut the gash.

Twain stepped back, waiting.

Brittany stepped out of the ring. Shivering, Clarita took her place.

Snapped out of his anger, Twain lowered his sword. What was I doing just now? If Brittany wasn’t undead, that blow would have killed her! He stared at his hands and caught the faintest trace of black aura. The blight. It’s affecting my reasoning. I need to get cleansed, and quickly.

Clarita raised her finger. Tears ran down her face. “You—you killed her!”

“I’m sorry, I…” Twain shook his head.

“I’m not dead. Well, I am, but I’m fine,” Brittany called from the edge of the ring.

Clarita threw back her head and howled. Her short, soft fur grew longer and bristled at the ends. Carefully tamed mane ran wild. Her dress split open at the seams as her body swelled. Claws lengthened, and her teeth grew sharper, her stubby snout lengthening.

Oh, shit. Twain raised his sword instinctively.

A blur. Clarita slashed at him. Her paw slammed into his sword, toughened paw pads easily resisting the blade’s edge. Claws curled around the blade.

Startled, Twain jumped back. Clarita chased after him, swapping between four and two limbs. She leaped at him, mouth wide, sharp teeth glistening.

Twain’s vision sharpened. Every shift of Clarita’s fur, every twitch of her snarl, lit up in clear, perfect imagery. She slowed in midair, drawing almost to a halt. He drew his sword back and hammered the pommel into the side of her snout.

Her head snapped to the side. Spittle showered over the ground. Clarita fell heavily to the ground, digging a furrow in the sand. She jumped back to her feet. Wild eyes burned red, enraged. A low growl escaped her throat. On all fours, she circled him at a distance, head low, ears swept forward, watching.

Twain turned with her, but only for a step. In the gap between one pace and the next, he lunged at Clarita. His sword swept for her neck, a half-moon of steel in the air.

Clarita jumped back, but too late. His sword bit into her mane.

No! Stop! Twain tried to stop his blow, but momentum carried his arm. He twisted his hand, desperately angling the flat toward Clarita’s neck.

His arm twitched, refusing to obey. Another force poured strength into his limbs and forced him onward, toward her jugular. Blood!

Steel met steel. Brittany glared at him, scimitar struggling to catch his. “That’s enough.”

Twain snapped back to reality. Disgusted at himself, he swept his ears back, tips drooping. He nodded at her and backed away, sheathing his sword. I can’t control myself. I ought to concede.

“Victory, Twain and Fell!”

He spun to face the announcer. “I concede!”