When she stepped into the ring, it was as though she was in the breeding farm again, only this time, they wouldn't eat her. They wanted entertainment. They wanted their primitive instincts sated by watching someone else get bashed around.

She spotted the weapons rack to her right. Various blades glinted against the hooks they hung from. A slab of wood held them in place. Her fingers itched for either the ancient knife hidden among her meager possessions or the huurshe dagger she won. It was too risky to wave it anywhere in Berheqt, so she chucked it under the bushes.

She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. Choose one. Anything. Her fingers snatched the only knife from the pile. It was lighter and flimsier than the ones she owned, but it would do. She didn't need long to bring a demon to its knees.

Then, hisses rose to a raucous cacophony when metal creaked and hinges whined. On the stadium's opposite opening, a gate swung open to reveal a gold-collared warrior stepping towards the sandy pit. It raised its spear to the sky, and the fizzing amplified.

The warrior turned to her. Its slitted irises trained to the small blade glinting on her hands. Mayaware features were as expressive as a block of ice, but she sensed a smug smirk flashing through its narrow eyes. The nerve.

She scanned the audience. Unlike the poison trial, the royals weren't here. The generals were complete, though. Along with Kharta. The latter watched her like a hawk, while the former, like a vulture searching for a carcass. She tore her gaze from the sea of beige, sienna, onyx, and ecru. Instead, she focused on the demon marching towards her.

Tall. Muscular. It didn't resemble the scrawny lizards she dealt with in the desert. This one appeared as though it trained all its life for a chance to step inside the arena. She dropped into a stance, running her eyes up and down, searching for a weakness. Something.

A flash of silver hurtled towards her before she finished. She ducked and whipped aside, slicing wide with her knife. The blade's tip caught flesh. It wasn't sharp enough to cut. The demon hasn't brought out its scales yet either.

She gritted her teeth and stumbled back, away from the influence of the spear tip the warrior carried. It was fast. Flexible. Thought on its feet. Just like her. In terms of guile, she must see how it held up.

She dashed forward, her blade poised left. The warrior met her, skewing its spear at an angle to pierce through her had she not seen through it. At her last step, she pivoted to the right; the sand crunched underneath her soles. Then, she closed the distance and lashed out. Her knee slammed into the fleshy bulk of the warrior's side.

Pain shot up her limb, jarring her to leap back. She leaned aside to avoid the spear, letting it thunk on the ground behind her head. She lashed out, wrapped her fingers around the spear's shaft, and slammed her knife against it. Wood thwacked. Splinters rained. She flipped back before the extended claws caught her hair or her neck.

Her sandals skidded across the sand, digging trenches over the shifting surface. She stopped herself in time before darting to the side as the warrior yanked his spear from the ground and chucked it at her. Darpeh. It has good aim. She'd give it that.

The audience and the sense of its presence faded. All that mattered was this warrior and how to decapitate it without the huurshe blade. Onyx smoke zipped to her periphery. She reached out, and her fingers wrapped around a scaled arm. Using its momentum against it, she let the claws scratch the underside of her arm so she could stick her elbow backwards and for its face to slam straight into the sharp point.

The demon hissed. She grabbed one of its frills from behind and spun. Her knife sailed over her head as she stabbed down. Blood sprayed in the air. Dark as midnight. Smoke wrapped around her hand as she stumbled back and barely avoided the demon's fangs.

Crunching noises rippled from the demon's frills as it staggered up. The gaping and bleeding hole she tore through its scales closed up. She snarled and dropped into a stance. Again. This was troublesome. The desert vermin she killed didn't really die—she knew that—but they didn't heal this fast either.

The High King was smart. By conducting this trial, he aw who could withstand the worst kind of torture, both to his warriors and the bride who would bear the High Prince's heir. Devious. Clever.

Demonic.

He certainly gained her respect. But it was the only thing she would give the old scale bag.

The warrior retreated to the weapons rack and grabbed a replacement for its broken spear. A sickle-shaped blade glinted against the orange tint of the torches. It was an insult to the day they captured Pai and Unsu. There were demons who wielded curved blades. There were some out for her blood.

They'd get her blood, but they must suck it dry from her cold, dead body. With a guttural scream, she dashed forward, honing her senses to the demon's feet. She ducked low, aimed down, and crashed into the sickle's straight edge. Embers sparked. Her knife shrieked against the curved blade.

Her teeth ground as she pushed the hostile blade back with both hands. If she gave up here, the curved tip would stab her through the brain. The warrior only had to pull, and her guts would spill and stain the floor. Not a chance.

Not a chance.

She groaned and shoved against the stabbing pain on her muscles. Harder. Not enough. Her hands shook, and it wasn't from the alcohol she drank the night before. No. The warrior was stronger than her, bearing down on her with hundreds of pounds overhead. She wouldn't win if she continued like this.

She twisted her knife, just to get the sickle tip away from her forehead. Then, she let herself fall back. The demon's applied force, without another to push back, sent it toppling forward, right into her waiting blade. The knife sank into flesh. Heat coated her fingers. Not yet.

She pulled the knife out before ink slicked her hands. With another wild scream, she hooked her leg around the demon's knee and stabbed. As many times as she could. At any point she found. The demon wailed, its forked tongue whizzing. Its frills folded and fanned in disarray; its slitted eyes dilated and constricted with every wave of pain she struck it.

Then, she raised her arm to deliver her signature bash to the side of the head. A blur of black and silver rushed towards her. Too late. Tons of rock slammed into her, dislodging more than the bones in her arm. Blood gushed out from her throat and painted the ground when she choked out a gasp. She stumbled back, covering her mouth with the back of her hand with the knife still enclosed in it.

The warrior writhed on the ground as the wounds she inflicted healed. A rattling tail shook from its backside, hovering like another head without sight. She moved her arm, and a shot of pain raced up to her neck and temples. Great. Now, she has a useless limb, hanging from her side like a sack of gurep root.

The demon got her. And it got her good.

She flexed her grip and turned the dagger's sharp side towards the enemy. She should finish this. That was, if there was an end in sight. Maybe if she rendered the demon unconscious. Or if she killed it without huurshe. Whatever the case, she needed the generals or Kharta to call off the duel and announce a winner. And they must do it soon. Otherwise, she would not last.

Her vision blinked in and out of existence. Black spots danced in it. Her arm felt as though she carried a thousand gallons of water—ones she couldn't let go of. When she straightened, her legs swayed. Not now.

Not like this.

Hesi Renen wouldn't end like this.

The demon finished healing all but one wound, the one Hesi inflicted in its shin. It trailed black blood when the warrior lunged at her again. That was when it clicked. Wounds to the torso would be easier to heal. It was where a demon was strongest. No matter what type of demon it was, they were unsteady on their feet.

So, she ducked low and slashed at the demon's legs. Again. And again. And again. Claws scratched and screeched against her skin, sending bright red blood streaking across the insultingly blue sky and drizzling over the sandy floor. She spun, sidestepped, and used the demon's strength against it. Her knife flashed silver against the amber light, finding more nicks in an armor deemed impenetrable.

A shadow loomed over her, forcing her backwards. Her back hit the sand. A set of claws thumped into the sand beside her head. She rolled aside, swinging her leg. Her heel caught the demon's ankles. Something cracked. Maybe it was her bones shattering. An onyx lump crashed to the ground. Black mixed with red as she clambered over the demon and jammed her knife straight into the side of its head. Right into the spot between the head and the frills' scales.

The demon jerked once. Twice. She scurried backwards before its tail slammed into her again. She eyed the shadows bleeding from the wounds she inflicted. The dagger's hilt was dark and mute against the air's orange tint. The demon's wounds oscillated between tearing open and stitching themselves shut. Her opponent writhed, scaled hands clawing at the small splinter stuck at the side of its head. It was a normal knife, but it sent the demon's system haywire.

She cracked a grin. She, herself, was battered beyond recognition, with a broken arm and tons of bruises and scratches to boot, but it was better than being dead. It was better than masquerading as a snack for the audience's palate.

She raised her head to the table populated by Kharta and the generals. Festophis' eyes glinted against the torches, burning as bright. He raised a hand. The match was over.

Hesi Renen lived.