He tried to scramble up, knees bleeding from the impact with the rocky ground, but a foot hit the center of his back and sent him crashing down, face into the gravel, hands splayed beneath him in an attempt to break the fall. He spat into the dust and tried to push himself up, but the weight of the man on top of him was too great. Like a bug under a pin, he writhed, refusing to be quiet even in defeat. He shrieked every curse he could recall, and when those failed he made his own, cursing their fates, their mothers, their every conceivable relatives, kicking out with his feet despite the pain it brought until someone sat on his legs. He fell silent only when a scrap of musty cloth was forced between his teeth and tied so tightly that it made closing his lips difficult.

They pulled his arms behind his back and bound his wrists. Then, they hauled him to his knees. There were two of them, both men with the familiar blue ink of mercenaries tattooed on the sides of their shaved heads. They had enough bars marked to lessen Rook’s humiliation at being caught by them; even so, the shame of it burned in his belly. In the fighting pits, he could have taken both and likely won; he’d killed men their size before. But out in the open air, the playing field was less even, literally so in the case of Nomoska’s more mountainous regions, and he’d forgotten how deadly accurate the aim of a Nomoskan archer could be even in the woods. It was a stupid mistake, and he hated himself for making it.

One man, the one who’d brought him down, grabbed the collar of his thin tunic and twisted it, baring his shoulder and tearing the fabric in the process. The man smiled, pleased, when he saw the coiled snake branded there. “Pit-viper. You were right, Bara.”

“The brand is old,” said Bara, the archer who’d sunk the bolt into Rook’s thigh. He leaned over and caught a fistful of Rook’s tangled hair, tugging his head sideways. Rook glowered up at him with all the malice he could muster. “Look at that. His left ear’s almost gone. Might be enough to identify him. The way he kicks, I’m sure his owners are eager to have him returned.”

His panic must have shown on his face, because the men laughed. They didn’t care what Amren would do to him for escaping alongside the arena’s best fighter. The mercenary guild cared only for the coin on his head, and the brand burned into Rook’s shoulder promised them a great deal of it. The going rate for escaped pit vipers was at least ninety dromos, by his last count. Rook was sure Amren would pay it, if only for the satisfaction of beating Rook down to a husk before letting him fight out his remaining days.

Well, he’d die before he went back to that.

Biting down on the gag, Rook snapped his head up, aiming for Bara’s nose. He connected with a wet crunch and Bara jerked back, howling as blood covered his lips, while Rook twisted and slammed his full weight into the second mercenary’s legs. Rook was half the man’s size, but the surprise of it, combined with the point of impact, caused the man’s left knee to give. He staggered, thrown off balance. Rook used the moment to spring up and sprint towards the cliff-edge he knew hung only a dozen or so paces beyond. Loose rocks shifted beneath his feet. He struggled to stay up, unable to use his bound hands for balance. Ten steps, fifteen, and the ravine came into view. Then pain burst through his left calf and he dropped hard, a second arrow splitting the skin of his leg.

The mercenaries caught up to him before he could crawl to the edge and hurl himself off. They dragged him back a safe distance, and then came the beating that finally ensured his cooperation. He was barely conscious when they pulled the bolts from his legs and bound the wounds.

The night was a haze. Even if he could find the strength to run on his wounded legs, they’d hobbled him too well to move, and he could do little more than lie still and listen. Through the pain in his head—the one whose nose he’d broken had been particularly spiteful with his kicks—he could hear their plans to return him to his owners without being caught by the Warrow guard.

Pit fighting was illegal in Nomoska, as was the slave trade, but both continued to thrive long past their criminalization. Pay a hand enough, after all, and it will stay blind to all you ask of it. And the Nomoskan crown was blind enough. There was plenty demand for illegal merchandise like Rook to be smuggled across the borders. Rook could never decide who he hated more: the buyers at the border docks, the trainers with their lashes, the spectators grinning in the stone seats, or the officials turning away as money crossed their palms. He’d spent many nights ticking through the list and praying for Eua to take their breaths.

When he heard the mercenaries’ breathing slow into sleep, he cried in bitterly practiced silence.

Where were his deities now? Where were the gods of the road, of violence, of asylum? Hell, where was the great goddess herself, Eua, She-Who-Brings-Death? He lay on his side, face in the dirt and the rocks, and spat her titles. “Don’t call her name,” the people said. “She’ll come too soon if you cry for her,” the people warned. But here was Rook, for once in his miserable life, begging her to finally take him, and she gave him no aid.

“Not so little.” Two more steps, and he turned to keep her in his sight. The fire warmed her back. She felt old, dancing like this. A woman. “How’d you get the boar head?”

He tugged the mask back down, voice echoing. “I wanted the wolf’s head. Neacal beat me in a game of horse bones.”

“Pity. Boars are so ugly.” She scrunched up her face. The dried mud covering it crackled. “Their eyes are beady.”

“My eyes aren’t beady,” he protested with a laugh. The green sparked behind the mask. He held out a hand. “Dance with me?”

The ribbon kept her skirts hiked to mid-calf, ensuring the cloth would not light. It stuck to her legs as she danced, sweat rolling down her back. The plaits held her hair in place. She burned her feet twice, but the momentum of the drumbeat kept her dancing. She followed Ianatan’s steps until he caught her hand and twirled her out of the fire’s reach, behind a rolled bale of hay, and stopped her there with her back to the straw and her eyes on him. His fingers were anchored in her hair, tiny white flowers surrounding his thumb.

“Can I—” he asked, and leaned in to kiss her.

It was very soft, very fast. Her cheeks were flushed. Straw pricked her through her dress. He didn’t pull back, only leaned heavily on her, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, and she, after a flustered moment, pushed him back. There was blood on his lips. Ceit had stopped singing.

“Ianatan,” she said, and locked eyes with the man standing behind.

A wet shluck as Ianatan jerked back. The man held up a glittering curved blade. Aevfinn screamed.

He caught her after four steps, getting a handful of her ribbons and heaving her back. She fell. He locked an arm around her waist and hoisted her until her bare feet left the ground. His skin was dark. Not one of the raiding clans. She raked her nails down his arm, peeling away skin and leaving red furrows like a plow through a field of dirt and clay. His grip tightened. Then she heard a wild yell, and the man shuddered. His grip dropped. She stumbled forward, eyes wide, and turned to see her mother heaving a war axe from between the man’s shoulder blades, foot pressed to his lower back for leverage. Soazic’s face was covered in mud and blood. Her eyes burned.