Chapter One - REVISED

IZIMA

Be careful, Izima.

My mother's last words echo in my head, like the distant call of a songbird you can't quite place. Be careful. Thinking of her now, when I'm not wearing a ripped, tear-soaked black shawl for days on end, when strangers aren't trying to hug me in the streets, is almost amusing.

Because when have I ever been careful?



EM

Wavy lines of heat rise like warped ghosts from the packed dirt, and I can already taste the dust in my mouth, kicked up by the restless horses waiting in their stalls. And by me, I guess, cause I'm waiting with them. Everyone is waiting for the same thing: the moment of adrenaline when those doors in front of me, and the ones across the stadium, are unlocked.

When me and the princess charge out of them.



IZIMA

I barely register the cheering, screaming crowd outside of this flimsy wooden stable. They've morphed into a dull, pounding ache at the back of my head, where I've pushed them. I don't care anymore.

I don't care about anything anymore.

Nothing matters. I just have to win this match, like I always do. Win the match; meet some fans; politely deny a few desperate suitors; (not) eat supper; repeat.

This corset is killing me. Why do I have to wear a binding, choking corset at a match where I could literally get killed?

Right. Because I'm the princess. There's a regent on my throne. And if I ever want to be queen, I have to marry a prince.

And princes love girls with tiny fucking waists.



EM

The start-of-match buzzer shrieks in my ear and I stifle a yelp. Years of practice, years of failing and losing tournaments and being told I couldn't do it, I wasn't good enough, I wasn't bad enough, I was too much of whatever the shit they didn't want from me, has led up to this. I saved for weeks to have enough for the deposit to sign up for this tournament. I won matches. I sweated. I suffered all of the blows thrown my way. I am ready.

The wooden doors have been unbolted and two of the servants are pulling them open, a backbreaking job I wouldn't envy them for. One of them winks at me. I wink back and pull down the visor on my helmet.

The doors at the other end of the ring are opening as well, a bit faster than mine, as the princess probably has her hulking bodyguards on the job. I see her, finally. She's wearing armor polished until it seems to glitter, iridescent in the glaring sunlight. Suddenly my palace-issued armor, white shot through with veins of silver, seems like an old piece of junk.

I imagine her smirking underneath that shining helmet, and my desire to win doubles. As does my grimace.

That princess has got it coming to her.



IZIMA

The doors are open. My opponent stands at the other end of the ring, her expression hidden by her spotless helmet. I realize with a start that I know her, and she is nothing like the bodybuilder my handmaids tell breathless stories about. She's a vaguely skinny upstart, and what little exposed skin I can see is an amber brown riddled with bruises and scars, revealing a childhood in poverty in the Valley.

More than that, I know her.

The rumors about her haven't stopped since her unprecedented entrance into the tournament three weeks ago; they follow me like swarms of horseflies, ready to bite in any place they find a weakness. Every week I hear news of the latest gigantic guy she's defeated in the ring; the day after, his height has doubled and she's gotten more powerful. The women say she's too beautiful to fight; the men say she has taut muscles that can't possibly be real. They say she's the best fighter where she comes from. They say she could even best the princess.

Well, guess what.

She won't.