“Again,” Thrace barks.

“Ha!”

We attack the dummies as one, all of us bringing the wooden swords down in the new move we are drilling. The burn and ache in my muscles is extreme. Every time I reach a new plateau of skill and strength, Thrace seems to notice and push me harder.

Following the motions through muscle memory, my thoughts are consumed with how to escape. I have to get Rosalind back to Tajss. Right now she’s growing weaker, but it won’t be long before the other signs of withdrawal set in. It’s a long, slow, and painful path to death.

“Again!” Thrace yells.

The sword hits the dummy, and there’s a satisfying vibration that runs up my arm. I repeat the move until it’s second nature, done with no thought, in an instant.

“Enough,” Thrace says. “Line up.”

We shuffle into a line at his command. He walks the line of us, looking at each one of us, nodding as if self-satisfied.

“Will they make good?” the master asks, his voice drifting down from the balcony that he watches us from on occasion.

He’s standing there on the shoulder of the purple monstrosity he rides. It would be so easy to crush him—there’s nothing to him. The monstrosity and the armed guards with him are the problem. I can’t get to him without going through them.

Every night in our hut since Rosalind’s speech, we’ve looked at ways to escape. So far nothing has come close to a viable plan.

“Yes, sir,” Thrace says, turning to face the balcony. He stands with his arms crossed behind his back, one hand clasping the other.

“Good,” Master says. “There is heavy betting this turn. If I win there will be rewards.”

“Very good,” Thrace says, bowing his head.

The master pulls on the ear of his ride, turning it, and then he and it shuffle out of sight. The guards leaning against the walls of the practice area shift. Two of them are in my line of sight, standing below the balcony where the master was.

“Rewards,” one of them says, spitting on the ground. “Right.”

“An extra slice of bread,” the other snarls.

It’s become obvious that our new master is not well-off, though I would guess he once was. The guards’ armor is ill fitting and shows signs of heavy wear along with lack of proper care. Many walls have cracks or are crumbling. We are surrounded by signs of neglect and decay. The guards’ comments underscore my observations.

“Again,” Thrace barks, pushing us back into our training routines.

Muscle memory carries me through the stances, allowing me time to think. We came a long way from the spaceport. I’m not sure how far, but Rosalind says it was almost a day’s journey. Even if we escape this place, we’re a still long way from getting off the planet.

“Tell you what reward I’d want,” I overhear a guard say.

“A face that isn’t so damn ugly?” the other asks.

“That white-lady,” he responds, ignoring the jab. The guard grabs his crotch and thrusts his hips. “I’d show her a good time for a reward.”

The bijass grabs me and I rush him, wooden sword in hand.

The two guards turn, surprise obvious, reaching for their swords, but too slow. The wooden sword in my hands blurs, striking the speaker about his head and shoulders multiple times. He drops to the ground in a heap.

"Visidion!" Rosalind yells.

Ignoring her, I face the other guard. He has his sword drawn and held ready before him. Weaving my own wooden sword in front of me, I establish a defense.

"I'm going to cut you to pieces," he says.

I don't answer his words. They're meaningless. Actions are all that matter.

We circle, the tips of our swords dancing, each probing for an opening. His guard drops slightly and I'm ready. Lunging forward, inside his reach, I swing my wooden sword towards his neck. It hits with a loud crack, and he drops.

Spinning on my heel I turn, sword held across my middle, back to the wall, ready for anything.

The other gladiators stare but don’t move. Rosalind is a few steps away, eyes and mouth wide. Thrace stands next to her, arms crossed over his chest. Slowly his arms part and he claps. The sound of his hands coming together is loud in the silence of the training grounds.

“Done?” he asks, as if what I’ve done is the most normal thing in the world.

“Yes,” I say, not lowering the sword from ready.

Other guards are not far away, hands on swords, but none look eager to come forward.

“Good,” Thrace says. “Back to practice.”

He turns towards the others and barks out a series of orders. Everyone except Rosalind complies. Her eyes bore into me, then she looks around the area, pursing her lips. Gaze returning to me, she nods, then lifts her own sword and returns to the training dummies.

Those guards still standing continue staring at me but not moving. I lower my sword and walk back to my position in front of a training dummy. The scales on the back of my neck itch, waiting for an attack, but none comes. Everyone resumes the day’s routine. The other guards go to the two I dropped, gather them up, and carry them off somewhere. Life continues as if nothing happened. The hours pass, and at last it’s time for lunch.

Two servants set out pots of mush on a rough wooden table. Thrace keeps us going through routines until they are done, then calls a break. Stomach grumbling, I walk beside Rosalind to the table. No one speaks as they each take a bowl and spoon the slop into it. Rosalind and I get our bowls and join the circle of the others in the middle of the dirt training area. The mush has bits of meat mixed into it, but overall has no flavor. The silence continues as we eat.

Usually there is conversation, but today no one speaks. There are some furtive glances at me then at Thrace, who stands next to the table of food, eating. The silence is uncomfortable. I’m waiting for something to happen with no clue what it might be. There must be some repercussions for my actions. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Thrace set his bowl down, and then he walks towards our circle. An itch between my shoulder blades begs to be scratched, and I can barely swallow the food in my mouth as he approaches.

“Scrub,” Thrace says, stopping next to me and staring down.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, swallowing hard, muscles tensing.

“Your form was sloppy. Attacking two opponents is foolish, but if you must, work faster. The last four blows on your first opponent were unnecessary and left you open to the second. He was out after your second hit.”

Everyone’s eyes are darting between the two of us.

“Yes, sir,” I answer, nodding.

“Good,” Thrace says, spinning on a heel and marching away. He stops after four steps. “Everyone will work an extra hour tonight, multiple-opponent routines need to be drilled.”

Groans greet his pronouncement and he turns back to our group.

“You scrubs think I can let something like that slide?” he barks.

A chorus of “No, sir” rises from all throats, and all are eyes focused on me.

“Good,” Thrace says. “Now up and at it. Lunch is over.”

“Ha! Not done,” Mesto says.

“Did I ask?” Thrace barks, hand drifting to the sticks at his sides that we all know he can wield with painful force.

Mesto shakes his head and climbs to his feet.

“In line, scrubs,” Thrace barks. “Todd, Cenar, you’re against Visidion. Rosalind, K’sara, you’re against Mesto. Go!”

The afternoon passes until at last it’s evening. Sore muscles and bruises throb from the day’s training. As we head to our hut, I notice more guards around the estate, but the two I took out are nowhere to be seen. If nothing else, I established one thing—no one should comment on Rosalind.

“Whose turn for dinner?” Todd grumbles.

While lunch is served to us, we’re on our own for dinner. We’d agreed on a rotation for cooking but no one kept close track of it.

“It’s mine,” Rosalind says, stepping forward.

She sorts through the pile of supplies that are left in our hut each day. It’s thin pickings, further proof that our owner isn’t well-off. I help her as she makes a stew, which is what we have most nights because there’s little else to do with the odds and ends of food given to us.

It’s not long before the pot is simmering over our communal fire. Rosalind catches my eye and motions towards the door. I follow her out into the cool night air. It’s so much colder here than Tajss, and the nights are the worst. It makes my muscles ache more once the sun goes down and leaves me feeling lethargic.

“That was stupid,” Rosalind says as soon as we’re outside.

“He threatened you,” I answer.

“No, he didn’t,” she shakes her head. “He made a stupid comment. It was nothing.”

“It was something to me,” I answer. “No one can threaten you.”

“It wasn’t a threat, damn it, Visidion, you can’t do this!” her voice rises.

Her left arm trembles and she crosses her arms over her chest trying to hide it.

“It’s getting worse,” I call her out.

“I’m fine,” she says but I stare at her until at last she crumbles. “It’s probably withdrawal.”

Swallowing hard, I nod. Withdrawal. She’s holding up well, but she needs epis. The humans haven’t been taking it all their lives. Zmaj can go weeks or months without feeling the effects of not having epis, but the humans need it. Their bodies are still adjusting.

“We need a plan,” I say.

“You think?” she snaps, but then her arms quiver and she grits her teeth.

I draw her into my arms and hold her tight to me. The ache in my chest pulses with each beat of my hearts. Give me an enemy, any enemy, that I can face and defeat. Losing her, when we only now are coming into our own, is not something I can permit. I’ll find a way. I will save her.

Her body melds against me, fitting into my arms as if she was made for me. Stroking her hair with light touches, keeping her pulled tight, I listen to the rhythm all of our hearts make, beating so close together. Tremors pass through her, and when at last they pass, she wraps her arms around my waist. This moment could last forever, and I’d be happy for all of it.

A loud bang echoes across the training grounds. Rosalind jumps, pushing away from me. The sound repeats, coming from the wooden double doors that lead into the grounds. Two guards walk out of the small building by the gates, muttering loudly. They’re both weaving, probably drunk. One opens a small panel in the door and looks out.

“Shit,” he exclaims, stumbling back.

The other guard looks out, then moving quickly unlocks the doors and pulls one side open. A hooded figure cloaked in shadows walks through. The guard swings the door shut behind him and slides the locks back into place.

“I’ll get the master,” the guard who had exclaimed says, stumbling over his words.

“No,” the figure says. “I’m not here for him.”

“Oh,” the guard says, and his hands flap uselessly to his sides.

“Go about your duties, I’ll see myself out shortly,” the figure says.

It’s impossible to see where he’s looking between the shadows and the hood, but it seems his attention is on Rosalind and me. I move to protect her, putting my body between her and the stranger.

“Uh, we shouldn’t—” the guard starts.

“Are you questioning me?” the figure asks without so much as a glance toward the guard.

“No, uh, sir, no, back to our duties, right,” the guard answers.

The two guards walk backwards, keeping each other upright, into their hut. The hooded figure walks across the open area towards us. My tail swishes through the dirt, my scales tingle, and my hands close into fists, ready for anything. He stops a few feet away. Just then, as if the stranger has planned it, the moon comes out from behind a cloud, shining bright, silver light down on him. Moving slowly, he takes the sides of his hood and lowers it. As the hood drops, moonlight gleams on tan scales and reveals the Zmaj from the arena.

“Sorry for the subterfuge,” he says. “Unfortunately, it’s necessary.”

My throat tight, tension in all my muscles, and expecting an attack at any moment, I swallow before speaking.

“Who are you?” I ask the most obvious question.

“My name is Arcan and I know you’re Visidion and Rosalind,” he nods to each of us as he says our names. “When I saw you in the arena…”

He trails off not finishing his thought. We stare at each other for a long moment until clouds cover the moon again and cast us back into darkness.

“I was surprised to see a Zmaj,” I say, filling the void.

“You were!” he snorts, shaking his head. “How did you escape the Devastation?”

“I didn’t,” I say.

“You didn’t?” he shakes his head side to side. “But… the planet was destroyed. There’s no life left on Tajss.”

Instead of answering him, I meet his gaze with a stare, schooling my face to reveal nothing. I don’t know if he’s an ally or not, but something tells me we’re on dangerous ground.

“How did you come to be here?” Rosalind asks, redirecting the question to him.

He sighs, shoulders slumping, and gazes into the darkness.

“I thought I was the only one,” he says, voice heavy with despair. “No one could have survived. The entire galaxy thinks Tajss is gone.”

Fear, cold and creeping, seeps out of my core at his words, but I don’t know why. The words call something, vague and uncertain, in the bijass. Memories I once had but are now lost to the fog of the bijass.

“It should stay that way,” I say.

He turns his attention back to me, then shakes his head. “It’s too late for that,” he says. “I think.”

“Why are you here?” Rosalind asks.

He straightens, clears his throat, and then rolls his shoulders. “Right,” he says. “You’re in danger.”

“Of course we are, we’re slaves sold to be gladiators,” I snap.

“No, worse,” he says, ignoring me. “The situation here is not stable. The ‘king’ is a crime lord who holds his position through fear. He claims he’s descended from Prince Astirian but everyone knows that’s a lie.”

“What does any of that have to do with us?” Rosalind asks.

“Not you, him,” Arcan says. “Tajss was believed dead. The Zzlo aren’t hiding the fact they captured you there. That means there’s life on Tajss.”

“And they want the epis,” I say, the cold chill in my guts finding its form and spreading across my limbs.

“Yes,” he says.

“Rumors are all there are right now,” Arcan says. “But they will be coming after you. Some want you dead, so they can bury the secret and use it for their own ends. Others want you to lose, so they can steal you. There are many plans for you. But it’s enough to say you have changed the landscape of Krik and thereby the galaxy.”

My thoughts race as dim memory struggles to emerge from the fog of the past.

“Will you help?” I ask.

Arcan stiffens, his tail stops moving. My hearts beat loud in my ears, counting the passing moments. Thoughts play behind his eyes, and I have to wonder what it is he’s really after.

“I’ll do what I can,” he says.

“We need a plan,” Rosalind says. “A way off this planet.”

Arcan nods as he starts to go. “Yes, you do,” he says over his shoulder.

“How are you going to help?” I ask, as he reaches the door.

He stops, one hand on the door, head bowed. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’ll be in touch.”

The door closes behind him, and one of the guards comes stumbling out to replace the locks. When he turns and sees Rosalind and me, he steps towards us.

“Get in,” he barks, pointing at our hut.

Silent, we go back in to our dinner. Everything has changed. It’s changed in ways I can’t foresee yet. Rosalind and I eat in silence, getting through the dinner. When we’re finally lying beside each other in our small room, she rests her head on my shoulder, an arm draped across my chest.

“What does it mean?” she whispers.

“I don’t know,” I say, honesty pouring out in those three words. There’s a cold, hard ball in my guts.

“I’m trying to decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing,” she says.

“So am I,” I answer, squeezing her tighter to me.