Everyone’s head was turning towards the tribunes high above, adorned in red and gold - the King’s, she guessed, rightly, as Rhey soon appeared, an elegant cloak carelessly thrown over his shoulder and a long scroll in hand.

“This is the first moon of the ninth month, and as the Elders have dictated, the Claiming Tournament shall commence.” He looked at the scroll, and a deep frown marred his expression. Then, a few people gasped, and others laughed, as the King closed the parchment, and threw it behind his shoulder. “That was long and boring. It’s a hot day - don’t forget to drink plenty of ale and have fun. Betting is outlawed, which is bloody stupid if you ask me, because it means we can’t tax it. My friend Wendar over there is probably running some illegal gambling, if you’re keen,” he waved to a man, who got up and bowed deep, as everyone laughed. “Old boy? Put one coin on the pretty blond, would you?”

Xandrie smiled her shook her head. She’d never seen or heard of a noble behaving that way - so refreshingly. He tamed the goofy smile. No. She wasn’t going to find him charming, on top of everything else. She wouldn’t.

“Now, let the damn Claiming begin.”

The lightheartedness didn’t last. Xandrie had never seen such violence. Sure, there were battles in the Northern Var and she’d been witness to amputations, lethal gashes, and beheadings, but the sheer, bloody rage these women brought to the Arena was a sight to behold. Some bouts lasted many long, heart-clenching minutes, but most were over in a couple of swipes of a well-trained sword.

It was obvious that the Claiming was skewed in favor of the nobility, as Demelza had told her. It was they who had the superior weapons, the dedicated trainers, and the time to hone their craft to a point. The women of the lower class limped, crawled, and hobbled out of the ring, their dreams of Queenship in tatters.

Demelza took her turn in the ring. From the moment she raised her flamberge, she comported herself with skill and dignity. The flame-sword was known for its wicked reverberations, but Demelza wielded it as though there weren’t a thousand jolts of reverb traveling up through the hilt and into her shoulders. She was an artist. Neither did her friend go for the easy victory; she fought with passion and precision, but invited her opponents to strut their stuff.

Demelza had explained her strategy to Xandrie, and she was visibly sticking to it. She was going to fight to send a signal that she was not to be fucked with, but she saw no need to humiliate anyone who’d had the guts to appear before the highest in the land and fight. Their families were in the stands; these women would have to go home and tell tales of battling for the King’s hand. She wanted them to do so with pride. No one who fought her left the ring demoralized or with more than a scratch. She danced with them until they relented, then a bowed as they exited. No surprise, then, that she was the crowd’s favorite.

Demelza had won every bout she’d fought and come out top of her ranking when she was paired against the statuesque blonde Xandrie recognized; the one who’d led that Councilman away from her earlier. The crier identified her as Saskia Xaxan.

Saskia was clearly of noble birth; she held herself in a way that made that clear, and she wore shining armor that made Xandrie smile.

Honestly, these things that all these women, her friend included, were adorned in could hardly pass as armor, come to think of it. It was made of metal, sure, but it seemed crafted to flatter their figure rather than to stop a blade from piercing their skin. Saskia’s was worse; most of her breasts and stomach were exposed.

Xandrie wondered if it was she that the King had meant, when he’d said he wanted to put money on the pretty blonde, and right then, she wanted the woman to lose. Badly.

Not that it would make a difference - to win the first round, they simply had to win one single fight. She’d bet anything that the woman had won her fair share.

“Saskia,” Demelza greeted, bobbing her head. “You look well.”

They knew each other, then. The other woman sent a stiff nod her way in response, without saying a word. There was some history there.

The crowd must have felt the tension, too, for a hush fell upon them and did not lift when the women each selected their weapon for the bout. Demelza took up her beloved helmet-breaker, with its sharp, dirk-like point while Saskia went for the more predictable, yet just as efficient, longsword. Both women clearly meant business. They began in a blur of silver, so fast it was almost impossible to see who had the upper hand or whether either of them was injured.

For the first time that day, the bout went long. Demelza and Saskia lunged and pricked, dodged and parried, swung and slashed and swiped at each other with heaving grunts and cries. The stands were awash with onlookers screaming for Demelza.

Out of the corner of her eye, Xandrie saw a flower – a gorgeous orange lily – soar over their heads and into the ring below. It was meant as a tribute, but Demelza turned her head, no doubt checking to make sure no one else had entered the fight.

As Demelza turned, Saskia charged, her sword ripping through Demelza’s sleeve and slicing her arm.

Red. Demelza was bleeding - and not just a little. Fuck.

The crowd was on its feet, screaming for justice.

Xandrie didn’t question her actions; first, she turned to Claws and told him, “stay,” then she leaped to her feet, took three steps, and launched herself over the barrier and into the ring, then threw herself in front of her friend, shielding her from further assault.

Demelza would do the honorable thing. She would acquiesce, if she’d lost. But no one should be permitted to take her down with villainy.