She was sore from the previous evening drills. Amnan had been ruthless, and when Anissa joined, they tag teamed Serephone, testing every move she knew, critiquing her style and training her in a few new tricks. Nothing she wouldn’t be able to master in a matter of hours, which meant what they could teach her was limited.

“You have a chance of surviving,” Anissa said. “The best thing you can do is show that you would not be an embarrassment to the Line, and gain enough pity that the warriors will allow you to proceed to each round.”

“Are there any against us?” Amnan asked.

“Most are neutral, which is better than I could have hoped.”

Serephone dressed in supple leather trousers and a sleeveless white shirt that clung to her torso, no extra fabric for an opponent to grab. Her weapons were returned to her…and her clothing.

“Lord Dawnthorne wishes you to display yourself for the honor of his household,” Yuruth said when he delivered the items. “We will see you in the circle.” He smiled. “And we thank you for the entertainment. It’s been boring around here of late.”

She didn’t don her jacket. Instead she worked to resew the little pouches inside her trousers, whispering sweet nothings to her darlings as she worked. They scampered over her arms and climbed into her hair, leaving trails of green phosphorescence in their wake.

Amnan walked into the sitting room and stopped. “Your hair is glowing.”

She didn’t look up. “Hmm.”

“If it’s a show Dawnthorne desires, we’ll give him a show.” Amnan's voice was grim, and angry.

Serephone looked at him. “There’s still time to—”

“Serephone, if you finish that sentence, I will be very angry with you.”

She shrugged and went back to her sewing. He was a grown man. He knew what he was doing. She had to accept that for whatever reason, he’d chosen of his own volition to stick to her side like a scratchy burr.

They waited in their room until the sun just peeked over the sky. Or rather, the magic of the Dome approximated the peeking of said sun. In the Outlands it would already be blazing, early morning or no.

A knock on the door and Anissa stepped in, Etienne accompanying her. Their father met Serephone’s eyes, but said nothing. His presence threw her for a moment—he hadn’t sought her out the entire time she’d been here. And she was good with that.

She ignored him as she and Amnan left the room, following the two fae out of the house and onto the grounds.

The circle was an area of fine, white sand she knew hadn’t been on the lawn previously. Someone had worked throughout the night to set it up. Large enough for several men to fight shoulder to shoulder in a small melee. Spectators stood around, some in groups of two or three, quietly talking, others standing alone, and silent. She noticed several were dressed like her. Close fitting leather pants and sleeveless white shirts on the women. Men bare chested. Everyone was bristling with weaponry, though she didn’t see one firearm.

On a dais just outside the edge of the circle sat Lords Dawnthorne and Evervaine. Anissa and Etienne led Serephone and Amnan to them.

“My Lord,” Etienne said. “My daughter Serephone. May she prove worthy, or die.”

Amnan’s glance at Etienne was baleful, a fiery anger in slitted eyes. And then the anger was shuttered away. They would need cool heads to get through this day.

Dawnthorne gestured. “Serephone, I will not insult you by requiring you fight in the beginning rounds with the children.” He glanced at Amnan. “And you are allowed whatever allies will aid you in the later rounds, so the dragon’s presence will be tolerated. Though to step into the circle is to forswear all grudge and vengeance should the outcome of the fights not be to your liking.”

Amnan nodded curtly, understanding the subtle warning. “Serephone, I will release him from his containment, so he may fight, but if he behaves poorly, the consequences will be on your head. Remember, if you try to leave the grounds without my permissive will, the geas will take your breath, and you will die.”

She nodded. Amnan said nothing, but the lack of response was implicit agreement. Evidently it was enough for Dawnthorne, who turned his attention to the crowd, and rose.

He stepped forward, the pitch and timbre of his voice deepening. Silence fell over the gathered household. “It is rare these days to celebrate an addition to our ranks. Etienne has gifted us with a daughter, who desires to be included among our ranks as fae, with the rights and responsibilities of our Line.”

She desired no such thing, but said nothing. Challenging the lie would be pointless.

“Should she survive, we will welcome her, and show her the glory of our heritage. Let us begin.”

Dawnthorne stepped back and sat, gesturing for Serephone to remain at his side. “Watch.”

She understood what the fae meant by children as she watched the first several rounds. The youth who fought would appear nearly adult to human eyes, but their open eagerness and the edge of clumsiness to their slower movements were telling. Serephone watched with a critical eye, trying to learn something about the stages of training the young would go through, and comparing it to her own.

Standing there for over an hour, the sun shining on her neck, her darlings nestled in her hair, it was almost as if she were just at a friendly afternoon exhibition. Until it was time for her to fight.

The best of the youth remained in the circle, having advanced through six bouts. A sheen of sweat covered his chest but there was no fatigue in his movements. He was good, lean muscled and calm. Tipping into adulthood, confidence in his shoulders she liked.

“Serephone.”

She glanced at Dawnthorne, then back at the youth, who had turned and was watching her. Everyone was watching.

“Dragon, you will remain here. She does not need an ally in this round.”

Serephone walked forward. She had only her blades, and her spiders. She’d seen some of the young warriors work small bits of magic to deflect or momentarily stun an opponent, but what she knew was through trial and error. And she was an animage, not a warriormage.

“What is your weapon?” The youth asked her gravely when she stood at arms length.

She regarded him. His strength was with the bladed staff. She had no experience with it. Her knife was the length of her arm, but wouldn’t give her enough reach.

“I don’t fight with the staff,” she said. “So if you want to win, you should go with it.”

He frowned slightly, but didn’t seem truly upset. “I don’t want to win by default. Can you wrestle?”

Her brow rose. “You’re a bit, uh, slippery.”

“Girls don’t like sweat, do they?”

She wasn’t sure if the comment was innocent, or meant as a goad. Serephone’s eyes narrowed. “How old are you anyway?”

He blinked. “Forty, of course. This is my first tournament. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

He stared at her. “You’re a baby.” He turned to Dawnthorne, upset, and pitched his voice to carry. “Lord, she’s only an infant. I can’t fight a baby. Everyone will laugh at me.”

She heard a scattering of snorts and laughter.

“She is mostly human, Othain.” Dawnthorne’s voice was patient. “Fight or forfeit, child.”

“You’re not trying to kill me, right?” Serephone asked, pitching her voice so hopefully only he would hear.

Othain shook his head. “No. Anissa—“

“That’s great,” Serephone interjected hastily. Last thing she needed was Dawnthorne to know her sister had spent the evening negotiating on Serephone's behalf. Who knew if that was against the rules. “Wrestling is fine. I wrestle with my sisters all the time.”

“You have sisters?”

Shit. The stress of the week was getting her. Was this the second time she’d mentioned sisters? She prayed no one but Othain had heard, and that he would forget. She didn’t need Evervaine to know that information.

A fae in a violet robe stepped into the circle. The robe was sashed in red with the vague look of ceremonial attire. “It is time. From here out I will referee the matches. Othain has advanced out of children’s pairings, and will now be contained by the rules of adults.”

Othain looked pleased. Serephone removed her shoes since her opponent was also barefoot, and the match began.

He was slippery as an eel, and fast. He was also stronger, but Serephone soon realized that the boy had never fought in a bar brawl. Some of the tricks she knew were taught to her by the most unsavory characters Maddugton had seen pass through in the last decades. He came close to pinning her a time or two, until she abandoned her own reticence—it really was like fighting a well-trained thirteen-year-old, but still a thirteen-year-old—and executed a particularly nasty maneuver that had him gritting his teeth to keep from yowling. She held him pinned for the requisite five seconds, and the referee call a sharp end to the match.

They rose, and Serephone tried to keep from favoring her shoulder—he’d almost dislocated it. Othain bowed, pleased resignation on his face.

Three more bouts came in quick succession, her opponents all fighting with an almost perfunctory air. She was put, thoroughly, through her paces. Blades, hand to hand, more wrestling. She pulled every iota of knowledge from her mind, pressed harder and harder with each fight, energy dimming. And though the three each forfeited the round at the very last moment, she was exhausted.

Dawnthorne called a brief recess and Serephone fled the circle. The Lord ignored her, and Amnan grasped her shoulder—the uninjured one.

Anissa came forward. “You have some time to eat, and drink. But only a little. These next bouts will not be so easy, I’m afraid. They are the warriors, who I believe are unconvinced of your value. If you had taken the oath at the beginning, you would not have had to do this.”

“I don’t want to hear about that goddamn oath one more time,” she growled, and sat down in the grass, cross-legged. Trying to appear as if she was merely lounging, at her ease, and not completely exhausted.

Anissa knelt next to her. “Because of the skills the next several rounds, Dawnthorne will allow Amnan to fight with you. You’ve survived until now, that is to be your reward.”

She took a few sips of water, ate a small roll with meat and cheese stuffed inside. And then Dawnthorne called her name again.

“You conducted yourself well,” he said. “But I fear these next opponents will not be so gentle on you.”

He didn’t have to look so gleeful, the bastard.

“Dragon, if she survives this round, it is permissible for you to join her.”

Amnan said nothing, but she knew he heard. The white lines around his mouth and slightly narrowed eyes clued her in to his temper. He met her eyes briefly as she stepped back into the circle, the tips of his toes stopping just a hairsbreadth from the edge.

She was left standing in the quickly warming afternoon sand for several minutes, a little annoyed at the weak attempt at a psychological attack. It wouldn’t work. The low murmur of the crowd dimmed and she raised her head as a tall warrior paced into the circle.

Serephone knew immediately that all the previous bouts had been play. Six feet tall, with a gray undertone to his skin, and waist length, iron-gray hair, Serephone suspected she was laying eyes on yet another fae with gargoyle blood. If he could shift, then the strength apparent in arms and wide chest was just the tip of the iceberg.

If he could fly, she was screwed.

Until now, she hadn’t considered using her darlings. They were a last resort, a weapon she would only reveal if she had no choice. The gargoyle fae attacked, and Serephone learned within minutes that she would have no choice. After barely dodging the third attempt for him to slice her throat with thick, razor-sharp nails, Serephone called the spiders.