He swung wide and she ducked, jabbing for his side. The edge of her claw caught against his lined and dotted skin, spilling first blood.
Lossom snarled, reaching for her with a clawed hand. Arianna fell backward, rolling away. He squinted in confusion.
Dragons were strong creatures, that much Arianna could not—and never had—denied. Their magic made them formidable. But it also made them predictable. When nearly any wound could be healed in moments, making very few cuts lethal, it meant their fighting styles favored close range and tight jabs. They shouldered wounds gladly that Arianna avoided desperately, and that made her erratic dodges unpredictable to them. It made her method of fighting as sensible to them as their fashion was to her.
She would win this fight without him drawing blood.
She had to.
Arianna lunged forward again. She leaned and spun, his claws whizzing over her back in a near miss. She would give nearly anything for her lines and daggers, but all that was permitted in the pit were claws and prowess. Weapons, coronas, gold, and magic—beyond healing—were all against the rules. Cvareh had taught her that much, to Arianna’s dismay.
She sidestepped in and brought her hand up to the man’s chin. Startled, it caught, stabbing right through to his tongue. Blood ran down her forearm and cheers erupted from above.
Arianna had never fought with an audience before. All her work had been done at night and in the shadows with the least number of eyes possible on her. She had never felt the thrill of screams and cries of encouragement. She had never fought for sport.
There was something about it, something...thrilling. Her heart raced faster and her feet moved with more confidence. She wanted to give the people a show. It was illogical, utterly illogical. Everything lacked meaning, and in that, there was joy. Joy in death, in life, in doing just to do.
Lossom’s claws swung closer and closer. Every near miss pushed her forward. Blood still evaporated off his chest from where she had wounded him, from the new cuts she gave him.
She was faster, stronger, more skilled, and far more fearless than this Dragon would ever be. He could not kill those he loved for the sake of the survival of an ideal. He could not cut open his own chest and turn himself into a living machine for the sake of science.
But she could. She could because she was not Fenthri, or Dragon, or Chimera. She could because she had, and would again if fate re-dealt her a cruel hand.
Arianna kicked the Rider squarely in the chest. He stumbled, and she caught his ankle with the top of her foot, pulling it right out from under him. Off-balance, his attacks were thrown wildly. Arianna lunged into them. She pushed him downward and buried her hand in his chest. He struggled against her, his claws digging into her wrist viciously. Her blood mingled with his as it bubbled from the wound she was inflicting.
His heart beat frantically against her palm. For a brief second, she held his life and future in her hand. And then she ripped it from him.
Arianna stood with the man’s heart. The arena’s momentary shock was only half as deafening as the cheers that followed it in a rush. Her eyes found the Dragon King’s high above, but not so far that he was untouchable. Not as far as he should want to be from her.
She stared at him as she buried her teeth into the Rider’s heart, and envisioned it was his.
26. Florence
The land had changed.
The Skeleton Forest had thinned and the dominant pines that oppressed their senses at every waking hour of the day had become scrawnier. As the train barreled down the winding pathway, they swerved out to the coast, giving Florence her first glimpse of the tall, rocky bluffs that made the Western side of Ter.2 impenetrable by boat.
The majority of Ter.2 was an imposing place—tall and shadowed, full of harsh rocky outcrops and the forest that boasted some of the most dangerous monsters in the world. But they had eluded the endwig, and lived to see the land change from the cold north to the more temperate, flatter south.
Tall grasses grew like in Ter.4, but the terrain was mostly flat, not hilly. It lacked significant features to the point that Florence wondered how the oceans had not just swallowed it whole. She watched it blur by as they continued on their tiny, overgrown track.
Nora and Derek alternated helping her. She had forced them to learn. She would shoulder as much of the burden as she had to, as they needed, but she could not do it alone. Will only went so far; skill was always required to make up the remainder.
They were begrudging at first, but not as much as Florence expected. She was too tired to question why, and thankfully the reason became apparent soon enough. She had earned an unexpected amount of respect from her companions after the night of the endwig. Her unconventional upbringing had served a purpose.
“How do you know how much coal to add, again?” Nora asked from where she was manning the grate and shovel.
Florence tapped the gauge next to her. “This meter. You want this to stay out of the high and low levels here and here. Ideally, it should sit around fifteen.”
“Why?”
“For an engine this size, that amount of power seems to clip us along without wasting power. There’s only so fast we can push her, or should…” Florence thought back to the sloppy repairs she’d made across the train following their frantic flight, and especially those she had less faith in holding. At least she’d had some training in the Ravens, but all her knowledge as a Rivet came from watching and helping Arianna.
Arianna. The name sat within Florence’s heart, still encased in love. The months apart had shown Florence that much. She loved Arianna as the teacher and guardian she had been. The recognition of the fact made the distance, surprisingly, more bearable. It dulled the harsh words they’d spoken to one another and quietly assured Florence of Arianna’s intentions. She knew the woman, and she knew that her venture to Nova was for the right reasons. And she knew that when Arianna returned, they would embrace once more and Florence would again be crafting canisters to help both the revolution and the White Wraith.
“What is most important to a Raven?”
Florence used the rattling of the train to mask a heavy sigh. She was always going to be seen as a Raven before anything else. She’d delighted in it when it had served her, when it had made people unassuming of her canisters in Mercury Town or her skill with the revolver. Or when it had helped her blend in at the port of Ter.5.2. But she was quickly learning she would give such things up for the sake of choice.
“Speed, mostly.” The echoes of trikes whizzing through the streets of Holx echoed in Florence’s ears. “Suicidal speed.”
“And for a Revolver?”
Florence paused in surprise. She glanced over at Nora, who stopped her inspection of the gages long enough to search Florence’s face.
“You’d know that too, right?”
“Explosions.” Florence gave the woman a small smile.