By the time evening arrived, I could barely move. Every muscle ached. My hands were wrapped in bandages. I had bruises on top of bruises.

But I also knew how to throw a punch. How to dodge. How to survive.

Lyra helped me into fighting clothes—leather pants, a sleeveless tunic that wouldn’t restrict movement, boots with good grip.

“You look like a warrior,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice.

“I look like someone about to die.”

“Same thing.” She squeezed my shoulder. ...