Free Daughters of Ruin by K. D. Castner

custodial tunnels so that they could prepare. Marta peeled the shooting bracers from Cadis’s forearms and replaced them with hard-plate armor.
    Cadis caught her eye. “Any words of wisdom, squire-girl?”
    Marta would have punished her for such a comment in training. Instead she grinned—there was time yet for a punishment.
    â€œYeah,” said Marta. “Don’t be so sure of yourself. This next opponent hits back.”
    â€œHer kicks may flick and punches sting,” said Cadis. “But hits and hurts are different things.”
    An attendant handed her the curved cutlass used by Findish corsairs. Cadis swung it in circles as she walked, to loosen her wrists. Her every muscle vibrated with the thrill of her performance, with the sheer glorious excitement of being great at something, truly great, and reveling in that blessing.
    Marta forced her to stop for a moment in order to strap her shin guards. Cadis bounced on her toes and made it difficult, until Marta took a pinch out of her calf.
    â€œAh!” said Cadis.
    Marta straightened. She looked Cadis in the eye—the bravura all gone, leaving only the professional soldier. “You should be careful. You hit your marks. You go fight speed, full contact. And you don’t get hurt.”
    Cadis matched her stare. Deadly serious. “Marta. Marta. I know that stuff already. Tell me something else.”
    Marta let slip one last giggle.
    â€œYou’re a splendid braggart. Just don’t kill each other, please. It’s just a dumb circus.”
    Cadis nodded and let out a whooping holler, as corsairs do before boarding enemy ships.

    None of them knew why Iren insisted on a melee showcase; she wasn’t very good at them. It might have been her mother’s command—the emira of Corent. The two were always writing letters, as if Iren were away in the country, as opposed to an unwilling ward of their enemy.
    Cadis begged and pleaded once, years ago, to read one of the letters. It had been a testament to their friendship—and the offer of three favors to be named later—that finally swayed Iren. Immediately after snatching the letter from Iren’s hand, Cadis knew she had given away the favors too easily. Iren and her mother would write entire letters dedicated to the intimate details of a single supper. In one Iren spent three pages explaining her plans for a tapestry. Cadis had handed back the papers, astounded by the Corentine’s affinity for all things logistical and untheatrical.
    Iren took her letters and called in her first favor immediately—Cadis’s favorite practice bow. Iren had no use for it. Cadis imagined it was her way of raising the price on snooping into her affairs. Cadis handed over the bow. She had never paid so much for so little a story.
    And she let Iren alone to write her letters.
    To his credit, King Declan allowed all the correspondence. He had no desire to cut them off from their loved ones. It anchored them to their homes. “You are to go back and rule, after all,” Declan would say.
    As Cadis walked down the stairs to the undervault of the coliseum, she thought of Jesper Terzi—her own anchor. Jesper who had once kissed her in the crow’s nest of her father’s ship—when they were barely pups. Jesper who held her hand when they heard her father’s ship had gone down—and she was orphaned to the world. Jesper who remained her friend, when all others seemed to give her up for dead. He was the only one to visit her—five times in the last ten years—when his caravan came within a hundred leagues of Meridan Keep.
    Cadis smiled as she recalled Jesper and Endrit meeting like two young bucks, squeezing each other’s hands and puffing out their chests without meaning to. He acted like an overprotective brother—sizing up Endrit. It was sweet that he assumed any boy would have his sights on Cadis.
    She hadn’t seen Jesper in two