"WHACK!"... Jane fell into the sand. Her head was throbbing. "I'll get you for that!" she yelled as she got up and charged at her adversary. She lunged at him, grabbed him by his neck and slammed him into the ground. "Whoa sis, where did that come from?", Theron said. "I swear, you're getting stronger every time we practice."

"Maybe you just need to keep up!" she shot back, laughing. But the laugh come out shakier than she had hoped. She really *was* getting stronger at a rate that did not feel normal. Already she was having to pull her punches, and going through an alarming number of practice swords. Her ever-more touchy temper also was a source of growing worry. The throbbing in her temples these days would lead to something or someone getting damaged, luckily nothing too obvious so far, but her hard-fought position here at the Gladiatorial School was clearly in danger.

The Gladiatorial School of Verath was one of twelve sanctioned schools across the Allied Provinces, each one funded and governed by the Council of Immortals. The schools served a dual purpose: they trained the province's defenders, and they supplied the Grand Tournament with its participants. The tournament was held every five years, a spectacle broadcast across every province, attended by the Immortals themselves. It was supposed to be an honor. Jane had never seen it that way.

The Immortals had ruled for as long as anyone could remember. History books credited them with ending the Collapse, the century of war and famine that had nearly wiped humanity from the earth. They had rebuilt civilization, established the provinces, created the laws. And they had never let go. Every major decision flowed through the Council. The provinces had their own governors, their own traditions, but everyone knew where the real authority sat. Most people accepted this. The Immortals had earned it, they said. They had the wisdom of centuries. Jane thought centuries of power just meant centuries of practice at keeping it.

The lottery drums had been brought out that morning, heavy brass cylinders older than anyone in the school. Every student's name went in. Two names came out. It was, like everything the Immortals touched, neatly dressed up as fairness, random, impartial, everyone given equal odds. But refusal wasn't an option, and the chosen fighters would represent Verath whether they wanted to or not. Jane had watched the drawing with her arms crossed and her jaw tight, telling herself the odds were in her favor.

They weren't. When her name was read aloud, the hall erupted. Theron whooped. Her sparring partners stamped their feet. Master Aldric nodded from the platform with something that might have been pride. Jane stood very still in the middle of all of it, the throbbing in her temples building to a sharp, steady pulse, and said nothing.