The Rebel Prince (The Season Series #3)

Chapter 37

**A/N: This is probably the longest action sequence I've ever written and, in preparation for what's to come near the end of this story, I'd like your feedback so I can really ace the next fights. So, things to look out for: Were you entertained? Did it read smoothly, as if you could see it playing out in your head? Was there enough tension to keep you guessing? Was it believable? I'll add a place for comments below :) **

No sentry stopped us as we entered the camp of colourful Bazeran tents. The sheer gauze that hung in their doorways billowed in the breeze, tinkling the strands of bronze coins that hung around each entrance. There was no one around at all, until we reached the center of the camp, where a palatial tent of scarlet red sprawled before a clearing.

I'd never seen so much bared female flesh in my life. Arms and shoulders, stomachs and ankles. Even knees, beneath skirts made of metal-studded leather strips. When the clouds shifted to free the sun, it glinted off greaves and gauntlets and breastplates. It was as if every Bazeran in every colorful tent in the entire camp had gathered in a knot, all attired in their bronze and leather armor.

But I only had eyes for one of them.

Beatriz stood with her back to where Rafael and I squeezed between the excited Bazerans. She had changed into a set of armor to match that of the women surrounding her. Her hair had been braided into a coiled rope that hung down her back, between her bared shoulder blades. She didn't wear her usual boots. Instead, a pair of sandals with leather straps twined all the way up her calves to secure a set of greaves to her shins. Her armor shone in the fleeting sunlight, which highlighted the nicks and uneven surfaces where dents had been repaired – as if this weren't the first time she'd worn it in a fight.

Across from her, Nisha prowled like a caged cat. Deep orange lines of ochre paint ran down her forehead, along the length of her nose, and across both cheekbones. I wondered if Beatriz' face looked the same, but she didn't turn towards us. While Nisha paced, Beatriz held her ground, shifting her weight and calmly stretching her muscles.

A woman as tall as Rafael and just as muscled stepped into the circle. A gold circlet of arrowheads sat atop loose dark hair that was shorn to her shoulders. Threads of grey bloomed at her temples, but the scarred, muscled flesh of her arms and bared stomach did not make her seem old in the least.

"Shahnaz," Rafael said, over the excited shouts of the Bazerans jostling around us for a better view. "She's their leader."

When Shahnaz lifted her arms, the crowd quieted. She spoke in Bazeran, her voice low and mighty. The voice of a commander.

"We are gathered here to honour our tradition. To welcome one of our sisters back home. She has been challenged to a duel, to prove her skills and her worthiness to rejoin us," Rafael translated, as Shahnaz spoke.

"You speak Bazeran?" I asked.

He shook his head with a rueful grin. "I've watched Beatriz duel before. Frederico translated for me the first few times."

The first few times...as if there had been many. As if she'd survived – or even won – many. My hopes buoyed.

A woman bearing a pair of swords stepped up beside Shahnaz. She took them and held them up for the crowd to behold.

"They have chosen their weapons and set their own terms. We shall not breach our sisterhood to interfere," Rafael translated.

Shahnaz strode into the circle and jammed the swords into the dirt, side by side, in the center.

I turned to Rafael, my eyes wide. "I thought they were just sparring."

"This is just sparring, to them. They're not afraid of getting hurt – scars are a mark of pride among them."