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The last time he saw her was just before the Night of a Hundred Heads, when he had been brought to the War Room. Her head was shaved back then, but since her fall from grace, it seemed she was letting her hair grow.“Unhand me, you godless bastard!” she hissed, trying to loosen the iron grip on her throat.

Should he do it? Just forfeit the match? To admit before the crowd that their prince was too weak to fight back? After everything that had happened to him, he had no pride left, nothing to lose. Maybe it was better to accept his failure and resign himself to his shame. Lying on the ground, he raised his arm, about to surrender, but stopped, thinking back to a conversation he had with Tarnas. It was during the year of training, the two of them sitting around the campfire on an autumn night. Seraph was staring deep into the flames, into the light and warmth, but all he felt inside was cold darkness.

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