I Should Die

what you are!”
    The lost look disappears from Louis’s face, replaced by one of despair. Don’t believe her , I say.
    Violette turns her attention back to me. I am matching all of her moves, but barely. If I slow down at all or make one false move, she will win this fight. “I am faster and stronger than you,” she spits as she lunges toward me, slashing at my sword arm.
    I leap out of her way. “Maybe. But you don’t have a heart,” I say, meeting her sword with my own mid-swing and knocking her back a step. Our armies have now stopped a few yards on either side of us, not daring to move while we are in the midst of mortal combat.
    “A heart makes one feeble,” she says, glaring. “In order to wield true strength, one must be merciless.” She spins and swings her sword two-handed in a horizontal arc, coming mere inches from my face as I skip backward.
    “I disagree,” I say, my breath ragged. “Mercy is the key. You can force people to follow you but you will never have their respect or love.” I begin to swing, but Violette anticipates my move and knocks my sword out of my hands onto the ground. I reach for it, but her blade is once again lifted—she is too close this time—and I choose to face her weaponless rather than be cut down as I scramble for my sword.
    “Love is for the weak,” Violette says, her face distorted with scorn. With a grunt of effort she brings her steel down for the deathblow. My instinct is to duck, but I force myself to hold my ground.
    Now’s your time, Louis , I call to him. Your chance to control your own destiny . There is a flash of metal and Violette is stumbling sideways. She drops her sword and throws her hands forward, catching herself from landing face-first on the ground.
    Trembling with effort, Violette props herself up on her elbows and turns to Louis, who is staggering backward, watching her with horror. “What. Have. You. Done?” she wheezes, staring at the boy, her eyes wide with pain.
    “The right thing. Finally,” he says, and stands tall, banishing his fear.
    “You are numa,” she gasps. “We don’t change sides. Once a betrayer, always damned.” Slumping, she rolls over to her side. And pulling the knife out of her chest, she studies it as if she’s never seen a dagger before. The arena erupts in a riot of battle cries, but no one dares approach.
    I look around our tragic triangle, and in a flash of clarity, I am finally convinced of something I’ve suspected since talking with Uta. The Champion’s strength isn’t a physical thing. It’s not in my body. It is in my spirit. It is an inner strength—one that will inspire loyalty. One that will help me lead my kindred back to the way things were meant to be before revenants were condemned to suffer while carrying out their fate.
    And with the gift of perception—the ability to see auras reflecting not only what destiny has dealt a numa like Louis, but that he holds the capability to transform himself and even change sides—maybe I am not only the Champion of the bardia but of all revenants.
    I am suddenly and irrevocably certain of it. “You know, Violette,” I say, lifting my sword and crouching into an offensive stance. “I’m here to change all of that.”
    The flames have risen to their full height behind her: The fury in her eyes echoes its blaze. Gesturing to one of her numa sentries fighting nearby, she points to Louis and screams, “Kill him!”
    I step forward, sword lowered, ready to strike. Violette makes a lightning-fast movement; metal flashes midair, the knife reflecting the golden red of the bonfire, before sinking deeply into my flesh. I clench my sword tighter in my right hand and try to ignore the knife embedded in my other shoulder, swinging back as powerfully as I can and aiming my blade for Violette’s neck.
    In the same second, a whistling noise comes from the direction of the numa. Louis falls to the ground, an arrow clean through the center of his forehead.
    Around us the battle rages in a tumult of screams, flailing bodies, and clashing of metal, but my focus remains steadily on my foe. The white-hot pain in my shoulder drives me to do what I know I must. My blade meets her neck and slices cleanly through and Violette falls backward, dead.

FIFTY
    I STAND STARING AT THE BLOODY MESS THAT was Violette, paralyzed by horror and relief. But I can’t afford the luxury of reflection since there is a battle-axe swinging dangerously close to my head. I leap out of