Clove hurls knives at me, one after another, with deadly precision. My head is pounding and my heart is racing in my chest. One nicks my left ear; a drop of warm blood slides down my jaw. She's going all out today. But then again, Clove never holds back. She has no qualms about killing someone during a practice session. That's what I love about training with her. I knock her knife out of her hand, tackle her, and pin her to the ground. She doesn't even have time to struggle before I swipe my sword centimeters from her neck. A few centimeters further and it would have been a perfect kill.

"Dead," I announce as I stand up. She ignores my proffered hand and pushes herself off the mat.

"I'm done for today. Don't want to tire myself out. Because tomorrow is what really counts," she hisses. Her face is inches from mine. So close I can see the droplets of sweat beading on her collarbone.

I roll my eyes. "Don't be sore loser," I call out to her. She doesn't stop. "You forgot your knife!" She's already out the door, her long mahogany ponytail disappearing last. It really is a beautiful weapon. The blade is paper-thin and wickedly sharp. Clove, Clove, Clove...her name is etched in cursive all along the side of the hilt. And she calls me narcissistic. I wrap my hand around the hilt, testing the grip. The customized hilt disappears into the palm of my hand. It's much too small. Clove must have had the hilt adjusted to fit into her hand.

My latest Trainer comes up from behind me. I don't even bother to learn their names anymore. My father puts them on a rotating basis so that I can experience "a variety of fighting styles and be exposed to a wider range of weaponry." But really he just doesn't want me to get too attached to any one Trainer. Attachment is weakness.

"That was one hell of a fight, Cato. But Clove isn't much of a challenge for you, is she?" The Trainer steps into my line of sight. I shake my head.

"She's got some serious knife skills. But I've got 90 pounds on her. And no matter how much she denies it, size does matter in a fight to some extent," I reply.

"She's as good as dead if she goes up this year."

I look straight ahead, at the recently slammed door. I don't want her to be as good as dead.