Age 13

Temple of Hagalaz, Asgard

"Enough!" Eldmara's voice cuts deeper than the punch that just knocked me to the floor. I gasp for breath but feel only pain. "You're pathetic! A waste of space! You should be ashamed!" I don't hear her approach, but I can feel the temperature drop. I want to curl into a ball, but there's no oxygen to move my limbs. Icy tendrils pull me into a kneeling position, half a mercy and half a terror. At least now I can breathe, but the cold saps at my already depleted strength, and I have to look at Eldmara's face, twisted with rage. The same rage that she's been feeding for two weeks now as she sends goons to beat on me, expecting a 13 year old girl to be able to take them down with nothing more than a handful of flame. Talk about stupidity. Or insanity. Whatever.

"You hold the pride of Muspelheim in your veins! This power has slayed gods! Where is your fire?" Last week I sassed back. This week I got my first broken rib, er, ribs. No more sarcasm for me. Eldmara pauses in her tirade and I try not to shiver. I think she's getting an idea, which, news flash, won't end well for me.

The ice dissolves and I drop to the floor, losing my access to air again. There's never water when the ice disappears, it doesn't melt, just fades to mist. The silence drags and I gain enough strength to sit up. The "practice room" is dark as always, but I can make out Mina and the most recent mindless muscle to whip me into shape.

"Pack up. We're leaving." I can tell everyone in the room wants to ask where, but none of us do. It doesn't faze Eldmara, who doesn't need any audience but herself. "Since there clearly isn't enough motivation here for the girl, it's time I visit an old friend. Mina, tell Runa I need her to prepare for departure. We're going to Sakaar."

I'd gotten used to being scrutinized by Eldmara, but the way this man, the Grandmaster, was looking at me sent chills down my spine. I could read hunger and intrigue in his expression.

"And you're sure she'll pose a threat? Because she looks like she'd fit better in some gold and glitter than in the ring." If there was anything in my stomach, I'd throw it up. I might be young, but I'm not oblivious.

"That's the problem." Eldmara's no nonsense attitude is a stark contrast to the Grandmaster's laidback tone. "This girl holds an ancient and honored power in her veins and I cannot have her mistaken for a... showgirl. Either she learns to fight in your ring and gains the reputation she needs as a weapon, or she dies in it and I can bond the Eternal Flame to someone stronger."

The Grandmaster looks like he's considering it. "You know, you would look good in gold and glitter too." I tense, my light flickering fast enough to cause a seizure. Nobody disrespects Eldmara, it's the first thing you learn if you want to live.

But Eldmara does nothing but glare,and drop the temperature in the room even more, and it occurs to me that she has less power here. Less authority. She is not the most important one in the room, and whatever sway the Grandmaster holds is enough to hold her back, meaning I'm in even more danger than I thought.

"But the Eternal Flame… I've seen that power in action. What the hell! I'll give her a shot!" He pats my cheek and I flinch, but he doesn't seem to care. "Besides, what's more fun than seeing children get murdered? She can start tonight, but first you'll have to take her to the tailor."

"The tailor."

"Yes, the tailor. You might have style, but she doesn't."

Turns out I don't like the Grandmaster's idea of "style." Half an hour later I'm dressed in a long sleeve red jumpsuit that only comes to mid thigh. The rest of my legs are bare and I'm wearing a thick pair of lace up boots. And to top it off, I'm also clad in a very glittery gold bra that is maybe armor in the loosest sense.

I don't feel comfortable, but for the moment, I'll take it, because I'm no longer under Eldmara's supervision. How much it must say about my regular situation to be relieved to be sitting in a group cell surrounded by prisoners who I'll probably fight to the death later on.

I listen to the sounds of fighting in the distance. The fights have already started, and I can hear screams of pain and the roar of the crowd. It's brutal, so different from the relative silence of my regular fights to the death. I don't know when my turn is. I don't know if I only have to fight once or if I have to keep going.

But I'm not scared, not yet. I can't afford to be scared.

One fight ends, and when the guards return to fetch more fighters, I'm escorted into another room with more than half the prisoners. The room is full of weapons. I've never been allowed weapons, even when fighting against them. I look around, but no one is there to tell me no. There is the slight problem of not knowing how to use any of these, but I'm not going in there unarmed. I shove a knife in my boot and I grab a long metal staff, hoping I can use the long reach to keep my opponent away from me. That's all I have time to grab before all of us, about 15, are moved into the arena. They don't separate us. We are all fighting each other.

I don't wait for instructions, as soon as we are free from the guards, I put as much distance between me and the others as possible. The announcer's voice is unintelligible from the field, but I can hear enough to know that the battle has started.

Now I'm scared. I have no idea what I'm doing. I can sit here and wait, like I would facing Eldmara's goons. Or I can attack first. That's why I'm here, isn't it? To make a statement?

I'd later learn that the first rule of battle is to never hesitate. Today, however, I do not know that. A blow from behind knocks me to the ground because I'm not paying attention. I get up as fast as I can, bring my staff up to block the sword headed to my face. Toy lightsabers duels with little brothers apparently did not prepare me to deal with real swords. The impact hurts my hands and I almost drop my staff.

I move backwards and swing the staff like a bat. My attacker catches it with one arm and yanks, ripping it from my grip. Now he's holding a staff, and a two-handed sword, because the dude has three arms. I'm not stupid enough to think that my boot knife is big enough to take down a much larger opponent, so I don't take it out. Instead, I light myself on fire.

I'm not sure I'll ever get used to the sensation of being on fire. It doesn't hurt, it feels like every cell in my body has to be in motion all the time. Like I'll die if I'm not moving. I've learned exactly one trick: channeling giant waves of fire in a general direction. Usually, my opponents are ready for it, had shields or whispered incantations to counter me. This guy had no idea what was coming for him.

I've never heard a grown man scream in pain, and it shakes me to the core. I caused that. I watch in horror as he collapses, and the feeling deepens when the crowd cheers for me.

I caught others in the fire wave too, and some of them are only a little singed, and very pissed. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. They're all coming at me and I don't know what I'm doing.

Stupidity and desperation for a weapon drive me forward instead of back. I grab my staff from where it lies, red hot. I keep heating it, thinking that they won't want to grab it if it's hot. The effort covers in flame. That's about as far as my plan goes.

Something in my brain shuts down, and I'm no longer thinking, just reacting. I send waves of fire in every direction, but it doesn't take all of them down. I use the staff to guard myself as best I can, but I can't defend against them all. It's a living nightmare, worse than everything Eldmara has ever thrown at me. The worst part being that I'm still alive.

I manage to put some distance between myself and who ever is left. I come back to semi-awareness, the fear and horror sinking back into my soul. I think there are maybe three besides me, but there's so much smoke and ash on the field that I can't tell. I also have a rapidly swelling black eye that's making vision difficult, and a slew of other injuries that are presenting a challenge for standing.

My staff is no longer useful for anything but a bludgeon. It's not even entirely solid where my hands hold it, but like putty. Whatever it is, I've melted it. The crowd is still cheering, chanting something that I can't quite make out.

Just when I come to the conclusion that any more fighting will likely kill me, a voice sounds over the roar of the crowd. "Well, that was entertaining. Way to go, guys, you really surprised me!" It's the Grandmaster, sounding like he's just watched a comedy show. "We'll see you again next week. I'm thinking a tournament."

I don't know how to respond to that, I don't really believe that it's over, not even when others show up to drag carcasses off the field. The crowd is still screaming, and I can finally make out what they're saying.

Holocaust.

I'm not stupid, I knows they must mean me. But it doesn't sink in, doesn't feel real, until I'm standing in Eldmara's cold shadow. She's smiling.

"Well done, my dear. It looks like you'll make something of yourself yet."