The arena roared as the bull’s horn caught the hem of Miranda’s skirt. She’d been too slow to dodge completely. For several agonizing seconds, she dangled upside down from the horn, her legs flailing in the air to the crowd’s uproarious laughter.
The beast thrashed its head, its horn raking a shallow but painful scratch across her lower belly. By sheer luck, the gash was only surface-deep—painful, but not lethal.
Around her, the arena boiled with excitement, the noise almost physical in its intensity. For a few more seconds, she hung helplessly, arms brushing the dusty ground, unable to regain control. Finally, the fabric tore—the horn ripping clean through—and she dropped headfirst near the bull’s pounding hooves.
She would have been gored again, had the baroness not darted in and yanked her away at the last possible moment. Now the maddened bull charged after her.
Miranda, shaken and bleeding, crawled on all fours toward the nearest refuge.
The rampaging beast was too fast for her. This was no ordinary animal—it was a refined creature, bred for ferocity. Only the baroness had managed to plant her flags in its back so far—and even then, only through feats that bordered on suicidal.
Yet courage hadn’t left Miranda entirely. She still believed Kargath was on her side. The task ahead was simply greater than she had expected—but he was a god, wasn’t he? He would find a way to guide her. She only had to give her utmost in return.
And not everything was going smoothly for the others, either.
The baroness had just slipped, landing ungracefully on the ground, and was forced to roll away to avoid the bull’s charging horns. The beast, however, seemed to lose interest in her and instead turned to pursue the princess.
With an expression of pure frustration, the baroness flung her flat shoes away and stood barefoot, just like Miranda.
“I knew I should’ve brought tennis shoes—if only I had a pair!” she muttered.
Miranda blinked. Shoes made of tennis? She didn’t quite understand, but before she could dwell on it, the baroness turned toward her.
“You should give up,” she said in a low voice, stepping closer and offering the potion once again. “It’s too dangerous for you. You’ll only get gored.”
“But you’ll lose if I give up!” Miranda protested.
The baroness shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. All we wanted was to participate. If we lose here, we lose. So what? That beast will kill you—it’s too fast, too well-trained. It’s meant to kill. Just run to the exit and live.”
There were only two ways to forfeit without ending gored. One was to run for the exit door and leave the arena entirely under the boos of the arena. The other was to hide in one of the three small wooden shelters scattered across the grounds—makeshift refuges offering partial protection. They weren’t guaranteed to withstand the bull’s fury, however the bull might lose interest.
If all three girls took shelter and the bull lost interest, the jury could declare a forfeit and the arena would boo them, but they would be alive. For now, though, the burden fell to the princess. She was doing her best—scrambling, tumbling, keeping just ahead of the bull, drawing its focus.
Miranda shook her head firmly.
“It doesn’t matter if I get gored,” she said stubbornly. “Either I succeed and win my freedom… or I die. But I’m not going back to being a serf.”
The baroness let out a sigh, then turned to glance at the princess, who was still scrambling to stay ahead of the bull.
“I have to go,” she muttered—and without another word, she took off running, shouting to draw the bull’s attention.
Miranda glanced down at her legs—healed, but still streaked with blood. She felt a little dizzy, but the small gulp she’d taken from the potion was steadily working through her system. The injuries hadn’t been life-threatening, but the blood loss was catching up to her.
Gasps and yells rippled through the arena, and Miranda snapped her head up.
Both girls were down.
Did the bull hit them? Or did they collide?
But they didn’t seem harmed—because only a moment later, the princess was back on her feet, already drawing the bull’s ire away.
Miranda tried to calm her agitated breathing, steadying herself as she watched the two noblewomen in motion.
This time, it was the baroness who moved evasively, darting and circling, while the princess launched herself into surprisingly reckless maneuvers. In one fluid leap, she planted her first flag.
It was as if they’d switched roles entirely.
Had the princess been holding back until now? What she was showing—grace, timing, explosive speed—was something else entirely. Okay, she’d shown grace before. But not these lightning-fast bursts of motion.
Then, without hesitation, the princess charged the bull head-on, vaulted high over its horns, and in mid-air, drove her second flag into its back with surgical precision.
She landed on her feet in a clean arc, arms raised in triumph as the arena erupted in cheers.
“This is my moment!” Miranda told herself, then leapt from her hiding place.
She aimed to catch the bull by surprise—rushing from the side, hoping to plant both her flags in one go. It wasn’t forbidden, just frowned upon by the crowd. Still, it could work—if she was fast enough.
But she wasn’t.
The beast turned its head at the last second, and its horn drove deep into her belly. It lifted her with terrifying ease, tearing her open as it jerked its head upward—gore and intestines splashing outside.
She fell like a ragdoll, crumpling to the ground. The bull slammed her once more for good measure, tossing her aside with brutal finality.
Then it turned and charged after the baroness, who spun on her talons and sprinted away.
“You fool!!” the princess shouted, grabbing her shoulder and dragging her to safety.
Miranda’s face was up towards the sky yet her vision darkened as she was dragged away. Had she seen her own heart beating?
Her thoughts scattered and her mind slipped into unconsciousness to return brutally back, an insufferable heat burning her insides.
She woke inside one of the wooden shelters, her body aflame with pain as the healing potion roared through her veins, hotter than ever, pounding in her skull like a war drum.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
But she was alive. Somehow, impossibly—alive.
“Stay here!” someone said.
She was too groggy to register the voice, but as her senses returned, she caught a glimpse—of herself—running outside and her mind swam in fog utterly confused. Can one be in two places at the same time?
She watched herself stumble into the arena, bloodied and shaking, gulping from a potion. Her belly was no longer torn open, her intestines no longer spilling out. Somehow, impossibly, the wound was gone.
The bull snorted, as if offended by the recovery, and turned away from the fleeing baroness—focusing once more on her.
She stood frozen, watching it all, almost crying out in panic—move!—but just before the beast collided, her mirrored self leaned sideways, seized a horn, and vaulted onto the bull’s back and the arena erupted.
She rode the maddened bull, arms raised high.
A heartbeat later, she slammed both flags into the creature’s back.
The bull bucked wildly, trying to throw her off, but she gripped it tight with her thighs, her arms lifted in victory as the crowd howled in exhilaration.
It was as if she’d been granted a godly vision—something greater than her, something sacred. Was she dreaming? Or was this Kargath’s hand at work?
The baroness now sprinted toward her shelter, the bull thundering after her. A heartbeat later, just as she dove inside, the beast slammed into it with all its might.
The shelter exploded as if struck by a powerful magical blast—splinters and planks flying in every direction. She hit the ground hard, tangled in the shattered remains.
In the dispersing cloud of dust, a strong hand grabbed Miranda’s and pulled her out.
As they stumbled into clearer air, Miranda realized she was holding the baroness’s hand—and on her other side, the princess walked alongside them, still somehow radiant, even in her groggy, disheveled state.
How can someone be that beautiful? Miranda wondered, dazed. It almost felt like a sin to look at her.
Behind them, the bull snorted weakly, dazed and struggling to stand.
Miranda was scraped and bruised again, but she paid it no mind. Together, they walked toward the exit, hand in hand.
The crowd erupted—chanting, cheering, stamping their feet in thunderous celebration.
They had won.
She had won.
Miranda could barely believe it.
She was free.
*
“You made it, sis! I saw you and couldn’t believe it—I told everyone you were my sister!” Suniak, her little brother, practically bounced in place, his round eyes wide with wonder. “How did you do that?”
She smiled softly and let out a sigh.
Their small one-room house was overcrowded. All eight members of her family were packed inside, and even a few neighbors had squeezed in to offer their congratulations.
The food was simple—a pot of vegetable gruel with a few precious pieces of rabbit meat someone had managed to chase down—and the drink was a kind of beer brewed from the same root vegetable.
She held her clay jar of beer in her hand, having taken quiet refuge in the barn. But even in the dark of night, Suniak had tracked her down.
“How did I do that?” she echoed. “I did it by Kargath’s grace, Sunny. I couldn’t have done it without his help.”
They all thought she was just being modest.
But she was only telling the truth.
She sipped some more of her drink, still trying to settle herself. The noise of the celebration was fading, and she could feel her mother approaching before she even heard her steps.
They had always been close. Even though her mother had disapproved of her decision to take part in Kargath’s Holy Days, she hadn’t condemned her—had stayed silently on her side.
“You’re very pensive,” her mother said gently, settling beside her. “Is something wrong?”
Miranda sighed again. Her mother always knew.
She shook her head. “No.”
Her mother smiled, placing a warm hand on her shoulder.
“I’m proud of you,” she said. “You’re free now.”
Miranda glanced at her mother.
She knew one of her mother’s deepest fears was that she might leave. And she would. Sooner or later, she would go. She drew in a deep breath, but before she could speak, her mother gently pressed on.
“Why do you seem like you’re not happy after gaining your freedom?” she asked. “Is it the wound? Does it still hurt, even if we can’t see it? Suniak said the last bull gored you badly. Is that true, or is he exaggerating?”
“You weren’t there?” Miranda asked, a bit surprised.
Her mother lowered her gaze, shame flickering in her expression.
“I couldn’t bear to see you hurt,” she whispered. “I didn’t dare.”
Miranda let out a bitter chuckle. “It’s true. The bull tore me open. I think… I even saw my own heart. My belly was open and my entrails were everywhere. But the baroness gave me a potion. It healed me.”
Her mother stared at her, eyes wide, swallowing hard.
“How… how… and yet with that wound, you still managed to win? That’s…”
She didn’t finish.
Miranda sighed and looked around hearing more steps approaching them, then leaned in close, lowering her voice.
“You know, Ma… I think Kargath did something. I was still recovering—still broken—and then… I don’t know. I saw myself doing it. Like I was watching from somewhere else. And then… it was over.”
“The god intervened for you?” her mother asked, baffled.
But before Miranda could answer, another voice interrupted, accompanied by a hand shaking her from behind.
“Was she a real princess? You saw her? You spoke to a real princess?”
Miranda turned toward her older sister, Agarla—already eighteen and still not married, eyes wide with fascination.
“What did you promise Kargath, for him to help you so much?” Lisa, her other sister, asked. Seventeen, already a mother, and now expecting her second child.
Miranda sighed and barely whispered the truth.
“I promised I’d go to war. To serve him.”
A collective gasp rippled through the barn.
“Oh, dear… oh, dear,” her mother moaned. “You said you wanted freedom—and this is your freedom? The army? That’s worse than being a serf!”
Then her father quietly placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Did you promise to go into the army, or—as you just said—to go to war?” he asked calmly.
Miranda blinked.
“I… I only said I’d go to war… I think.”
“Then go to that noblewoman—the one who gave you the healing potion. Ask if she’ll take you into her troop. See if you can follow her. All noble houses are gathering forces, and she, at least, showed she cared.”
Miranda turned to him, surprised.
The idea wasn’t bad.
In fact, it sounded… right.