him to the ground hard, their momentum moving them right out of the sparring circle and into the spectators.
Cries of feminine shock and pain rang out. Hands pushed at him, and Ember rose to his feet. A chime sounded, indicating the end of the first round. Divot had recovered quickly and now stood in the circle, wearing a smug, ruby grin. Ember glared, his pulse racing in his ears, as the man laughed. Pushing him into the spectators was a sign of disrespect. He turned to see what damage had been wrought.
Several women were righting themselves, brushing dirt from their waistcloths, but one was still sprawled on the ground. She had taken the brunt of the force of him crashing into her and was a petite creature, with hair like midnight cascading down her back, loosed from the tight braid in which she usually kept it. If her skin tone hadn’t identified her, the hair would have—clan women kept their heads shaved, preferring instead to decorate their bare scalps with paint as a sign of beauty. The hair of the unclanned was kept long, never cut until their initiation.
“My apologies, Mooriah,” he said gravely. He bowed deeply and held out a hand to her.
“It is nothing. I am unharmed.” Her voice was like the gentle rhythm of a drum. It soothed whatever remained of his disquiet. She blinked up at him then extended her hand in return. He held his breath.
His calloused hand enveloped her soft skin. He gripped her gently, swallowing down the fireflies that had taken flight within him. Her weight was light, and she was back on her feet in no time. She blinked rapidly, staring at their joined hands for a moment before slipping out of his grasp.
Though he had known her all his life, never before had he touched her skin. Its rich shade was a deep contrast to his—to all of the Folk, who shared similar features. But she had been born Outside, the daughter of sorcerers, and brought to the live in the caves as a baby. The two of them did not run in the same circles, and since she was as yet unclanned, their interaction was prohibited.
She caught sight of something behind him and scowled. He turned to find Divot leering at them from his position across the circle.
“Ember,” Mooriah whispered. He spun back to face her. “Show that beast what the Night Snow clan is made of.” She flashed him a smile that hit him harder than any fist ever had. He nearly stumbled backward but managed to nod.
He had enough time to towel off and rinse his mouth with water before the break between rounds was over. Then he cracked his neck and fingers, trying to concentrate on his opponent and ignore the scent of cinderberry that had clung to her skin. He flushed, willing away the feeling of fluttering wings the interaction with Mooriah had left inside him and reached for his focus.
The chime rang, and the fighters circled one another. “Your discourtesy to women shows what manner of vermin you and Iron Water are,” Ember taunted.
Divot shrugged. “What courtesy do the low-ranked and unclanned deserve? Unlike Night Snow, we do not offer clan membership to Outsiders.”
“And your clan’s inferiority is well known throughout the mountain.” He lowered his head and charged.
Ember did not generally use anger to fuel him as his brother and father did. Though his temper was not a vicious fire like theirs, it still scared him sometimes. But he did use it to focus himself, to home in on his opponent’s weaknesses and exploit them.
Divot was a skilled fighter indeed, but Ember had much more to lose than just a bout. Expectation and the future of the clan were bound up in what was, on the surface, a simple game. He could not afford a loss today, and with Mooriah’s whispered words spurring him on, he fought with renewed vigor and drive. He was fully in the zone, blind to the rest of the world, and emerged minutes later to the ringing of the final gong.
Cheers went up, and the official stepped forward to drape him with ribbons and declare him the victor. The shaman of Night Snow, an ancient man called Oval, stood next to the chieftain of the clan, Ember’s father Crimson, both looking just as morose as always, as though the match had ended in defeat.
Crimson’s voice rose to echo against the cave walls. “Once again, Night Snow shows its superiority.