Lirssa stood at the mirror in the bathroom she shared with her brother, Raza. She had stayed the night at the Eye. A tilt of her head, she examined the bruise to her cheek. It covered from cheekbone to jawline along the left side.

The first duel had gone pretty much as she expected. What she had not expected, though, was how it would change how she felt about dueling in general. As she had told Ms Jewell last night, getting hit was the name of the game. She knew she would get hit. She knew what she was doing agreeing to be part of the team.

And that was what she had always told herself when she had cheered for such violence for years. Those that got in those rings knew what they were in for. When she yelled for someone to rip another duelist apart, she did not mean it literally. She meant it to be encouraging, for the person to feel powerful, invincible, ready to face the match.

But by all the levels of Dante's Inferno, did getting hit hurt! She'd broken bones, been shot, cut, tortured until the nerves of her legs were shattered and she was paralyzed.

Her heart skipped a beat. Sunglasses — shades — rose into full, crystal vision in her mind. An overpowering rage curled her fists and drew tears to the corners of her eyes.

She took a deep breath. One and then another. She began to list the things she saw around her. "Mirror. Toothbrush. Hairbrush. Towel. Washcloth." The rage and anxiety began to subside.

Why did this feel so different' Was it because she embraced it' She went in looking for it' It was a visible reminder of her failure?

Lirssa scowled looking over the purplish-blue bruise now fringed with yellow. She took out the makeup she so rarely used and, repeating the tricks she learned from one of the actors at Shanachie, concealed the bruise.