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His father’s boots planted on the lip of the circle, blocking his way.

The Bloodletter’s eyes were narrow as blades. “You haven’t finished.”

“He shall not rise.”

“Not the point.” The Bloodletter nodded to the soldier on the floor. “Finish him.”

As his opponent moaned, Vishous assessed his father. If V said no, the game his father was playing would be fulfilled, the alienation the Bloodletter was after complete, though not in the way the male had probably expected: V would become a target for the simple staple that he would be perceived as weak for not punishing his opponent. If he finished, however, his position in the camp would be as stable as it could be—until the next test.

Exhaustion overtook him. Would his life always be based on such a crude and unforgiving scale of balances?

The Bloodletter smiled. “This bastard who calls himself my son has no spine, it appears. Perhaps the seed that his mother’s womb ate was of another?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, and someone yelled out, “No son of yours would hesitate at such an hour!”

“And during a fight no true son of mine would be so cowardly as to attack a male’s vulnerable place as such.” The Bloodletter met the eyes of his soldiers. “The weak must be devious, as strength is not available to them.”

The sensation of being strangled locked onto Vishous’s throat, sure as if his father’s hands were wrapped around his neck. As his breath quickened anew, anger swelled in his chest and his heart pounded. He looked down at the fat soldier who had beaten him…then thought of the books his father had made him burn…and the boy who had gone after him…and the thousands of cruel and graceless acts that had been done to him over the course of his life.

V’s body quickened from the anger that burned in him, and before he knew what he was doing he was rolling the soldier over onto his fat belly.

He took the male. In front of his father. In front of the camp.

And he was brutal about it.

When it was over, he disengaged and stumbled back. The soldier was covered with V’s blood and sweat and the remnants of his rage.

With a scramble like a goat he got himself out of the ring, and though he knew not what time of day it was, he ran through the camp to the main way out of the cave. As he burst free, the cold night was just gaining its hold on the land, and the faint glow in the east burned his face.

He bent over at the knees and threw up. Again and again.

“So weak you are.” The Bloodletter’s voice was bored…but only on the surface. There was a depth of satisfaction in his words caused by a mission completed: Although Vishous had done what he had to the soldier, his retreat afterward had been precisely the kind of cowardice his father had sought.

The Bloodletter’s eyes narrowed. “You shall never best me, boy. Just as you shall never be free of me. I shall rule your life—”

On a surge of hatred, V sprang up from his crouch and attacked his father head-on, leading with his glowing hand. The Bloodletter went rigid as the electrical blast went through his massive body, and the two of them fell upon the ground, with Vishous on top. Going on instinct, V locked his bright white palm on his father’s thick throat and squeezed.

As the Bloodletter’s face turned brilliant red, V’s eye stung briefly and a vision replaced what was before him.

He saw the death of his father. As clearly as if it happened in front of him.

Words left his mouth, though he was not conscious of speaking them: “You shall see your end in a wall of fire caused by a pain you know. You will burn until you are nothing but smoke, and be cast upon the wind.”

His father’s expression turned to abject horror.

V was peeled off by another soldier and held by the armpits, feet dangling above the snowy ground.

The Bloodletter leaped up, his face ruddy, a line of sweat beading above his upper lip. He breathed like a horse ridden hard, clouds of white shooting out of his mouth and nostrils.

V fully expected