“NO!” Zola kicked and screamed as Headman Bearleader and his guard dragged her out of the camp. “I won’t go!” She leaned down and bit the guard on the forearm, breaking the skin, the blood coppery on her tongue.

Headman Bearleader cuffed her ears, hard. Stars sparkled her vision, her head rang with the blows. She lost her footing, toes dragging, suspended between the two goliaths. Being the smallest member of the tribe, other than the littles, Zola endured her share of bullying in a culture fanatic about competition. She just didn’t see the point of competing with others when all she wanted was to improve her own skills.

Already, she could beat almost everyone in her age-group, except Master Rockwarrior, the training master, of course. And Stronghand, Headman Bearleader’s get. They wouldn’t let her compete against the older youths, though she knew she could at least hold her own against them. The elders kept leading her to learn from the Tent Mother, a tame role that made her stomach turn thinking about herself in that position for the rest of her life.

“Here,” she heard the muffled voice of Headman Bearleader as she landed face-down in the dirt.

“Not very big,” this, in an accent Zola had never heard.

“Aye,” the headman’s voice again. “This one be full o’ fire, she be. Ye’ll see.”

The odor of goats passed as her hearing cleared. Four, if she wasn’t completely muddled.

By the time her wits returned, the wagons had halted for the night. Zola looked around. She wasn’t the only captive in the caravan. A dwarf sat across the fire, staring into the flames, eyes dull.

“Ye know what’s comin’, don’t ye?” he asked, to no one in particular.

“Ya,” retorted a slaver, “yer head on a pike if’n ye don’ quit with th’ gloomy doom talk.” He threw a rock at the dwarf, who easily dodged the missile. The rest of the guards laughed and went back to their conversation.

The following day, the wagons entered a walled city. A cacophony of noise, smells, and sights assaulted her senses. The sound alone was enough to drive her mad. She put her hands to her ears, but that did little to block the clamor. The odor was not only the earthy scent of penned animals. It mixed with the aroma of cooking food, the reek of too many bodies in one place, and the stench of sewage. Her stomach threatened to heave.

Finally, the caravan rolled to a halt inside a walled courtyard. A portal slammed behind and the sounds of the city receded to the background.

The wagon opened, and guards dragged her to the ground. They surrounded her with spears and forced her into a stone building filled with cages. Then they prodded her into a large cell, locking the iron-barred door behind her.

Her anger smoldered.

Some time later, a squad brought what passed for a meal—thin soup, stale bread, and a bucket of tepid water. The meager fare did little to ease the cramp in her belly. She lay down on the straw pallet in the corner opposite the door and tried to sleep. The next morning, another bowl of soup, hunk of bread, and bucket of water appeared.

By the time they came for her, hunger had brought her temper to the fore. When they shoved her into a gladiatorial arena as a sacrifice, Zola exploded in rage.

Afterward, she could not say how she disarmed and killed her opponent. In the stunned silence that followed her victory, she dipped her hand in the blood spreading on the sand, lifting it to the crowd. She placed her bloodied palm across her mouth, stretching her fingers and marking her face with a red handprint. She raised her new weapon, a battle axe, over her head and marched around the sand in the pit. It was then she became Dreamstalker. The crowd erupted in cheers for their new champion.

She won her next battle, then the next, anger fueling her battle rage. Dreamstalker knew that somehow, someday, some way, she would be free of this place.