The young man rose to his feet, his eyes still fixed on the corpse of the slave trader. He hadn’t wished to kill the man, but violence redirected is still violence nonetheless. The young man had only changed the angle of the blow, and in a moment the slave trader had gutted himself with his own blade. The young man bowed and said a prayer.

The women locked inside the wagon looked at the young man, confused by him but hating him nonetheless. How could they not? They knew little of men save their brutality. He felt the sting of pity, made fierce by the knowledge that they had neither need nor desire for what little sympathy he could offer. Compassion or not, he was still a man.

The dull clank of armor from behind the wagon shook the thought from him. Had the trader more guards? His heart sank. He did not wish to end any more lives today. The young man approached the side of the wagon, never looking at the women inside. The shame would break his meditation.

He found himself locked in the sharpened gaze of a woman with hair the color of rust. Her eyes, moss-green and harder than a blacksmith’s hammer, dissected his every weakness with a fury the young man had never seen. He had fought with men three times her size, smashing houses and toppling trees in their rage, but she was the first worthy opponent he had ever seen.

Her body was covered in stained, battered plate armor from her neck to her feet. A bearskin cloak hung from her shoulders. The halberd in her right hand was many heads taller than she was, but she held it as though it were weightless. Her body was powerful, standing with a poise that was both violent and delicate. It occurred to the young man that she was extremely beautiful.

The halberd swung, stopping inches from the young man’s throat. He cursed himself for being so distracted.

When the young man did not flinch, the armored woman narrowed her eyes. The man wore only a gray tunic and leather sandals. He was defenseless, yet calm. She decided he was bluffing, and gestured toward the corpse at his feet.

“Where are my sisters who killed this man? Speak, or I’ll kill you as easily as they killed your brother.”

The young man laughed.

“Amused?” the woman said. “You are arrogant.”

“And you are quick to assume. Your sisters are still locked in their cages, and this was no brother of mine.”

The armored woman raised an eyebrow.

“He was weak,” said the young man. “Like most Shivans, or at least the ones you’re likely to find. He lashed out in anger when I offended his pride, and I can assure you that anyone who attacks me soon falls by their own hand.”

The woman turned to one of the angry faces looking out from the wagon. They exchanged a glance; a single look that held an entire conversation. She looked back at the man, her halberd now loose in her hand.

“You’d kill your own kind, then?”

“He was not my kind. Worshiping a male god does not make a man, and there are few men among Shivans. The majority are boys, at best. Dogs at worst. They don’t understand what it means to be a man any more than you do.”

The young man’s indignation took the armored woman by surprise. He exhaled, locked eyes with her again.

“Though I have also found precious few women among Devites.”

The halberd came back up, touched his neck.

“You have no right to say that.”

“Don’t I?” said the man. “I’m not the first to wish to mend the divide between Shiva and Devi, yet others like me have been cut down by your warriors just as you intend to slay me here. Only angry little girls would be so quick to silence harmony.”

“Choose your words carefully, then,” said the armored woman. “What would a woman do differently?”

“Oh, she would laugh…”

The woman lowered her weapon, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.