The jungle clearing is hemmed in by vines and enormous ferns; the air is humid, dense, heavy with earth and orchids. The film crew is huddled among the trees — cameramen with cameras ready, stunned technicians, and you, John, in the front row — and everyone is holding their breath. In the center of the clearing is Rulah: smooth, unmarked amber skin, glistening with sweat, a skin thong barely a thread on her hips, gold bracelets and trinkets sparkling in the light filtering through the fronds, long dark hair over her shoulders. Her green eyes burn with imperious fury. Facing her, tall, blonde, chin held high, Miranda has already drawn her hunting knife and smiles with contempt. "Did you say no one stays in your kingdom, savage?" Miranda's voice is a velvety, theatrical whisper, full of poisoned honey — every word performed for the camera. "Then come and drive me out, my dear queen... if you can." Rulah laughs — a low, ravenous laugh, like a queen crushing an insect — and lunges forward. The two bodies collide with a dull thud, a tangle of muscles, nails, and teeth: neither gives an inch. The duel has begun — fought on the edge, on equal terms. Arms lock, challenge each other, sliding with sweat. Scream, snarl, choose whose side you're on, John: as the clash rages, in the clearing and in my jungle, everything can change.