But without trade, this harvest isn’t enough to feed everyone. The few herds of wild cows left in Mara are strictly regulated by the Senate to ensure their populations can remain steady enough to feed us. The meat distributed is reserved for Senate leaders and those who live in the Inner City, while people in the Outer City have to resort to eating the rabbits and mice that run rampant in the shantytowns. People risk imprisonment and death to poach the remaining animals, but even then they will all be gone in a few years. If the Federation’s Ghosts don’t find us first, starvation will.
The worst part is knowing that this is still nowhere near what life would be like under the Federation’s rule. I’ve seen the destruction firsthand in the territories they conquer. It is the fire of an empire that believes so strongly in their superiority, is so certain they are destined to inherit this land from the Early Ones, that they are determined to prove it.
In the silence, Adena glances over at me. Her gaze settles on the dark circles under my eyes. “Jeran told me you’ve been at the arena before dawn every day,” she finally says. “That you’ve been training past midnight.”
“I thought you’d be impressed with how busy I’ve been keeping.”
“I’d be more impressed if you were efficient about it,” she replies. “But you’re just exhausting yourself. You collapsed twice during training this week. No one has seen you at the mess hall in days.”
“Who needs a mess hall when they have you delivering them meat pies?”
“I wouldn’t need to deliver you meat pies if you’d just go to the mess hall,” she replies witheringly.
“Forgive me for enjoying your daily company.”
“Look, if you want to practice in the arena until you’re unconscious, at least use your time right. Come by my shop. I can replace your swords’ hilts with a design that locks together. It’ll let you use both blades at once and free up your other hand for a third weapon.”
I nudge her. “New gadgets you’ve been tinkering with?”
Adena grins and pulls out her own double blades. I can see that she has fitted both ends with an interlocking piece. She slides the two hilts together and twists until there’s a satisfying click. Then she twirls the connected swords with one hand. They’ve been transformed into a single weapon with a blade at either end.
“See?” she says aloud as she twists the hilts again. They separate back into two swords.
I smile. All of Adena’s weapons are altered like this—daggers with serrated blades; bullets that explode on contact with a target; arrows tipped with poison. She’s the only Striker who was given a shop in the metalworkers’ Grid.
“Anyway,” she adds as she sheaths her swords, “take it easy on your training. Come sit with the others once in a while. You can’t hide away forever.”
“I’ll be fine,” I sign. “Really.”
“Convincing argument,” she signs back.
“I just … Give me time.”
Adena’s eyes soften at me, and she touches my arm. “Losing your first Shield is always the hardest.” Her gestures pause, turning uncertain. “I know it’s only been a couple of weeks.”
Adena’s first Shield had been her brother, her only family. She’d lost him three years ago to a hostage trade gone wrong between us and the Federation. I had been the one delivering food to her door then, forcing her out of bed and away from her grief. Ever since, she has looked forward to the executions of enemy soldiers.
“But you know a Striker must have a Shield, right?” she continues now. “The Firstblade’s not going to let you stay unpaired for much longer.”
You can’t stay a Striker without a Shield. If a lone Striker is bitten by a Ghost, there is no one nearby to kill them before they turn. Corian would have twisted into the gnarled, cracked body of a Ghost and come for the rest of us at the encampment. They don’t trust us to have the strength to kill ourselves first.
I look away from her as we approach the arena’s front gates. “I knew my Striker days were over the instant Corian’s father turned me away,” I sign. “Who else would want to pair with a Basean?”
“Plenty would. Don’t lose hope. Aramin hasn’t dismissed you yet.”
“Yet.” I raise an eyebrow at her. “I appreciate your faith in me, but you don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not lying!” she blurts out.
“I know what the other Strikers think of me being on a patrol.”
“Well, they’re fools,” Adena finally adds. She loops her arm through mine and presses herself closer to me. “You’re one of the most talented Strikers ever recruited. Even the Firstblade has admitted that. If he lets you go, we might as well open our gates and wave the Federation in.”
“Well, that makes you the fool,” I sign. Then I smile and lean back against her. “But thank you, all the same.”
Adena shrugs, nudging me affectionately. “Figured you could use the moral support.”
We reach the arena’s front gates and walk through. Inside, Strikers are scattered throughout the space. Some are already waiting up in the seats, while the most dedicated are running through a few quick drills down in the arena’s center. Ema Wen Danna, expected to join Mara’s Senate next year, is sharpening her sword as she lectures her sullen brother, Sano, on proper weapon etiquette. They exchange nods with me as I pass by. Others, like Tomm and Pira, both offspring of old money families, sneer and whisper under their breath. I keep my chin up and ignore them.
I see a cluster of onlookers gathered around one Striker in particular. It’s Jeran Min Terra, Adena’s Shield, sparring with random opponents.
At first glance, Jeran looks like nothing more than a slender boy, his hair tied up in a knot of red gold and his eyes the blue of glacier water, his face too shy for a Striker. It’s not the appearance of someone who has racked up more kills than anyone else in the patrols. Deathdancer. It’s the nickname he’s earned by the fluid way he moves around a Ghost, slicing a thousand cuts with his daggers while dodging every claw the creature might slash in his direction. He always reminds me of water carving through a canyon.
Today he has blindfolded himself, relying solely on his hearing to determine where his opponent is. His leg sweeps in an arc across the ground. His back arches like a bow. As we look on, he disarms one challenger, then smoothly sends another falling backward into the dirt. His movements are lithe and precise, a hypnotizing dance of daggers flashing, blades glinting.
To anyone unfamiliar with Jeran’s techniques, it’d seem as if he doesn’t even need to think. He just acts. But Adena and I both know how much work he puts into his moves. The onlookers let out a cheer now as Jeran disarms a third opponent, then slides off his blindfold.
Now I notice the Firstblade among those watching Jeran practice. In the midst of applause, Aramin steps toward Jeran and points out some small weakness in the Striker’s moves. Jeran listens closely, then copies Aramin’s motion. The two move in sync, Aramin explaining as they go. And in this moment, I remember how young Aramin is, how he used to do these same exercises with Jeran in the arena before our last Firstblade was killed and Aramin was promoted. It still surprises me that Aramin never asked Jeran to be his Shield.