Finally, the Firstblade nods his approval and leaves the circle. Jeran watches him go, distracted, as the other Strikers begin to mill around.
I keep my head down as we enter the space, but it doesn’t stop the ripple of attention that hits me. I can feel the stares from the recruits and the soldiers, can hear their whispers and mutters to one another.
“That’s the Basean Striker,” one recruit says to another. “I guess rats can sneak into the tightest kitchens.”
“No wonder her Shield died. Pity.”
“Well, I hear she won’t be a Striker for much longer. Firstblade’s to make a decision this week.”
“My mother says Baseans get their black hair from sleeping in the mud.”
“I heard it was from sleeping with the scrapyard pickers.”
Muffled laughter.
My posture stiffens at that. Last year, I’d had a fling with a young Larcean refugee, a sweet, pretty boy with an easy smile, who worked to sort valuable steel from trash in the Outer City’s scrapyards. We only fooled around for a few weeks, sneaking time together in hollowed-out carriage husks in the yards, but it lasted long enough for word to get out to the other Strikers. I haven’t been in another relationship since.
The precariousness of my position hangs over me like a storm cloud. Corian felt sorry for you. The words buzz again in my mind.
Adena’s grip tightens on my arm as she glares at the others. “So eager to insult a fellow Striker when you could probably rip all their guts out,” she says to me, raising her voice loud enough for them to hear.
Jeran sees us approach. His face softens with a smile that turns his eyes into crescents as he hurries toward us, tripping in his rush. I can’t help smiling back. Jeran is ruthlessly graceful when practicing the art of death. When he’s not, he can’t find his balance.
“It’s good to see you out of your quarters,” he signs.
“You can do a blind run better than anyone,” I sign back, smiling at the cloth still looped around his neck.
“I was studying your techniques, you know,” he tells me, his expression bashful. “That last move was one I saw you do at the warfront at midnight.”
“Me?” I make a mock gesture of fluffing my hair. “What a flatterer, Jeran.”
He laughs a little. “Only when deserved. Aramin says I still can’t do it quite as well as you.”
The thought of the Firstblade’s indirect praise lifts my spirits somewhat.
“Why can’t you appreciate my techniques?” Adena says to him. “You still haven’t tried out the ax I designed for you.”
“It’s too heavy,” he insists. “Have you tried lifting that thing during battle?”
“It’s the same weight as your sword! I designed it specifically for you.”
“It’s hard to carry.”
“Be honest. You don’t like it because it doesn’t look good.”
Jeran gives me an embarrassed glance before looking back at his Shield. “The hilt doesn’t match the rest of my ensemble,” he finally signs.
Adena throws her hands up. “I quit. I’m going home. Call me when the warfront no longer requires a sense of fashion.”
I walk behind them as they bicker, watching how their steps sync up as if they could read each other’s minds. It is the way of Shields, and how I used to walk with Corian. The pang in my heart is all too familiar now. I clamp down on it before it overwhelms me.
We settle in our seats right as a horn sounds from the far side of the arena. I look toward it to see two guards pulling with all their weight on a chain that keeps one of the central arena’s gates weighed down. The door groans as it inches open.
“So, what do we know about this prisoner?” Adena asks Jeran.
“He was captured at the warfront two weeks ago,” he replies, fiddling restlessly with his hands like he always does. “The rumor is that he’s a soldier who defected from the Federation.”
“A soldier? Because he was in uniform?”
“No uniform. He has a brand, though.” At that, Jeran brushes a hand idly along the thin trim of black silk on his coat’s neckline to indicate where it is. “Some kind of military insignia. They said he was running across the warfront as if being chased, and not with the deliberate movements of a scout.”
“Apparently he won’t talk,” Adena says, then tugs at her gloves. “Not even to save his life. But we’ll see if that changes in the arena. By the time they’ve whipped his back to a pulp, he’ll be spilling out the Federation’s secrets like a broken water line.”
“Maybe he’ll want to cooperate now,” Jeran offers hopefully, “and we won’t have to. Whip him, that is.”
I just listen as they go on. Why would a Federation defector not want to tell us what he knows? If this soldier was unhappy enough to risk life and limb to escape to Mara, wouldn’t he want to help us defeat a common enemy?
“I think they’re about to bring him out,” Jeran muses, nodding toward the far end of the space, and my thoughts churn to a halt as I crane my neck in the same direction.
A shout goes up from somewhere in the arena.
“Firstblade!”
The call has barely echoed through the space before every Striker rises in a uniform clatter. I follow suit.
It’s the Firstblade, and his expression now is a mask of grave calm. As he walks to the center of the arena, we all tap a fist in unison to our chests. Jeran’s eyes linger on him longer than the rest of ours do; from the corner of my eye, I can see him leaning forward as if to get a better glimpse. Aramin flicks a hand at us, and only then do all the Strikers sit down again.
I hear the clank of metal. My attention shifts back to the gate at the arena’s end.
A team of guards emerges, dragging a young man between them.
He’s tall, built strong like a soldier. Shadows obscure his eyes. Heavy chains hang from his neck, wrists, and legs, clanking with every move he makes.
At first glance, he seems unremarkable. But there’s something about him that keeps my gaze locked, makes me afraid to look away.
“This is the prisoner of war?” I sign to Adena beside me.
Adena frowns too. “He doesn’t seem like a soldier. Where’s his Federation haircut?”
I shake my head. Most Karensan soldiers I’ve seen have their hair clipped short on the sides in a distinct look. This man’s locks look naturally grown out.
“He seems weak,” Jeran adds as he nods toward the prisoner. There’s real pity in his voice.
Adena lets out a disappointed sigh. “They’ve starved him too long. This won’t be much of a spectacle.”
I take a better look at him.
One thing that separates apprentices from seasoned Strikers is a well-honed instinct. You develop a sense for everything around you—the shift of eyes and feet, the people not seen in the shadows, the small gestures that others don’t notice. The feeling that something is about to go wrong. It is why we practice exercises like what Jeran did with his blindfold, isolating our senses one by one in order to enhance them. Survival out on the warfront depends on cataloging every tiny detail around you.
Over the years, I’ve honed my instinct into a blade. But when I look at this man, I don’t see anything I can grasp. Nothing in his eyes feels familiar—not a glint of hate, fear, or uncertainty. I feel only like I’m staring into an abyss. Like I don’t know where I am.