Without warning, Kalden plucks it from my hand.
“Excuse me?” I toss up my arms. “Why’d you steal my snack? Is it poisonous or something?”
Kalden shakes his head, tossing the fruit back and forth between his palms. “It isn’t ripe yet. The skin should be softer and a deeper orange. If you eat it now, it’ll fill your mouth with a fuzzy bitterness.”
The description dries my salivating tongue. “How do you know?”
He pauses his juggling. “We had a few persimmon trees back home.”
“You know, I’ve heard that Scuros is stingy with their greenhouse,” I say, stealing back the fruit from Kalden’s palm. “They keep the good stuff for themselves and send us Southerners the scraps.”
One of the Huntresses snorts. “Fairly sure us Tier Threes get the scraps no matter which city we’re in.”
“You’re from Scuros, then?” Gabe pivots the conversation back to Kalden, and I swear he’s actively flexing his crossed arms beneath the slightly too-tight guardsman uniform. “I suppose that’s why my father is unfamiliar with your surname.”
I lean against a low-hanging branch. “Let’s not act like Chancellor Bren devotes his time to memorizing all the surnames of Caligans.”
Gabe falls quiet.
Kalden takes a moment to scan our surroundings. “We shouldn’t stop for long. Let’s limit it to a quick snack. If you need to relieve yourself, now’s the time. No more breaks until sunset.”
“I brought crackers,” the woman to my right says before digging through her knapsack. Meridna, probably, judging by the rich timbre of her tone.
I toss the persimmon into a thorned bush before pulling out a small bag of hazelnuts. “I’m happy to share.”
After bartering for a handful of Meridna’s salty crackers and Faron’s raisins, I grip onto my helmet, eager to yank it off.
It doesn’t give.
“Gem, could you give me a hand? I think my helmet’s caught on something.”
“Sure.” She trails a finger around the base that’s suctioned to the skin around my neck, then mutters through her own mask, “There’s no wiggle room here. It’s like this thing is glued on.”
“What do you mean? Can you try pulling harder?” The questions come out high-pitched and rushed. I kneel so Gem can get a better grip. She wraps an arm around the helmet and tugs, lifting me off my knees. The material cuts into my throat. “Ow, ow, ow!”
Gem releases me instantly. “Sorry!”
“It’s fine,” I hiss. “It really won’t budge.”
“Mine’s stuck, too,” someone groans.
“Same,” says the woman beside Gem. Demi, maybe? Or Blair. It’s tricky to tell on voice and stature alone.
Even Kalden fails to remove his.
“Mine’s fine,” Gabe remarks, helmet resting at his side.
Gem’s shoulders deflate. “Looks like yours is the only one.”
Through quickened breaths, I point out to Gabe, “Your gear is different from ours.”
Unlike the neck-to-feet bodysuits that cling to our bodies like a thick second skin, Gabe isn’t sewn into his borrowed uniform. The Guards of the Gate get to wear standard-issue black clothing—long sleeves, high-necked vest, and cargo pants tucked into combat boots. The shape of his helmet is more spacious, too.
“I wonder,” Gabe mumbles to himself, his light auburn brows pulling together as he studies my helmet. Seconds into the inspection, he taps on the crown of my head. “There’s a solar sensor here. I think... Ithink the wardrobe team might’ve upgraded the helmet design to automatically keep the helmet sealed if it senses enough sunlight.Likely as a preventative measure to avoid exposure.”
My hands twitch as I refrain from fidgeting. “Can you cover the sensor with your hand? Trick it into thinking it’s night?”
Gabe gives it a try, palm splaying out on the top of my helmet. He waits several seconds before pulling at the suctioned base, but it doesn’t relent.
