Adena waits in the open doorway while I wash my face and strap on my harnesses and weapons. A few minutes later, I emerge in my full uniform, and together we head out of the Striker quarters in the direction of the training arena.
Everywhere, there are signs of strain from years of war. The streets are cracked and in desperate need of repair. People buying food in the exchange market clutch ration cards for seaflour, while auctions run high for cuts of beef from the limited numbers of wild cows we’re allowed to cull for the month. When a string of children run past us, I notice their bony arms, the too-sharp jut of their chins.
The conditions are even worse beyond the walls, in the Outer City’s shanties. Every time we head to the warfront, we ride through their narrow mud paths, lined on either side by shacks made of rusting tin sheets and threadbare cloth. Hollow-eyed refugees from Kente, who brought their famed metalworking skills here to help us build our walls and weapons. Merchants from Larc, whose reams of fabric and bags of colorful spices are popular with Marans. Baseans, whose agricultural skills and hardy crop seeds have helped in harvesting the land more efficiently.
Basean refugees are the most difficult for me to see. Their eyes always light up at me, as if the fact that I’m one of them means that I can somehow save their families.
But I can’t remember the last time we didn’t have a food shortage.Mara’s ruin-dotted cliffs and mountain ranges have served as a natural advantage for us in the war—but in the end, they may be what kills us. The only crop that Mara harvests is camifera, a leathery, nutrient-rich plant that thrives on the wet cliffs fed by salty waves. Originally an invasive species that leached the damp soils of nutrients, camifera could be pounded into a flour for breads and noodles or woven into a coarse fabric called seasilk, we learned.
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 theFederation. 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.
