“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 drillsdown 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.
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 hiseyes 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 appreciatemytechniques?” 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?”
