“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, andhow 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 aroundyou—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.
