Jeran narrows his eyes. “What’s their crime?”
“Disobeying an order from the Senate and crossing enemy lines without authorization.”
“Aramin,” he says. It’s the first time I’ve heard him address the Firstblade by name since Aramin gained the position. “You know they don’t deserve their sentence.”
I can tell that Jeran’s words affect Aramin. He blinks, and suddenly, the energy between them seems to shift from a superior and a subordinate to two young soldiers, once ranked the same, once comrades in war.
“And why is that?” Aramin says tightly.
“When we became Strikers, we took an oath to protect this nation with our lives.”
“It was a direct order.”
“Sometimes you have to disobey an order to protect what you love.”
This is the closest I’ve ever heard Jeran speak against his Firstblade, and I can tell that Aramin feels the weight of it. He considers Jeran quietly. Finally, he says, “And what about you?”
Jeran hesitates.
At his silence, Aramin scowls. The black bones piercing his ears glint in the weakening light. “You’ve used all your strength and passion to vouch for someone else. What about you? Do you think you deserve your sentence?”
Jeran is silent for a long time before he finally answers. “No,” he replies. But he says it quietly, so quietly that I think even Aramin can barely hear him.
The Firstblade sighs and then draws one of his blades. He points it at his subordinate. Then he tosses the blade to Jeran and draws a second one of his own. “Disarm me, then,” he tells Jeran.
“What?”
“You’re nicknamed the Deathdancer for a reason. Disarm me, fight for your life that you deserve, and I’ll order your release.”
Jeran shakes his head. “I won’t fight you, Aramin.”
“We used to fight each other all the time. You were the best I ever sparred with.”
“Then I suppose I’m going to disappoint you,” Jeran says.
Aramin’s lips tighten. “You won’t even fight for your freedom?”
Jeran stays quiet, struggling against the words he wants to say.
Without warning, Aramin darts forward. His blade cuts toward Jeran in an arc. There is no mercy in the movement—but Jeran deflects it with ease, bringing his blade up in a flash and clashing once with Aramin’s before spinning out of the way. Aramin lunges again, this time striking high. Jeran ducks low and twists his blade with a smooth flick of his wrist. Again, Aramin’s hit only glances off Jeran’s blade.
Aramin scowls at Jeran’s flawless technique but his reluctance to retaliate. “Why won’t you fight back?” he says through gritted teeth. He aims to hit Jeran again, but again Jeran deflects the blow. Again, Jeran doesn’t lunge for Aramin.
There’s a grief in Aramin’s voice now. “You defend others, fight for their right to live. But you don’t defend yourself against those who want to hurt you. You won’t fight for yourself.”
“Just as you don’t raise your voice against a Speaker you disagree with?” Jeran snaps.
Aramin pauses in his attack, taken aback.
There’s a flash of something wild and fierce in Jeran’s eyes. “The Speaker refuses to allow refugees to join our ranks,” he continues. “He keeps rations secured only for his wealthy friends. And as we discovered, he’s willing to sell his own country to his enemy in exchange for his own safety. But you still fight for him. Are those the orders you want me to obey?”
The Firstblade is silent, his blade still. He’s staring at Jeran as if he’s seeing him for the first time and not recognizing him at all. I hold my breath, watching.
“What do you mean?” he says in a low voice. “About the Speaker selling his own country to his enemy?”
“Ask Talin,” Jeran responds. “It won’t change anything, regardless. What good is our word, as a group of treasonous Strikers? The Speakerwill stay in power as long as Mara still stands.” He shakes his head. “Sometimes you have to disobey an order to protect those you love.”
“And who do you love?” Aramin asks him quietly.
