Aramin searches my gaze. Then he rises to his feet. “Well,” he responds, “if we’re going to lose, then perhaps we should do it right.”
31
The night passes. I twitch in a restless sleep. Every sound outside my cell door—echoes of the guards’ boots as they change shifts, voices and distant shouts from other prisoners—makes me stir, thinking that the Firstblade has returned to see me or that the Speaker has sent someone to have me killed. But no one comes.
Red.I reach out again through our link. I’ve been calling for him regularly through the night, in the hopes that he might somehow hear me, but if he does, there’s no answer. I imagine him breaking loose of his bonds, cutting through all his chains and slaughtering the guards. But he won’t do such a thing, not when our lives might be at risk, when we need everyone to push back against the oncoming Federation.
What will happen, though, if they do choose to execute us? Will Red be forced to save us and carry us to safety in the wilderness, abandoning everyone we know here?
Even though Red can’t hear my exact words or thoughts, I summon the hope that he can feel what I’m thinking. A moment later, I sense the push of his emotions through the bond, his undercurrent of anger at the thought of us being led out to the arena to be killed. He would do it, I realize. He would stop at nothing to protect us.
The day drags on without any visitors. I start to wonder if somethinghas happened to Aramin. What if the Speaker had him arrested—or murdered? In the cell below me, Jeran paces, his wrists flicking as he practices his forms. Sometimes he glances up through the grate, his eyes searching for mine. When he finds me, his gaze is hollow with despair.
“No news?” he signs up to me.
I shake my head, and he turns away to continue his pacing. He must be wondering the same thing about Aramin.
Another night comes. Then a third day, a fourth. Jeran’s pacing turns more frantic, and the bond between Red and me ripples with unease as we continue to wait. None of the guards who visit my cell can understand signs, so I am powerless to ask them if they have any news for me.
I dream about Aramin appearing, coat flapping, to unchain me from the wall and lift me to my feet. The dream occurs over and over again, so often that I start to have trouble distinguishing when I’m dreaming from when I’m awake, waiting for him to come through my door. The reality only settles in when I realize no one is coming.
And then, on the fifth day, the guards storm in. They don’t say a word to me—they don’t even meet my stare. I’m instead hauled to my feet as one of them unlocks the chains from around my wrists and ankles. I manage a glance down through the grating on the floor. Jeran, who had been leaning against his wall, has already leaped to his feet at the sound of the commotion in my cell. All we can do is lock eyes before they drag me out.
We make our way through the dark belly of the prison upward, spiraling into the light until we finally emerge back on the grounds of the National Plaza. Red’s presence seems to be growing more distant. I can feel the beat of his pulse dimming with distance.
Is he not being brought out here with us?
Only moments later, I see Jeran emerge from the prison, flanked oneither side by guards with their guns trained on his head. Adena comes next, her hair tangled in a mess. She exchanges a silent stare with us.
A sinking feeling fills my stomach. Somehow, something in me had hoped that the Firstblade would find a way to save us, that he’d ordered us up here to free us and reinstate us in the Striker forces. As if we could go back to the days when we practiced in the arena and headed out to the warfront. But the warfront is going to collapse soon, and we are now enemies of our own state.
And Red. Where is he?
Red. Red.I call for him again, but he’s too far away. Still, I can sense his emotions rise, fury amid his confusion. He knows we’ve left the prison.
The feeling grows stronger, tipping into nausea. They’re not going to kill him. Are they going to keep him alive for their own purposes?
The Firstblade is already waiting for us in the center of the space, his arms folded behind his back. In the stands are the other Strikers of our ranks, quietly waiting, while standing behind the Firstblade is an arc of Senators, the Speaker in the center of them. Jeran’s father and brother stand at one end of the half circle, their eyes trained on Jeran. I wonder if I’ll see only cold disdain on their faces, but even though Gabrien looks satisfied to see his brother’s fate, their father appears grave.
Maybe here, in the end, even a monster can recognize that he’s about to lose his son.
Across the arena, Jeran’s and Aramin’s eyes meet. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, some silent acknowledgment of what they had learned about each other in the prison. Then it’s gone, and Aramin looks away. Jeran lowers his head. I look on in disbelief. After everything, will Aramin really allow the execution of the person he loves?
As we approach, I see the Speaker lift his chin to stare at us, satisfied to see that we’ll soon be facing our justice.
There is a range of Strikers standing in a block formation before the Firstblade, their guns out. It takes me a moment to realize that they have been chosen as our executioners, Strikers being the only ones trusted to take the lives of other Strikers. I see Tomm and Pira among them. When once I would have imagined them doing this with glee, I instead see no joy on their faces. Pira bites her lip at the sight of me and averts her gaze.
My heart begins to pound.
Aramin, to his credit, meets my gaze without looking away. “You have been brought before us to answer for your actions,” he says. It is the same speech he gives before every execution of a traitor or prisoner of war, and I remember the echo of it from the day when they’d first brought Red out here and into my life. “Because of your betrayal of your nation, the Senate has sentenced you to death.”
I look around the arena, wondering if here, at the end, anyone will vouch for us. Many of the Strikers had loved Jeran, had admired Adena for her ingenuity. Will they watch now as they’re executed for trying to save Mara? I stare at them in the stands, my fellow Strikers. As stony as we’re trained to keep our faces, I see sadness there, resignation. Even some anger. For who executes soldiers like us, soldiers willing to fight, before the Federation comes tearing at our gates?
But no one moves forward.
Beside me, Adena and Jeran exchange looks with each other.
Then I turn to Aramin, a silent question in my eyes. What will he do?
