The table erupts in laughter.
“How’d that work out for you?” Harlan asks.
“Nearly lost an eye. My sister took one look at my face and thought I’d been mauled by a bear.”
More laughter, but I catch the shadow that crosses Marco’s face at the mention of Esme. He knows what it means—that I left someone behind.
“That reminds me of my little brother…”
Marco’s voice is softer now, different. His fingers trace something on his left hand absently—a thin white line across his palm that I’d never noticed before. So subtle it’s barely visible unless the light hits it just right.
I blink. Marco, revealing something personal?
The wine has flushed his cheeks, made his dark eyes glassy. Jason tops up his glass yet again. Marco doesn’t seem to notice—or care.
“He was maybe seven, eight years old. Always trying to prove he was as brave as me.” Marco stares into his wine, voice growing distant. “There were these cliffs near our home—jagged rock that dropped straight down to the ocean. Youngest kids weren’t supposed to go near them.”
The table has gone quiet, everyone leaning forward.
I find myself wondering where Marco grew up—which stretch of coastline, which settlement. He clearly had a strong upbringing. Makes sense he’d be from one of the small fishing villages rather than the inland wastes. The coasts were always more populated, more livable than the endless desert and scrubland that stretches between the walled cities.
“I heard his screams, then found him halfway down the cliff face, clinging to this narrow ledge, too scared to climb back up. The little fool had been trying to reach a bird’s nest—he’d spotted eggs. Wanted to prove he could do something useful, provide for us all, do something I’d be proud of.”
Marco’s thumb keeps tracing that scar, over and over. The movement looks unconscious, like muscle memory.
“I could hear him crying, trying not to let me see,” Marco says, his voice faltering ever so slightly. “The rock was slick from sea spray. One wrong move and he’d have fallen a hundred feet onto the rocks below.”
My heart thuds. I know that protective instinct—the bone-deep terror of watching someone you love in danger. I’ve felt it every day since our parents died, every time Esme and I sparred, and I imagined her small body facing a real threat.
“So I climbed down. No rope, no plan. Just knew I had to get to him before his grip gave out.” Marco lifts his scarred hand, studying the pale line. “But that rock—it’s sharper than it looks. When I grabbed the ledge to pull myself level with him, the stone sliced my palm open to the bone.”
He demonstrates the motion, showing how his hand must have slipped against the jagged edge. I can almost see it—the spray of blood, the shock of pain.
“Blood everywhere. My brother kept apologizing, saying it was his fault I was hurt.” Marco chuckles. “Had to climb back up one-handed, him on my back, bleeding all over both of us.”
Marco pauses, tilting his head as if lost in memory, and I catch myself watching the way his hair curves against his neck. This isn’t the cold champion who forces us to run until we collapse. This is just a man remembering when he was young, remembering someone he loved. This is just a man who misses home so badly it’s carved him hollow.
“He cried more about my hand than about almost falling,” Marco continues, staring into nothing. “Kept saying he just wanted to be brave likeme. Didn’t understand that the bravest thing was knowing whennotto climb.”
His voice has changed completely—softer, younger. For a moment I can see the boy he must have been. The protective big brother. Hero to a kid who looked up to him.
An ache erupts inside of me. Esme would never be caught climbing cliffs—she’s too sensible for that kind of stupidity. But she looks at me the same way Marco’s brother must have looked at him. Like I can fix anything, protect her from everything.
The wine makes everything hazy, dreamlike. I want to ask about his family—about his parents, other siblings, perhaps. Do they know where he is? Do they think he’s dead?
But I stop myself. Because the answer is in Marco’s expression, in the way his lips press together when he realizes he’s said too much. He doesn’t want to be reminded that it’s been five years since he’s seen them. Five years since he’s seen his little brother, since he was anything more than a killer in silk clothes.
I have to look away. His face is too real, too exposed.
This is why Jason keeps filling his glass, why he’s so eager to get Marco drunk. Because this is the only time Marco is vulnerable—when the wine strips away his defenses and lets real emotion bleed through.
And I want to see more of it.
Heavy footsteps pound down the stairs, echoing off stone walls. The sound stops our conversation dead.
We all turn toward the entrance.
A guard appears—not one of the usual ones who bring our meals or escort us to training. A new one.
