Page 26

I stopped, my eyes dragging over him against my will. He was a mess. Sweat gleamed on his tan skin, highlighting the jagged map of scars across his ribs.

He looked like a beast from the slums.

An unwanted coil of heat tightened in my groin. I hated that my body reacted to the sight of him again. He was filth. He was everything I was not.

But he looked solid. Real.

Leander glared at me, pain lining the corners of his eyes, his jaw set in that stubborn, defiant line.

“Get lost, Princess,” he growled. “You made your point upstairs.”

I ignored him. He didn’t know my head was on the chopping block right next to his, and I intended to keep it that way for as long as the act would hold.

“Report,” I said to Julus, my voice snapping with the unquestionable authority of Rank One, a reflex I used to hide the absolute terror of what I was about to do.

Julus sighed and tossed the rag into a bin. He slid off the stool, crossed the room and poked the swollen flesh. Leander hissed through his teeth.

“Grade two lateral tear,” Julus said. “Ligaments are shredded. Significant soft tissue damage. If he walks on it, it snaps.”

“He plays tomorrow,” I said.

Julus laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “He doesn’t walk for three weeks and doesn’t play for six. If he steps on the field tomorrow, his ankle will fold like wet cardboard.”

“I don’t have six weeks,” Leander snapped. “If I miss the Crucible, I’m out.”

“Then you’re out,” Julus said. There was nothing cruel in it and nothing kind, just a man stating a fact. “If you play, you’ll leave in a wheelchair. You can’t survive the Front Lines if you can’t walk, Regillen. It’s a guaranteed death sentence.”

“No.” The word burst out of me.

Both of them looked up. Leander’s eyes narrowed while he studied the sweat on my forehead and the tremor in my hands.

“I am not getting eliminated because of a sprained ankle,” I said.

I reached into the hidden lining of my tactical belt. My fingers brushed the cold metal of the emergency kit, and I pulled out the silver vial.

Julus frowned, stepping closer. “What is that?”

“It’s Bio-Gel. Class A.”

The color drained from Julus’s face. He stepped back, holding up his hands as if I had just pulled the pin on a grenade. He knew the rumors. Everyone in the medical track had heard whispers about this tech.

“You’re joking,” Julus hissed, backing into the shadows. “That is restricted State property, Cento. It’s a million credits of classified research. If Tegula finds out you wasted it on a Tier 2 grunt, he won’t just bench you. He will execute us for sabotage.”

He kept backing toward the door, shaking his head, and I recognized the retreat. Helping a student with a bandage was one thing. Participating in the embezzlement of high-value resources was treason.

“I’m not part of this,” the medic said. “I ran the scan, that’s it. If anyone asks, I was never here.”

His hand found the door without looking for it, and then he stopped one second on the threshold, because the medic in him outranked the survivor for exactly one sentence.

“Work it into the tissue until the foaming stops, then tape it tight.” He looked at the ankle. “If the skin goes white, stop, or he loses the foot instead of the season.”

Then Julus slipped out the door, leaving us alone in the hum of the air scrubbers.

I stepped up to the table and made my face do resolute, which was easier than feeling it.

“Give me your foot,” I said, my fingers digging into the muscle to pin the leg to the stainless steel table. He fought it on reflex, all that Pit instinct twisting against my hands.

“Stop fighting me,” I hissed, leaning in until my shadow fell over his face. “For once in your fucking miserable life, don’t resist and let me save you.”