flying off me as I scramble into a crouch, my fists up.
He laughs, shaking dust out of his hair. All I can think about is how little he cares that he’s dirtied his fine clothes. I try to still my trembling hands. What kind of punishment will this mean for me?
“You’ve obviously never fought anyone in your life,” he says with a smile. “But I’ve been watching you. Your reaction time is incredible.”
When I flush, he offers to help me up. I stare at his outstretched hand, trying to figure out whether he’s serious or about to play a prank on me. Then, tentatively, I put my hand in his. He yanks me to my feet in a single motion, as if he’s been waiting to pull me up all his life. “I’m Corian,” he adds.
I don’t answer.
He frowns at me. “Well?” he asks. “And your name is?”
I pat my throat twice and sign to him. “I’m Talin. I can’t speak.”
I don’t expect him to understand what I said. But his eyes widen—and then he smiles and signs back. “Good. All Striker apprentices must learn how to sign,” he answers. “You know that, right?”
I remember everything about that moment—the movement of his hands through the air, the easy way he took in my soundless words, the kind smile on his face. I knew that Ghosts on the warfront had powerful hearing, but I didn’t know that Strikers used sign language to communicate out there. My lips twitch with a grin. He’d understood me. He understands me.
“They use the same signs that I do?”
“Very close. You’ll pick it up in no time.” I notice some of the differences now, like how some gestures are simplified, while others are more elaborate.
“So you want to be a Striker?” he asks.
I shrug, unsure what I’m allowed to say. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“I’m surprised a Basean would want to defend us,” he says, and now his face is grave. “Mara doesn’t treat your kind that well.”
I pause in surprise—a highborn Maran has never even laid eyes on me, much less paid such close attention to me. Much less sounded sympathetic to Baseans.
“We still all have the same enemy,” I reply. “Mara isn’t the Federation.”
He considers me seriously. “Why don’t you try out for the apprenticeship, then?” he asks.
“Baseans aren’t allowed to.”
“So? You move as fast as anyone inside that arena.” He nods over his shoulder. “You should at least come to the exams. I’ll put in a word for you with the Firstblade, if you’re interested.”
When I just stand there, stunned, he puts his hands in his pockets and turns away. I envy the straightness of his back, the wild confidence in every line of his figure. He really believes his words can carry that kind of power. It makes me think he must be right.
In that moment, I make a vow to be like him. I’m going to find a way to walk through life with courage seared into my bones.
“No pressure, of course,” he calls over his shoulder as he turns in the direction of the arena. “I just thought I’d suggest it.”
The sun is warm, the sky a cloudless blue. My heart beats rapidly against my ribs. I wait a breath longer. Then my legs finally loosen, and I find myself doing what I would do for the next six years—I follow him. I run and run and run.
But in my dream, I never catch up.
* * *
A knock against my door jerks me awake. My face is still streaked with tears.
I swing my legs over the side of my bed. Weak morning light bands across my arms. My head throbs in a rhythm, aching from nightmares I can’t remember. It takes me a second to register that I’m back in my Striker apartment in Newage, and another to remind myself that I now live here alone. My hand goes instinctively to the black bits of Ghost bone studding my ears. The piercings are still fresh enough to hurt when I touch them.
It’s been two weeks since I tried to deliver Corian’s uniform. I wonder if I will ever stop dreaming about him. The shadows are haunted by echoes of where he used to be. Across the hall is his room, the door closed. I haven’t looked in there since I hung his uniform back in his closet. There’s no need to see his bed, tidy and unused. His dressers empty and weapons cabinet hollow. I can feel his emptiness in the air around