“Anyway,” she adds as she sheaths her swords, “take it easy on your training. Come sit with the others once in a while. You can’t hide away forever.”
“I’ll be fine,” I sign. “Really.”
“Convincing argument,” she signs back.
“I just … Give me time.”
Adena’s eyes soften at me, and she touches my arm. “Losing your first Shield is always the hardest.” Her gestures pause, turning uncertain. “I know it’s only been a couple of weeks.”
Adena’s first Shield had been her brother, her only family. She’d lost him three years ago to a hostage trade gone wrong between us and the Federation. I had been the one delivering food to her door then, forcing her out of bed and away from her grief. Ever since, she has looked forward to the executions of enemy soldiers.
“But you know a Striker must have a Shield, right?” she continues now. “The Firstblade’s not going to let you stay unpaired for much longer.”
You can’t stay a Striker without a Shield. If a lone Striker is bitten by a Ghost, there is no one nearby to kill them before they turn. Corian would have twisted into the gnarled, cracked body of a Ghost and come for the rest of us at the encampment. They don’t trust us to have the strength to kill ourselves first.
I look away from her as we approach the arena’s front gates. “I knew my Striker days were over the instant Corian’s father turned me away,” I sign. “Who else would want to pair with a Basean?”
“Plenty would. Don’t lose hope. Aramin hasn’t dismissed you yet.”
“Yet.” I raise an eyebrow at her. “I appreciate your faith in me, but you don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not lying!” she blurts out.
“I know what the other Strikers think of me being on a patrol.”
“Well, they’re fools,” Adena finally adds. She loops her arm through mine and presses herself closer to me. “You’re one of the most talented Strikers ever recruited. Even the Firstblade has admitted that. If he lets you go, we might as well open our gates and wave the Federation in.”
“Well, that makes you the fool,” I sign. Then I smile and lean back against her. “But thank you, all the same.”
Adena shrugs, nudging me affectionately. “Figured you could use the moral support.”
We reach the arena’s front gates and walk through. Inside, Strikers are scattered throughout the space. Some are already waiting up in the seats, while the most dedicated are running through a few quick drills down in the arena’s center. Ema Wen Danna, expected to join Mara’s Senate next year, is sharpening her sword as she lectures her sullen brother, Sano, on proper weapon etiquette. They exchange nods with me as I pass by. Others, like Tomm and Pira, both offspring of old money families, sneer and whisper under their breath. I keep my chin up and ignore them.
I see a cluster of onlookers gathered around one Striker in particular. It’s Jeran Min Terra, Adena’s Shield, sparring with random opponents.
At first glance, Jeran looks like nothing more than a slender boy, his hair tied up in a knot of red gold and his eyes the blue of glacier water, his face too shy for a Striker. It’s not the appearance of someone who has racked up more kills than anyone else in the patrols. Deathdancer. It’s the nickname he’s earned by the fluid way he moves around a Ghost, slicing a thousand cuts with his daggers while dodging every claw the creature might slash in his direction. He always reminds me of water carving through a canyon.
Today he has blindfolded himself, relying solely on his hearing to determine where his opponent is. His leg sweeps in an arc across the ground. His back arches like a bow. As we look on, he disarms one challenger, then smoothly sends another falling backward into the dirt. His movements are lithe and precise, a hypnotizing dance of daggers flashing, blades glinting.
To anyone unfamiliar with Jeran’s techniques, it’d seem as if he doesn’t even need to think. He just acts. But Adena and I both know how much work he puts into his moves. The onlookers let out a cheer now as Jeran disarms a third opponent, then slides off his blindfold.
Now I notice the Firstblade among those watching Jeran practice. In the midst of applause, Aramin steps toward Jeran and points out some small weakness in the Striker’s moves. Jeran listens closely, then copies Aramin’s motion. The two