move in sync, Aramin explaining as they go. And in this moment, I remember how young Aramin is, how he used to do these same exercises with Jeran in the arena before our last Firstblade was killed and Aramin was promoted. It still surprises me that Aramin never asked Jeran to be his Shield.
Finally, the Firstblade nods his approval and leaves the circle. Jeran watches him go, distracted, as the other Strikers begin to mill around.
I keep my head down as we enter the space, but it doesn’t stop the ripple of attention that hits me. I can feel the stares from the recruits and the soldiers, can hear their whispers and mutters to one another.
“That’s the Basean Striker,” one recruit says to another. “I guess rats can sneak into the tightest kitchens.”
“No wonder her Shield died. Pity.”
“Well, I hear she won’t be a Striker for much longer. Firstblade’s to make a decision this week.”
“My mother says Baseans get their black hair from sleeping in the mud.”
“I heard it was from sleeping with the scrapyard pickers.”
Muffled laughter.
My posture stiffens at that. Last year, I’d had a fling with a young Larcean refugee, a sweet, pretty boy with an easy smile, who worked to sort valuable steel from trash in the Outer City’s scrapyards. We only fooled around for a few weeks, sneaking time together in hollowed-out carriage husks in the yards, but it lasted long enough for word to get out to the other Strikers. I haven’t been in another relationship since.
The precariousness of my position hangs over me like a storm cloud. Corian felt sorry for you. The words buzz again in my mind.
Adena’s grip tightens on my arm as she glares at the others. “So eager to insult a fellow Striker when you could probably rip all their guts out,” she says to me, raising her voice loud enough for them to hear.
Jeran sees us approach. His face softens with a smile that turns his eyes into crescents as he hurries toward us, tripping in his rush. I can’t help smiling back. Jeran is ruthlessly graceful when practicing the art of death. When he’s not, he can’t find his balance.
“It’s good to see you out of your quarters,” he signs.
“You can do a blind run better than anyone,” I sign back, smiling at the cloth still looped around his neck.
“I was studying your techniques, you know,” he tells me, his expression bashful. “That last move was one I saw you do at the warfront at midnight.”
“Me?” I make a mock gesture of fluffing my hair. “What a flatterer, Jeran.”
He laughs a little. “Only when deserved. Aramin says I still can’t do it quite as well as you.”
The thought of the Firstblade’s indirect praise lifts my spirits somewhat.
“Why can’t you appreciate my techniques?” Adena says to him. “You still haven’t tried out the ax I designed for you.”
“It’s too heavy,” he insists. “Have you tried lifting that thing during battle?”
“It’s the same weight as your sword! I designed it specifically for you.”
“It’s hard to carry.”
“Be honest. You don’t like it because it doesn’t look good.”
Jeran gives me an embarrassed glance before looking back at his Shield. “The hilt doesn’t match the rest of my ensemble,” he finally signs.
Adena throws her hands up. “I quit. I’m going home. Call me when the warfront no longer requires a sense of fashion.”
I walk behind them as they bicker, watching how their steps sync up as if they could read each other’s minds. It is the way of Shields, and how I used to walk with Corian. The pang in my heart is all too familiar now. I clamp down on it before it overwhelms me.
We settle in our seats right as a horn sounds from the far side of the arena. I look toward it to see two guards pulling with all their weight on a chain that keeps one of the central arena’s gates weighed down. The door groans as it inches open.
“So, what do we know about this prisoner?” Adena asks Jeran.
“He was captured at the warfront two weeks ago,” he replies, fiddling restlessly with his hands like he always does. “The rumor is that he’s a soldier who defected from the Federation.”
“A soldier? Because he was in uniform?”
“No uniform. He has a brand, though.” At that, Jeran brushes a hand idly along the thin trim of black silk on his coat’s neckline to indicate where it is. “Some kind of military insignia. They said he was running across the