warfront as if being chased, and not with the deliberate movements of a scout.”
“Apparently he won’t talk,” Adena says, then tugs at her gloves. “Not even to save his life. But we’ll see if that changes in the arena. By the time they’ve whipped his back to a pulp, he’ll be spilling out the Federation’s secrets like a broken water line.”
“Maybe he’ll want to cooperate now,” Jeran offers hopefully, “and we won’t have to. Whip him, that is.”
I just listen as they go on. Why would a Federation defector not want to tell us what he knows? If this soldier was unhappy enough to risk life and limb to escape to Mara, wouldn’t he want to help us defeat a common enemy?
“I think they’re about to bring him out,” Jeran muses, nodding toward the far end of the space, and my thoughts churn to a halt as I crane my neck in the same direction.
A shout goes up from somewhere in the arena.
“Firstblade!”
The call has barely echoed through the space before every Striker rises in a uniform clatter. I follow suit.
It’s the Firstblade, and his expression now is a mask of grave calm. As he walks to the center of the arena, we all tap a fist in unison to our chests. Jeran’s eyes linger on him longer than the rest of ours do; from the corner of my eye, I can see him leaning forward as if to get a better glimpse. Aramin flicks a hand at us, and only then do all the Strikers sit down again.
I hear the clank of metal. My attention shifts back to the gate at the arena’s end.
A team of guards emerges, dragging a young man between them.
He’s tall, built strong like a soldier. Shadows obscure his eyes. Heavy chains hang from his neck, wrists, and legs, clanking with every move he makes.
At first glance, he seems unremarkable. But there’s something about him that keeps my gaze locked, makes me afraid to look away.
“This is the prisoner of war?” I sign to Adena beside me.
Adena frowns too. “He doesn’t seem like a soldier. Where’s his Federation haircut?”
I shake my head. Most Karensan soldiers I’ve seen have their hair clipped short on the sides in a distinct look. This man’s locks look naturally grown out.
“He seems weak,” Jeran adds as he nods toward the prisoner. There’s real pity in his voice.
Adena lets out a disappointed sigh. “They’ve starved him too long. This won’t be much of a spectacle.”
I take a better look at him.
One thing that separates apprentices from seasoned Strikers is a well-honed instinct. You develop a sense for everything around you—the shift of eyes and feet, the people not seen in the shadows, the small gestures that others don’t notice. The feeling that something is about to go wrong. It is why we practice exercises like what Jeran did with his blindfold, isolating our senses one by one in order to enhance them. Survival out on the warfront depends on cataloging every tiny detail around you.
Over the years, I’ve honed my instinct into a blade. But when I look at this man, I don’t see anything I can grasp. Nothing in his eyes feels familiar—not a glint of hate, fear, or uncertainty. I feel only like I’m staring into an abyss. Like I don’t know where I am.
Now that instinct in me flares like a fire. I don’t know what it is about him—an unnatural grace in his movements, an emptiness in his eyes—but something else lies beneath the weakened exterior of his figure, some undercurrent of power. It makes him seem less like a soldier and more like a weapon. I have the unsettling suspicion that, if he wanted to, if he didn’t look so lifeless, he could kill every guard around him.
Lifeless.
And then I realize, all of a sudden, that the only reason he’s a captive at all is because he wants to be. Because he wants to die.
4
It’s clear that no one else in the arena suspects this. Only I sit and watch him, my heart suddenly in my throat, as I recognize the lack of fire in his eyes. They reflect the way I feel in the early mornings, when I remember that Corian isn’t here anymore. They are the eyes of someone who just wants to waste away the minutes until he no longer has to be here.
The prisoner stands, swaying, as the Firstblade now approaches him. “You have been brought before us to answer for your