I make my way to the arena floor and head toward them. He shakes his head once at me, the only warning I’ll get. And yet, I still don’t back down.
Before me, the prisoner lies in a fetal position on the ground, not attempting to protect himself from the guard’s endless blows.
The stadium echoes with boos now as I walk up to the guard. He gives me a startled look—my steps are so silent that he hadn’t even noticed me approach him. I meet his gaze and see the bloodlust hot in his eyes.
When he reaches back to whip the prisoner again, I step between them. I unsheathe one of my long swords. In one move, I catch his whip on my blade and yank it out of his grip. The whip goes flying to land a short distance away.
The other guards all draw their weapons at me in unison. Roars ripple through the audience.
I stand my ground as if in a dream. My heart beats shallow and rapid in my chest. What the hell am I doing? I had not come here today with the intention of defying the Firstblade in front of his entire Striker force. He could strip me of my uniform right here and have me removed from the patrols. Perhaps this is what’s making me so reckless. Just do it, do it and get it over with.
One of the guards points a gun at me. “Get back up in the stands,” he snaps.
Another comes with him. I eye them both carefully.
When I don’t move, the first guard curls his lip at me. “Rats are always such poor listeners,” he snarls. The second guard hefts his sword and lunges at me.
When you’ve trained your entire life to fight Ghosts, facing humans becomes the work of a moment. I sidestep, whirling, and slash out at them both with one swing of my sword.
My blade catches both of theirs so hard that they clatter to the arena floor instantly. The first guard tries to fire his gun at me, but I’m already darting toward him. My sword’s hilt knocks the gun from his hands as the bullet fires, hitting the ground and sending up a plume of dust.
The stadium’s roars have turned excited again. They’re getting the show they came to see. The prisoner stays crumpled in the dirt, covered in welts—but for the first time, his expression changes. Through the blood on his face, he looks at me with vague surprise. A ray of life.
“Talin.” The Firstblade approaches me. He draws his sword. Stillness ripples across the arena like a stone in water. “Step away.” In his voice churns an undercurrent of anger.
I turn to face him. My head lowers in respect, and I kneel—but I don’t sheathe my sword.
“That wasn’t a request, Striker.”
I tap my fist to my chest, then lay my weapon beside me. “Firstblade,” I sign. “Don’t do this.”
“Are you giving me an order?”
“Please,” I answer. “He isn’t fighting back.” I look over at the prisoner. “Even though he can.”
At that, Aramin raises an incredulous eyebrow. “It is only out of respect for your late Shield that I’m going to let you explain yourself.”
My fingers move rapidly. “The way he stands. The brand on his chest. The shift of his posture and the movement of his arms. They are not the movements of an ordinary soldier.”
The Firstblade’s eyes look up to search mine when I pause in my explanation.
“I don’t know what it is about him,” I continue. “All I can tell you is that killing him will be a mistake.”
Aramin’s gaze returns to the prisoner lying on the ground, covered in blood and grime. For a moment, I myself am not sure of what I saw in him. He certainly doesn’t look like much now.
Then, through his tangle of hair, I see his eyes locked steadily on me.
His glance sends a shiver rippling up my spine. I didn’t intervene expecting gratefulness from him—but I’m still surprised by the look of sheer rage that he directs at me. There is a glint about his eyes that seems inhuman, a powerful darkness in him that I can’t see. The Federation has done something to him, and even though I don’t know what it is, I feel as if I’d just witnessed a Ghost emerge from the shadows of the woods.
At least his eyes now have the glint of life in them.
“You’re telling me not to execute this soldier because of a feeling you have,” Aramin