him of humans the most when they are in their last throes. Their movements slow, their breaths curl in the air, and their shrieks, weakened, turn into the sound of something anguished and pitiful. Their eyes water with pink, blood-tinted tears. It is said that they cry because their rotting, eternally growing bodies are in excruciating pain all the time. Their dying whines are a plea for mercy.
I always warn him that they do not have the heart he has. He always reminds me that they once did, that before the Federation filled them with poison, they had smiled and laughed and been in love, that real hearts used to beat in their chests.
Even though Corian stands over the leader as its executioner, he reaches down to pick one of the blue flowers dotting the forest floor. Then he bends a knee in the middle of the glade, his long coat pooling in a circle around him, and places the flower carefully beside the body. He pulls down his mask and bows his head. His fingers sweep across the floor in a single arc. His lips move without a sound. He always does this, and it is why I respect him.
He is saying: May you find rest.
I see the seventh Ghost too late.
It is smaller than the others. Maybe it had been a child when it turned. Ghosts travel in packs—but this one had been lagging behind.
It materializes in the shadows of the woods behind Corian’s kneeling figure. Its eyes, milk-white with hatred, turn on my Shield, and its jaws open. It lunges.
My blood turns to ice. I grip my blades and rush forward.
But it is far too late. The Ghost sinks its teeth into Corian’s shoulder before he can whirl around in time. It throws him off his feet and onto his back in a single move, then dives onto his chest.
Daggers are already in Corian’s hands. He stabs at the Ghost again and again, seeking its vein. I throw myself at the beast with all my strength. It’s enough to force the Ghost’s attention onto me instead of my Shield. I cut its throat with one swing.
I slide to a halt beside Corian and press down on the wound in his shoulder. He shoves me away with a snarl. His body is already trembling, and his lips are tinted blue as if from the cold. He is signing the same words to me again and again.
“Do it. Do it.”
And I know it is over.
If your Shield is bitten by a Ghost, you must cut his throat before he turns. This is the last thing we are taught. It is taught last because none of us want to think about what it means. Because sometimes the things that cut closest to your heart deserve the weight of being last.
Corian looks straight at me. His eyes are bright with unshed tears.
I tighten my grip on my blade and stand over him. The world takes on the blur of a dream. We never break our stare. For a moment, I think I won’t be able to do it.
But my body remembers the motions, even when my mind cannot.
My blade slices through the air. There is a sickening sound, then a sigh.
The forest is still again, and I am the only one left to hear it.
I turn my face up because I cannot bear to look down. Rain beads against the forest canopy. Light rims the leaves in icy gold. It takes me a moment to realize that I am trembling.
As always, I don’t utter a sound. But a heart can grieve in silence, so I sink to my knees beside Corian’s body and allow the tears to come.
NEWAGE
INNER CITY
THE NATION OF MARA
2
When your Shield is killed in battle, it is your duty as a Striker to deliver his uniform to his family.
This is the display of shame we offer for failing to protect each other, and we give it to the family in the hopes that they accept our apology. So on this morning, one week after Corian died, I find myself heading into the heart of Newage’s Inner City, Corian’s sapphire uniform folded into a neat square and tucked safely under my coat.
The drizzle that had fallen during our sweep has now turned into a steady storm soaking the entire nation. Rain undulates in glittering waves across the pavement as I walk, and I pull my collar higher against the wetness. The hat I wear offers scant protection. My hair