“I fight because there are good people in Mara,” I finally decide to sign. “Because when we all left Basea and came here, we brought with us everything and everyone we loved the most. They’re here.” I look pointedly at those around the table. “Doesn’t our presence make Mara home? Isn’t that worth fighting for?”
The table is silent as Jeran translates my signs aloud. No one speaks for some time after he finishes. We refugees had all seen the Federation’s darkness firsthand. Perhaps everyone is imagining what this place will look like when their red-and-black banners hang over the walls, when their Ghosts are led, chained, through the streets in victory, and when our families are split apart and sent to various destinations inside their territory.
It’s during this silence that a messenger arrives from the National Hall. I turn at the sound of steps sloshing along the path and look up to see a young Maran grimacing at the grime of the shanties. A look of relief crosses his face at the sight of us.
“From the Firstblade,” he mutters, thrusting an envelope at Jeran with the Firstblade’s seal. Then he turns around without bidding any of us farewell, as if he couldn’t wait to wash the infection of the Outer City from his body.
Jeran leaps up before anyone else can say a word. He breaks open the seal and pulls out the letter. Then he reads it in silence, his eyes fixated on every word.
My heart contracts at the expression on his face. A cold sweat breaks out on my brow.
“Tell us, Jeran,” my mother says in the silence.
Jeran folds the letter and looks around the table. “The Speaker has refused our mission,” he answers quietly.
Red hisses through his teeth at the same time Adena leans forward on the table with a slap of her fists. “What?” she says.
“There must be some miscommunication,” I sign.
Jeran shakes his head. Then he unfolds it again and reads it aloud. “‘Jeran,’” he says, his voice hoarse. “‘The Speaker and the Senate have rejected your mission to take the Skyhunter into Federation territory. They believe we will be handing the most invaluable weapon we’ve ever gained back into the hands of our enemy. They have ordered you and your team grounded within the Striker complex, while Red has been ordered to the labs to be bled in an attempt to inoculate as many soldiers as possible. You have until morning to comply.’” His voice drops to a near whisper. “‘Eyes forward, my Deathdancer. Yours, Aramin.’”
Signed not as the Firstblade, but as his own name. Jeran blinks back tears as his hands tremble against the letter. He doesn’t even seem to care that, in reading this letter aloud, he has all but revealed to us the feelings between himself and the Firstblade.
I curl my hands into fists so tight that my nails threaten to cut through the skin of my palms. The Senate is unwilling. Unable to see. Too afraid to take a chance, even when the solution is right before their eyes. This is the same kind of irrational decision that has kept other refugees from serving in the Striker ranks.
“This is idiocy,” Adena snaps. “The Speaker has sentenced Mara to death. Every child. Every civilian. This country will burn down in flames.” She whirls, holding her hand out to Red. “The potential answer to defeating the entire Federation, sitting right here with us. And the Speaker is going to turn his back!”
“More than that,” I add, and the others turn to me. “They’re essentially arresting us. We’re confined to the Striker complex until further notice.”
“They won’t even let us fight,” Jeran says, pale. “They think we’re going to resist the order and they’re going to keep us from helping on the warfront. They really think Red can survive our labs and then take on the entire Federation army.”
Red narrows his eyes. I will not bleed for your Speaker, he says through our bond. Not like this.
No, you won’t, I reply.
He glances quickly at me as I stand. I point to the Firstblade’s writing on the letter. “Don’t you see?” I sign. My finger underlines his sentences. “You have until morning to comply.” I look up and meet Jeran’s eyes. “The Firstblade cared enough about you to write this,” I sign gently. “What does he mean?”
“Aramin is warning us,” he signs back before running his fingers carefully over the Firstblade’s signature. “He’s risking arrest himself by having this