by Marie Lu
But without trade, this harvest isn’t enough to feed everyone. The few herds of wild cows left in Mara are strictly regulated by the Senate to ensure their populations can remain steady enough to feed us. The meat distributed is reserved for Senate leaders and those who live in the Inner City, while people in the Outer City have to resort to eating the rabbits and mice that run rampant in the shantytowns. People risk imprisonment and death to poach the remaining animals, but even then they will all be gone in a few years. If the Federation’s Ghosts don’t find us first, starvation will.
The worst part is knowing that this is still nowhere near what life would be like under the Federation’s rule. I’ve seen the destruction firsthand in the territories they conquer. It is the fire of an empire that believes so strongly in their superiority, is so certain they are destined to inherit this land from the Early Ones, that they are determined to prove it.
In the silence, Adena glances over at me. Her gaze settles on the dark circles under my eyes. “Jeran told me you’ve been at the arena before dawn every day,” she finally says. “That you’ve been training past midnight.”
“I thought you’d be impressed with how busy I’ve been keeping.”
“I’d be more impressed if you were efficient about it,” she replies. “But you’re just exhausting yourself. You collapsed twice during training this week. No one has seen you at the mess hall in days.”
“Who needs a mess hall when they have you delivering them meat pies?”
“I wouldn’t need to deliver you meat pies if you’d just go to the mess hall,” she replies witheringly.
“Forgive me for enjoying your daily company.”
“Look, if you want to practice in the arena until you’re unconscious, at least use your time right. Come by my shop. I can replace your swords’ hilts with a design that locks together. It’ll let you use both blades at once and free up your other hand for a third weapon.”
I nudge her. “New gadgets you’ve been tinkering with?”
Adena grins and pulls out her own double blades. I can see that she has fitted both ends with an interlocking piece. She slides the two hilts together and twists until there’s a satisfying click. Then she twirls the connected swords with one hand. They’ve been transformed into a single weapon with a blade at either end.
“See?” she says aloud as she twists the hilts again. They separate back into two swords.
I smile. All of Adena’s weapons are altered like this—daggers with serrated blades; bullets that explode on contact with a target; arrows tipped with poison. She’s the only Striker who was given a shop in the metalworkers’ Grid.
“Anyway,” she adds as she sheaths her swords, “take it easy on your training. Come sit with the others once in a while. You can’t hide away forever.”
“I’ll be fine,” I sign. “Really.”
“Convincing argument,” she signs back.
“I just … Give me time.”
Adena’s eyes soften at me, and she touches my arm. “Losing your first Shield is always the hardest.” Her gestures pause, turning uncertain. “I know it’s only been a couple of weeks.”
Adena’s first Shield had been her brother, her only family. She’d lost him three years ago to a hostage trade gone wrong between us and the Federation. I had been the one delivering food to her door then, forcing her out of bed and away from her grief. Ever since, she has looked forward to the executions of enemy soldiers.
“But you know a Striker must have a Shield, right?” she continues now. “The Firstblade’s not going to let you stay unpaired for much longer.”
You can’t stay a Striker without a Shield. If a lone Striker is bitten by a Ghost, there is no one nearby to kill them before they turn. Corian would have twisted into the gnarled, cracked body of a Ghost and come for the rest of us at the encampment. They don’t trust us to have the strength to kill ourselves first.
I look away from her as we approach the arena’s front gates. “I knew my Striker days were over the instant Corian’s father turned me away,” I sign. “Who else would want to pair with a Basean?”
“Plenty would. Don’t lose hope. Aramin hasn’t dismissed you yet.”
“Yet.” I raise an eyebrow at her. “I appreciate your faith in me, but you don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not lying!” she blurts out.
“I know what the other Strikers think of me being on a patrol.”
“Well, they’re fools,” Adena finally adds. She loops her arm through mine and presses herself closer to me. “You’re one of the most talented Strikers ever recruited. Even the Firstblade has admitted that. If he lets you go, we might as well open our gates and wave the Federation in.”
“Well, that makes you the fool,” I sign. Then I smile and lean back against her. “But thank you, all the same.”
Adena shrugs, nudging me affectionately. “Figured you could use the moral support.”
We reach the arena’s front gates and walk through. Inside, Strikers are scattered throughout the space. Some are already waiting up in the seats, while the most dedicated are running through a few quick drills down in the arena’s center. Ema Wen Danna, expected to join Mara’s Senate next year, is sharpening her sword as she lectures her sullen brother, Sano, on proper weapon etiquette. They exchange nods with me as I pass by. Others, like Tomm and Pira, both offspring of old money families, sneer and whisper under their breath. I keep my chin up and ignore them.
I see a cluster of onlookers gathered around one Striker in particular. It’s Jeran Min Terra, Adena’s Shield, sparring with random opponents.
At first glance, Jeran looks like nothing more than a slender boy, his hair tied up in a knot of red gold and his eyes the blue of glacier water, his face too shy for a Striker. It’s not the appearance of someone who has racked up more kills than anyone else in the patrols. Deathdancer. It’s the nickname he’s earned by the fluid way he moves around a Ghost, slicing a thousand cuts with his daggers while dodging every claw the creature might slash in his direction. He always reminds me of water carving through a canyon.
Today he has blindfolded himself, relying solely on his hearing to determine where his opponent is. His leg sweeps in an arc across the ground. His back arches like a bow. As we look on, he disarms one challenger, then smoothly sends another falling backward into the dirt. His movements are lithe and precise, a hypnotizing dance of daggers flashing, blades glinting.
To anyone unfamiliar with Jeran’s techniques, it’d seem as if he doesn’t even need to think. He just acts. But Adena and I both know how much work he puts into his moves. The onlookers let out a cheer now as Jeran disarms a third opponent, then slides off his blindfold.
Now I notice the Firstblade among those watching Jeran practice. In the midst of applause, Aramin steps toward Jeran and points out some small weakness in the Striker’s moves. Jeran listens closely, then copies Aramin’s motion. The two 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 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 actions,” Aramin says, his voice ringing out across the arena. Beside him, a young translator struggles to keep up, her tongue tripping over the Federation’s clipped language. “Because you chose to fight for an enemy of our nation, because of the atrocities you have committed, the Senate has sentenced you to be judged before the Strikers of Mara. If you choose to help us by answering our questions about the Federatio
n, we will let you live. But if you continue to stay silent, you will be executed here in this arena. Do you understand?”
As the translator repeats in Karenese what the Firstblade said, the young man gazes out at the arena. I observe him closely. He may not speak Maran, but even he must know from their voices that they are calling for his execution today. Still, he looks relieved, so serene in the face of death that he seems almost bored.
Adena frowns and leans over to Jeran and me. “Does he not understand what the translator’s saying?” she asks.
“I think the translator made a few mistakes,” Jeran says above everyone’s shouts. “The Firstblade’s words were ‘We will let you live.’ The translator repeated it as ‘We will make you live.’”
“So? What does that mean, other than that our tutors are terrible at teaching languages?”
Jeran gives her a wounded look. “I used to be a language tutor,” he protests, and she pats him twice on his cheek. “I’m serious! Actions translate poorly between Maran and Karenese. It might be making the prisoner react differently.”
“That isn’t a big enough difference to make the guy stay quiet. Why doesn’t he just talk and save himself some torture?”
“Because he wants to die,” I sign.
Both of them look at me. “What makes you say that?” Adena signs after a pause. “You think he’s actually faithful enough to the Federation to throw away his life?”
I don’t want to explain that his expression is how I’ve felt for the past few weeks. Instead, I nod down at the scene. “I’ve witnessed this before. He has the same look the Baseans who were executed in my village had,” I explain. “He has already accepted his fate. If they told him that they’d make him live if he talks, and he has no interest in living, then of course he’ll stay quiet.”
