CHAPTER 6: THE PAST

Tsusano Misaki straightened up, breathing hard. She wasn’t shaking. Not exactly. Thrumming was more like it.

“We did it!” She turned to the hooded figure standing further down the alley. She had never felt so alive. “We did it!”

“You did it.” Elleen Elden pulled back her hood, letting her golden hair tumble free as her eerily light brown eyes scanned the mess of bleeding and unconscious theonites. “I just set them up.”

The littigi had her knife poised before her, but she hadn’t needed it. The moment the illusion had dropped, Misaki had dashed in, felling the four men before any of them noticed the shadow sweeping through their ranks. Elleen was hardly a squeamish girl, but a frown creased her features as she stared at Misaki’s work.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let myself flicker.” Elleen often did that, referring to her illusions as herself. “I just… when they drew their machetes, I lost focus. Sorry you had to step in.”

“I’m not,” Misaki said, her face alight with a delirious smile.

“We could have held them here without anyone getting hurt.” Elleen’s frown deepened. “If I had just kept my nerve—”

A crash echoed down the street beyond the alley and both girls looked to the sky. No Firebird signal yet. Robin was still fighting.

“I’m going.” Misaki stepped over the nearest unconscious man, making for the street, but Elleen caught her arm.

“What?” Misaki demanded. Elleen’s weak Hadean hands weren’t capable of applying much pressure, but the tension in her grip suggested that it was meant to be firm.

“What if these men bleed out before help comes?”

“Oh.” Misaki turned back to look at her victims, sprawled across the grimy pavement. “I’m sure they won’t...” She trailed off as the crawl of freely flowing blood reached her senses and, grudgingly, she realized that Elleen had a point. Some of her slashes had cut deeper than she intended. Why were human bodies so soft? Weren’t tajakalu supposed to be tough? Maybe these Malusian smugglers were weaker as a result of their mixed blood.

“Fine.” Misaki pulled her arm from Elleen’s grasp. “I’ll make sure they don’t die.”

“I’m going to go join the fighting,” Elleen said. “I’m sure you’ll be close behind.”

“If I don’t get there first.”

“Ha.” Sheathing her knife, Elleen flipped her white hood up to hide her hair and ran from the alley.

Misaki didn’t personally care if these fighters lived, but she thought of how upset Robin would be if he found out someone had died during one of his missions and treated each tajaka thoroughly. She accounted for even small cuts, congealing any blood she found leaking out of them. Two were bleeding from the head where Misaki’s ice-reinforced punches had hit. The third she had managed to mangle pretty terribly, slicing one of his arms nearly to the bone. He would need surgery.

As she worked on the last man’s more minor injuries, he stirred and groaned. Her hand went to her dagger, but it was obvious that the Malusian was far too dazed to present a threat. Besides, she had landed a good cut to his calf. He wouldn’t be walking—let alone fighting—any time soon. He blinked up at her, but he wouldn’t get a look at her face. Koli had designed their fighting outfits carefully; even with her hood back, exposing her hair, the dark mask that clung to Misaki’s face concealed her features.

“Wha... what’s—” The man started to say, but cut off with a wince when he tried to move his injured leg.

“You are very lucky.”

“Why?” he asked, still seemingly only half conscious.

“Firebird doesn’t want you to die.”

“Fly... bird?” he murmured. Definitely only partially conscious.

“Firebird,” Misaki repeated tersely. “If you want to make it in this part of Livingston, you’ll remember the name.”

Finished with the man’s leg, Misaki stood and looked around for the knife she had lost during the fray. She felt unbalanced with just the one Koumbia dagger strapped to her hip, but she couldn’t find the other. Maybe one of the Malusians had fallen on top of it?

“You...” the man moved again, attempting to stand up.

“Stay there,” Misaki ordered sharply. “Your idiot employer led you into Pantera territory. Go crawling out into the open and you’ll get an arrow through the neck. Lie here quietly and Firebird will make sure you’re taken care of. If I were you, I’d play dead.”

“Play dead?”

“Yeah. And never take a job from Yaotl Texca again.”

Deciding that the missing knife was a lost cause, Misaki pulled her hood up and took off in the direction of the real fight, cutting across the street, into the next alley. She had wasted enough time on Texca’s useless henchmen when Robin and Elleen might need her.

A gaggle of homeless adyns cried out in surprise as she came barreling toward them. Inconvenient. They clogged the alley and it would take too long to detour around them. Instead, she lay into a full sprint toward them, turning at the last moment to run up the concrete wall. On her fifth step up, she pushed off with both legs. Water molecules rushed to her hands and feet. She hit the opposite wall, ice forming, and stuck there.

The adyns exclaimed to one another in shock. It probably wasn’t often they saw a tiny foreign girl stick to a wall like a lizard. As they gaped in amazement, Misaki climbed. She kept the water tight to her hands and the balls of her feet, melting it each time she needed to lift a hand or foot, and then refreezing it back to the building.

She was still slower than she would have liked at her newfound climbing technique, but once she fell into a rhythm—right foot, right hand, left foot, left hand—it didn’t take her long to reach the top of the building. Clambering onto the flat concrete roof, Misaki turned to look over the surrounding area.

This high over the North End slums, wind whipped her hood and cloak around her. A burst of smoke a few blocks away revealed Robin’s location, and there was Elleen, a bright streak in her white coat, running toward the action. Misaki could easily catch up. A human heartbeat caught her attention and she turned to find a sandy-haired adyn emerging from the doorway onto the rooftop. He had a crossbow in his hand and a Pantera yellow sash around his waist.

“Shimatta,” she swore under her breath in Shirojima Dialect.

“Oi!” the man said. “What business have you here? This be Pantera territory!”

He raised the crossbow, but like most adyns, he was slow. Misaki shot water at him and turned it to ice with a harsh snap of her jiya.

The man cried out as the ice froze the bolt to the bow and the bow to his hand. “Intruder! Intr—”

The next glob of water hit him in the mouth, freezing it shut.

“Sorry.” Misaki approached the adyn and pushed him back against the door, ignoring the punch he swung into her face.

She had found that a blow from an adult adyn was roughly equivalent to a blow from a four-year-old child—annoying but ultimately harmless. Her own baby brothers had been throwing harder punches than this man before they could talk. Having bruised his knuckles terribly on Misaki’s cheekbone, the adyn reached for the machete at his belt. Misaki caught his free hand before it reached the weapon.

“Sorry,” she repeated, gripping the handle of the machete and sliding it free of its crude excuse for a sheath. “I’m going to borrow this.”

Stepping back from the man was a relief, as his unwashed smell was honestly more offensive than the knuckles she had taken to the face. She gave the machete an experimental twirl and grimaced. The balance was terrible, but the extra reach would be a welcome change from the daggers.

“We’re not here to infringe on your territory,” she told the adyn, hoping the seemingly simple man would understand her through her Kaigenese accent. “We’ll be gone as soon as we’re done dealing with your Malusian intruders.”

Leaving the stunned Pantera standing there, Misaki ran to the edge of the roof and leapt off. She wasn’t the best jumper, but she had found that she could double her normal distance by gathering ice beneath her feet and launching off it with a repelling push of jiya. Wind roared around her in a glorious moment of flight before the concrete of the next rooftop came rushing up to meet her.

New water collected under Misaki’s shoes and she turned it to snow. Not a lot, just enough to take some of the impact off her knees and ankles as she landed. Hitting the rooftop, she rolled with the momentum, regained her feet, and kept running. A few more jiya-propelled leaps, using snow to cushion landings and ice to stick to walls as needed, and Misaki dropped into step beside Elleen.

“There you are, Shadow,” the littigi panted as they ran. “Perfect timing.”

Elleen’s exertion was obvious, but considering how weak most of her kind were, Misaki found it astonishing that the white girl could run as fast as she did over such great distances. Long legs and determination seemed to make up for her soft muscles as the two sprinted the last block toward the smoke.

Firebird would stop petty crimes if the occasion arose, but he only actively hunted killers. These three Malusian smugglers—Yaotl Texca, Mecatl Silangwe, and Kolonka Mathaba—had raided the homes of some of their Abirian competitors over the past few weeks, killing two people in the process. The men Misaki and Elleen had confronted earlier had been Texca’s hired help, a handful of hapless Malusian immigrants who just needed jobs. The murderers themselves were ahead.

As Misaki and Elleen sprinted for the action, they passed an unconscious Malusian, sprawled on the concrete among some shattered bottles and other garbage.

“Which one was that?” Misaki asked, only sparing a glance back at the crumpled figure.

“Silangwe,” Elleen said, her photographic memory never failing to identify a face.

There were three pounding heartbeats around the corner ahead, three blazing hot spots in the cool air. Texca and Mathaba, the two serious combatants, were still in the fight.

“You ready, Shadow?” Elleen breathed.

“If you are.”

The two girls burst around the corner, and immediately, Kolonka Mathaba whirled to face them, her long black braid whipping over her shoulder, hands full of fire. Beyond her, Robin was locked in combat with the infamous Yaotl Texca, but Misaki and Elleen couldn’t worry about him at the moment.

Their immediate concern was the threat of Mathaba’s flames—blue-white instead of orange, far hotter than the average tajaka’s fire and beyond Misaki’s power to extinguish. It wasn’t until Elleen’s hand jerked back on Misaki’s cloak that Misaki realized that she had been brazenly and foolishly striding forward to rush the tajaka.

“When I say go,” Elleen said, and only she could keep her tone so calm in the face of flames hot enough to melt the flesh from her bones. Behind her, Misaki felt the exhausted littigi take a deep breath, gathering her concentration. “Steady...” Elleen tugged Misaki back a step as Mathaba stalked toward them, then she planted a palm between Misaki’s shoulder blades. “Go!” She shoved.

Misaki exploded forward. As she did, half a dozen Misakis burst from her, rippling illusions, all wearing her same blue and black cloak, moving with her trademark agility. Elleen’s holographic Misakis scattered in all directions, momentarily disorienting Mathaba, but the tajaka was no fool. She swept her arm in a wide arc, releasing a whip of blue flame that passed through the ring of illusions.

It was an efficient way to determine which black-hooded girl was real. The moment Misaki ducked under the flames, she differentiated herself from the illusions, which were, of course, unaffected by the heat.

Ultimately, the illusions had only bought her a dinma of time, but her father always said that a great fighter could capitalize on the smallest advantage. By the time Mathaba’s eyes focused in on the real Misaki, she had already gotten inside the tajaka’s guard. Enveloped in the dizzying heat of Mathaba’s aura, Misaki slashed upward. The machete didn’t cut as cleanly as a katana, which would have easily severed the woman’s arm, but it did a respectable amount of damage.

Mathaba screamed, her flames guttering out as boiling-hot blood spurted from her arm. Side-stepping a swipe of one of the woman’s other arm, Misaki launched an ice-knuckled punch up into her temple. The punch itself landed hard, but Mathaba’s taya was so hot that it weakened Misaki’s ice, softening the attack. The tall woman staggered, dazed but not unconscious.

Flames lashed out, grazing Misaki’s hand, causing her to drop the machete. Falling back, Misaki drew her knife, holding the short weapon before her in her left hand. Her stinging right hand curled into a fist and pulled back to her hip, new ice hardening across the knuckles.

The blue fire had flared to life around Mathaba again, creating intense waves of heat, but Misaki was not afraid. If anything, the heat made her blood leap in excitement like a water brought to a boil. All she had to do was open another wound with her knife, causing the woman’s taya to falter again, then go in with her ice. It would be easy, satisfying. Misaki was grinning, ready to fight, ready to—

Crash!

The concrete slab, so big Elleen had barely been able to heft it, broke into several pieces against the tajaka’s head. Kolonka Mathaba swayed as a cloud of rock dust crumbled into her hair and cascaded off her shoulders. She took a step... then fell to the pavement, unconscious.

“Oh...” Misaki lowered her knife as Elleen brushed off her hands. “Thank—”

“Help Firebird,” Elleen said.

When Misaki looked toward Robin, she found him pinned to the ground beneath Yaotl Texca. She had never seen Robin down in a fight before and it sent a jolt of panic through her. She could hardly fault her friend; he had been alternately chasing and fighting these three adult theonites since leaving Elleen and Misaki to hold off the henchmen. He was usually able to stack his opponents, utilizing his speed and his knowledge of North End’s streets, but it was clear that he was flagging, his hands shaking as he tried to hold Texca’s machete away from his neck.

Without another thought, Misaki charged. It was unwise for a young jijaka like herself to grapple an older tajaka whose nyama could overcome hers and burn her, but Misaki had learned that she could temporarily stun the fire out of an opponent with a concentrated blast of cold. Reaching full speed, she mustered all the icy jiya she could and launched her body into Texca’s.

The impact was painful. She and the massive tajaka tumbled over one another, scraping shoulders and elbows on the concrete. As they rolled, Texca grabbed hold of her cloak, probably thinking that his size would make it easy to pin her down, but Misaki was ahead of him. She used their remaining momentum to flip the tajaka over her hip onto his back and rolled on top of him, knife raised to strike.

Barely hearing Robin’s shout of protest, she drove the blade toward her victim’s chest, but Texca was fast. He struck her arm on its way down, diverting the stab. The knife stuck in his upper arm, missing his heart.

Misaki already had ice across her knuckles. She punched Texca as hard as she could, once, twice, three times. The fourth punch shattered her ice and the tajaka was still conscious. She made to slam the heels of her hands into his temples, but the moment she drew both hands back, she created an opening.

Blood dribbling from his nose and mouth, Texca lurched upward, grabbing her by the throat. His massive, blisteringly hot hand, wrapped all the way around her neck. It probably wouldn’t take him much effort to snap her spine, but she didn’t give him the chance. Water raced from her knuckles to her fingertips and she clawed Texca, one hand tearing across his face, the other ripping the back of the hand at her throat. He screamed, releasing Misaki’s neck to clutch at his face.

Misaki’s jiya moved on instinct, the claws on her right hand converging into a single long spike of ice over all five fingers. She drew the spike back, knowing that this time, blinded by blood and pain, Texca wouldn’t be able to stop her—

An arm wrapped around her shoulders, jerking her back. Her ice clipped Texca’s neck but didn’t penetrate as she was hauled off her prey. She fought, but Robin held on with infuriating determination, putting himself between her and Texca.

“Don’t!” Robin gripped her shoulders—and gods damn it, he was strong when he was desperate. “Please, don’t!”

“What are you doing?” Misaki demanded in frustration.

“He’s down. You don’t need to do that.”

“He’s not unconscious,” Misaki protested, yanking against Robin’s grasp, barely stifling the urge to turn her ice on him. “He’s dangerous!”

“That doesn’t give us license to—” Robin cut off with a short cry of pain. As her friend buckled, Misaki looked down to find her own dagger protruding from Robin’s calf. Texca had ripped the weapon from his shoulder and used it to stab Robin in the leg.

The Malusian burst to his feet in a swirl of white and orange flame. Misaki was forced to leap back to avoid being scorched as the man’s fist slammed into Robin’s chest, knocking him backward. Robin coughed as he fell into his fighting stance, clearly winded, but Texca didn’t stay to fight. As his flames broke, he turned and ran. He was going to get away!

Drawing her hand back, Misaki pulled moisture into an ice spear and shoved her palm forward, firing the projectile at Texca’s back.

“No!” Robin bellowed. Flames burst from his hands, blazing so hot that they melted Misaki’s thin spear koyinu from its target.

Texca whipped around a corner and disappeared. Misaki sprinted after him but by the time she rounded the corner herself, he was gone. There was no sign of which road or alley he had taken. She would have climbed for a higher vantage and tried to run him down, but she knew from watching the man run that she would never catch him. Robin might be able to if he weren’t stabbed through the leg like an idiot.

She rounded on him. “What the Hell was that?”

“We don’t kill,” he said, teeth gritted as he staggered to the nearest wall and leaned against it for support.

“He would have killed us,” Misaki protested. “He was about to finish you when I—”

“Thank you for that,” Robin said and then firmly repeated, “We don’t kill.”

Misaki wanted to respond, but the aftermath of a fight wasn’t the place to have a protracted argument. This was the time to get everything wrapped up as fast as possible and clear out.

While Elleen handcuffed Silangwe and Mathaba, Misaki pulled out a capsule Koli Kuruma had devised for her and shattered it on the ground. As it broke open, chemical mist poured out, colored bright green so that Misaki could easily keep track of it as it spread throughout the alley, coating the scene. Where needed, she pushed the clouds along with her jiya, ensuring that the entire alley was coated.

When that was done, she took a second capsule and hurried to repeat the process over the area where Silangwe had fallen. The chemical solution served two purposes, distorting any fingerprints she, Robin, or Elleen might have left and rendering blood unfit for DNA testing. It was one of the ways they prevented law enforcement or anyone else with lab equipment from uncovering their identities. As Misaki finished spreading the green clouds out to blanket the last little flecks of fresh blood on the pavement, a column of fire burst from the alley where she had left Robin.

She didn’t mean to get distracted—it wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen Robin’s Firebird flare before—but her hands fell to her sides and she found herself staring as if she could drink the heat with her eyes. The flames climbed high against the clouds before spreading out into the pair of wings that had given Firebird his name. By now, everyone in this part of Livingston knew what the signal meant: criminals were ready for the police to pick up.

Of course, Firebird never just left a scene and trusted the police to arrest the catch without incident. There were all sorts of things that could go wrong: a strong enough criminal could regain consciousness and injure officers, jumpy officers could harm an incapacitated prisoner, or a third party could intervene and endanger everyone.

“Hide and watch things here, okay?” Robin told Misaki when she returned to the alley. “I’m going to go take care of the other four.”

“You should let me fix your leg,” Misaki said. Her dagger was still protruding grotesquely from Robin’s calf and his light brown skin had gone pale with pain.

“Not now,” Robin said. “You’ve already misted the scene. I don’t want to pull the blade out and bleed more.”

“I can keep your blood off the ground,” Misaki assured him, “and I have back-up capsules—”

“We’ll worry about it back in the dorm.”

With that, he turned and limped back in the direction of the four men Misaki had disabled, Elleen serving as his crutch and using her illusions to conceal them from curious eyes.

Misaki found herself a hidden vantage on the roof above and settled down to watch over Mathaba and Silangwe. She didn’t honestly care if the police mistreated the two criminals or if the Pantera crept out of hiding to kill them, but Robin cared. Elleen cared. And this was their city, not hers. Before long, the Livingston police showed up in their jonjo glass patrol cars to collect Mathaba and Silangwe. They were just closing the doors on the criminals when firelight caught their attention.

Robin had sent up a second signal over the site of Misaki and Elleen’s first fight—not the Firebird wings that alerted the authorities to criminals ready for arrest, but the three-pronged tajaka flare: a universal request for medical attention. As the officers’ eyes turned toward the signal, Misaki quickly withdrew from the roof’s edge to avoid being spotted. Her caution was probably unnecessary; no one ever seemed to notice a creeping shadow under the brilliance of Robin’s flames. That was the idea.

“Do you think that’s Firebird’s too?” a young officer asked, clearly awed.

“Maybe,” his superior said in a less impressed tone. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just a medical aid flare, not the wings. He doesn’t have Texca.”

“But do you think we should check it out? Or send an ambulance? Someone might need help.”

“Maybe they do. Not our problem.”

“But—”

“These kallaanas are killing each other all the time,” a third officer spat. “If we sent an ambulance every time, the city would be bankrupt. Now, get in the freezing car, koroden. Unless you want us to leave you here in Pantera territory overnight.”

That seemed to shut the young man up. There was a scramble of feet and the thud of a closing door. Misaki straightened up to watch the police cars speed away from the scene, wheels skidding on the poorly paved road. Even in their glass-armored cars, it seemed that the theonite officers couldn’t wait to return to the blacker part of town.

Her job done, Misaki headed toward the meeting place she, Robin, and Elleen had established. When she reached the alley they had agreed on, Robin was nowhere to be seen, but she quickly found the glimmering form of Elleen Elden. The gangly girl was perched atop a short fence at the edge of a playground that looked to Misaki like the single worst place for a child to play. The metal equipment was sharp and mangled where tajakalu had twisted pieces off and borne them away to be melted into weapons. The sand bristled with arrows from some gang-related shootout.

Elleen shimmered, shifting in and out of view as Misaki approached. The littigi often did that—playing with the light across her own body, turning herself into a sort of mirage.

In elementary school, Misaki had been told that Hadeans’ light colored hair and eyes were signs that they were a more primitive variety of human, closely related to dogs and monkeys who shared their coloring. She was realizing that she had been told a lot of ridiculous things.

The undeniable truth was that Elleen was beautiful—in a harsh, painful sort of way. People here always accused Shirojima Kaigenese of being stiff, but this Hadean-born girl had a different kind of stiffness about her. She had come to Carytha at a young age, as a refugee, as Robin had. She didn’t talk much about what she had seen in her homeland before that, only to say that it made the streets of Livingston look like a paradise. Whatever it was, it had hardened her. Even though Elleen’s gold hair and pale eyes were a bit frightening—perhaps because they were a bit frightening—Misaki found them beautiful. She had decided that if Elleen was related to any animal, it was something dignified and dangerous, like a leopard or a falcon.

“What do you want, Shadow?” Elleen had an interesting, highly articulated, accent that apparently came from her homeland back in Hades. She could speak Lindish like a Carythian, but she had deliberately held onto her tribe’s accent all these years. Pale brown eyes turned to look at Misaki. “I suppose you’re expecting me to thank you? Fair enough.” Despite her calm voice, Misaki could sense that her friend was miserable. “Thank you for saving me.”

“I just thought... maybe you shouldn’t be sitting out here in the open?” Misaki glanced around nervously. “This is gang territory, isn’t it? There could be archers.”

“Archers don’t fire at deserted playgrounds,” Elleen said dismissively. “We can see each other, but as far as any people in the surrounding buildings are concerned, no one is here.”

“Oh.” Misaki forgot that Elleen could not only weave light into images from her photographic memory but also render people invisible from certain angles.

“Please don’t worry about earlier,” Misaki said. “I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of. Your illusion was incredible. It held them off until I was able to reach you. And even after it lost its clarity, they were so disoriented that my part was easy.”

“Aye,” Elleen scowled, twirling a ribbon of light between her fingers before letting it vanish. “That’s what I always dreamed of as a girl: holding on long enough to get saved by a real theonite.”

“Ell—Whitewing, is everything alright?” They were all supposed to use their crime-fighter names when they were out in disguise—just in case a fonyaka or sondatigi was listening in—but this was apparently the wrong thing to say. Elleen let out a huff, her face pulling into a sneer.

“Have you noticed,” she said, “that every bloody crime-fighter of my complexion has to have the word ‘white’ in their alias. Like they need to qualify—not a real crime-fighter, a white one.”

“I didn’t notice that,” Misaki said.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. The reporter who named me Whitewing is the same piece of xuro who decided I was Firebird’s sidekick.”

Elleen was typically a stoic person, making sharp quips at the expense of others, but never revealing much about herself. The day’s events seemed to have peeled back the scab on a deep insecurity. This was the kind of bleeding Misaki couldn’t staunch.

To any other fourteen-year-old littigi, simply surviving a fight with full theonites would have been an accomplishment to be proud of, but Elleen never seemed happy with what she was able to do. Hadeans were not built to withstand physical competition with tajakalu and jijakalu. In simply surviving one fight after another, Elleen was extraordinary.

“If you need to thank me, then I owe you the same,” Misaki pointed out, hoping it would lift the littigi’s spirits. “You saved me too.”

“I wanted to be useful.” Elleen glared at the ground. “You were ready to fight her on your own.”

Misaki didn’t know what to say. She came from a culture where women were considered fragile. She was still getting used to Carytha, where there was an entire race of people who were truly more fragile than any theonite. Elleen had abilities most white people could never dream of possessing, yet she was still at a disadvantage. It must have been maddeningly frustrating.

“I thought your illusions were good—”

“Don’t patronize me, Princess.” Strangely, the words didn’t come out with the hostile bite they should have. Instead, Elleen sounded sad.

“I wasn’t,” Misaki insisted. “Truly, Elleen, I—”

“It’s Whitewing, Shadow,” Elleen cut her off.

“Right.”

“Stay and make sure Firebird doesn’t get into any more trouble, would you?” She hopped from the fence and primly straightened out her white coat. “I’m going to head back and get some practice in before dinner.”

“Where is Firebird?” Misaki asked.

Elleen lifted an arm and Misaki followed her pointing finger to a rooftop overlooking the alley where they had fought Texca’s guards. He stood right at the edge of the building, the fringe of his red coat flapping in the wind.

“See you in class tomorrow,” Elleen said and vanished into thin air, the only sign of life her heartbeat slowly retreating into a nearby alley.

Realizing that Elleen’s illusions would no longer protect her from the resident Pantera, Misaki hurried into the cover of another alley. Water gathered to her hands and she used it to climb the concrete wall toward Robin’s position.

When she pulled herself up over the edge of the rooftop, he was still there, standing at the edge of the apartment complex, his back to her. Robin had such strong senses in some ways, yet his general awareness of nyama was lacking. If Misaki made no noise, he would undoubtedly go right on standing there, never noticing the human-shaped cold spot behind him.

He stood still against the gray sky, wind blowing through his black hair and whipping his red coat out behind him. Layers of the tough red fabric overlapped across the back of the coat forming the Firebird symbol Koli had designed.

Misaki had never understood why it had to be a bird. In Ryuhon Falleya, birds were sinister figures, heralds of disorder, disease, and destruction. In the legends of her childhood, any human who took on avian characteristics was some kind of demon. But Robin had explained that he was honored to take the bird as a symbol for his alter ego. Apparently, it was a creature of empowerment to Hadeans and Native Baxarians. Depending on the bird species and the tribe, it could stand for wisdom, freedom, or rebirth. Misaki supposed that if Robin was a demon, he did a good job looking like power and freedom in that red coat.

Koli talked about building new features into the Firebird coat—holographic fibers to make it merge with the darkness, or glow, or appear to be on fire—but Misaki thought that was silly. Sure, Robin could probably benefit from a coat with a stealth mode, but he didn’t need any help glowing.

Straightening up, Misaki cleared her throat.

Robin cocked his head. “Shadow.”

“Firebird.” She folded her arms. “I came to check on your leg, but I see you’re busy brooding, so I’ll just go.” She turned as if to climb back down the way she had come.

“My leg is fine,” Robin said. “It’s bandaged well enough to stop the bleeding for now and I’ll have someone take a look at it later. I don’t think I’ll need you to fix it.”

“Who said anything about fixing it?” Misaki said, turning back with an indignant toss of her hair. “I just wanted my knife back.”

Robin flipped one arm upward. A silvery shape arced from his hand, spinning. Misaki caught the dagger by its handle.

“Thanks.” She slid the weapon back into its sheath and then said more seriously, “You honestly don’t want me to scab it at all?”

Robin shrugged. “It feels alright.”

“It must feel great,” Misaki said, “given that you’re trusting it to perch you there on the edge of certain death.” She came up beside him to consider the distance to the ground. “You know you’re not an actual bird, right? If you fall from this height, you’ll plummet and die.”

“No.” Robin rolled his eyes at her, his voice dripping with that Carythian-style sarcasm Misaki was just getting used to. “I didn’t know that.”

Blood still smeared the cement far below from Misaki’s fight with Texca’s guards, but the men themselves were nowhere to be seen.

“I’ll be fine,” he added. “I had to stay, to make sure those men were okay.”

“Who cares if they’re okay?” Misaki said impatiently. “They were terrible.”

“They were just Texca’s hired security. As far as we know, they haven’t done anything except accept a job from the wrong guy.”

“They pulled their machetes on Elleen,” Misaki said indignantly, “a teenage girl.”

“Well, after meeting you, I doubt they’ll make that mistake again. You realize that’s the idea, don’t you? Not to destroy the people of this city but to make them better.”

“Those men haven’t even lived in this city for a week. They’re foreigners.”

“So are you,” Robin said. “So was I, when I first came here. We can’t claim to be crime-fighters if we disrespect life just as much as the criminals we fight.”

“I don’t think killing a horrible, hostile person is really disrespecting life,” Misaki said. “Most koronu would say that it’s a duty.” It was agreed upon across all warrior cultures—Kaigen, Yamma, Sizwe—that killing in self defense or defense of the innocent was a noble thing.

“I’m not most koronu.” Robin said, “and I don’t want to argue this with you. You don’t have to defend what you did. I understand it. It’s just not... I want you to promise you won’t try to kill anyone else on these missions, okay?”

Misaki frowned. “You know what I am, right? I’m a jijaka from a very specific family famous for killing people with swords. If you didn’t want your enemies dead, why even bring me onboard? Why...” Misaki paused, wondering if she should voice the question that had been gnawing at her these past two months. “Why did you choose me?”

Misaki had spent more time than she cared to admit puzzling over the question. Sure, she had already been friends with Robin and Elleen when the two orphanage buddies decided they needed a third koro on their team. But Robin, at least, had no shortage of friends, many more powerful than Misaki. It had never made much sense to her that she had been the one Robin and Elleen had chosen to invite into their secret world.

When Robin didn’t answer for a long moment, she grew anxious and found more words spilling from her mouth. “I mean, I assume my ability to heal people was appealing, with how you like to keep all your enemies alive.”

“They’re not my enemies,” Robin said, “and it had nothing to do with your abilities.”

“Then why?” Misaki pressed.

“I picked you because of this... because you’ll fight me on things like this. You see the world in a way I just don’t, and that…” He glanced away from her curious gaze, seemingly not wanting to meet her eyes. “That’s important to me.”

“Really?” Misaki tilted her head. “I would have thought you’d want to work with people who see the world the same way you do.” Wasn’t that what everyone wanted? A community of like minds?

“I think that would be a mistake,” Robin said. “Then who would tell me when I was being stupid?”

“Elleen would,” Misaki said. “She loves telling you you’re wrong, and she’s got a completely different personality from yours.”

“Sure, but we still come from the same place. We’re like siblings that way. There are a lot of things neither of us would think to question that maybe should be questioned. That’s a kind of blindness we can’t afford.”

“I don’t think it would be hard to find someone willing to question what you’re doing,” Misaki said in amusement.

“Yes, but... not someone like you. A lot of people would argue with me just to make themselves feel better, or smarter, or nobler. You don’t do that. You’re a good person.”

Surprise struck Misaki silent. That surprise was quickly followed by an uncomfortable pang of guilt, and she let out a sigh.

“Listen… I’m sorry I took a shot at Texca’s back, okay?” she said grudgingly. “You’re right. It wasn’t noble.” Her father would have been ashamed. You were supposed to look a fighter in the eyes when you killed him; everyone knew that.

“Misaki, I honestly don’t care if you attack people from behind, or above, or jump out of storm drains at them,” Robin said, surprising her again. “Street fighting is always messy and full of cheating.”

“So,” Misaki said, confused, “what is the problem then?”

Robin let out an exasperated sigh. “You couldn’t have gone for his knees?”

“The back is a bigger target,” she said defensively. “Those ice spears are hard to aim over any distance. Look, I understand that you would rather not kill anyone, but if it’s a choice between killing a dangerous criminal and letting him get away—”

“Then he gets away,” Robin said firmly.

“So, you care that everyone lives, but you don’t care whether you fight clean?” Misaki asked, confused.

“I guess I always had a childish concept of a clean fight.” Robin crossed his arms. “To me, a ‘clean fight’ is one that leaves the world cleaner than it was, not bloodier.”

Misaki didn’t mean to laugh—Robin seemed so earnest—but she couldn’t help it. “That’s not just childish, you idiot. It’s insane.” And yet so sweet. So Robin. “It doesn’t even make any sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“What if you let someone go and they’re not just a shady one-off killer like Yaotl Texca? What if it’s a serial killer, or a crazy person, or someone in the middle of carrying out a vendetta? What if letting them go puts other people in danger?”

“Then I’ll take responsibility for that,” Robin said resolutely. “I won’t sleep until they’re caught.”

“And you think that’s going to work?”

“It has to.”

Misaki studied her friend for a moment. “Robin... Firebird... people die,” she said. “From what I hear of this place, people die here all the time. Why is this little handful of lives so important to you?”

“Because no one is looking out for them.”

“You ever think that might be because they’re not worth it?”

Robin turned to her sharply, coal eyes flashing. “Look down there.” He pointed to the few smears of blood on the pavement where Misaki had taken down Texca’s guards earlier. “Do you know how those men got out of this alley?”

“Well, you sent up a flair. I know the police didn’t call in an ambulance, but I figured someone would.” Though now that she thought about it, she hadn’t heard any sirens.

Robin shook his head. “There’s an adyn-run waysis near here.”

“A waysis?” Misaki knew she had heard the Carythian term before but had never been entirely sure what it meant.

“Neutral ground,” Robin said, “a safe haven recognized by all of the major gangs. You don’t attack a person sheltering in a waysis; it’s against street code.”

“I didn’t know there were any codes of honor here,” Misaki admitted.

“None that are recognized by the government. Everyone in this part of town has been oppressed or abandoned by theonite powers the rest of the world depends on, but they don’t give up. Instead, they’ve made a life and a culture here for themselves. It’s not perfect, but it’s worth protecting, even if the ruling theonites, and the politicians, and the police have all decided otherwise.”

“If the people here are honestly trying, then how come this place is such a mess?” Misaki challenged. “How come they’re still so poor and uneducated?”

“Well, consider that at about half of North End is populated by Native Baxarians. They were doing fine until the Yammanka colonizers showed up and killed a third of them, enslaved another third, and forced the last third into Falleka marriages.”

“Right.” The jaseliwu back in Ishihama had always told Misaki that the natives of Abiria and Carytha had been thankful to intermarry with the more powerful Yammankalu. She had quickly gathered from the Native Baxarians she had met in Carytha that this was far from the truth. It seemed that not everyone in the world considered a strong bloodline to be a good trade for their autonomy.

“The adyns are at even more of a disadvantage,” Robin continued. “They were brought here as slaves to farm all that land the Yammankalu stole from the Natives, but when they were emancipated, they weren’t given any property of their own. Some of the Native Baxarians can at least compete with the Kelenduguka physically, but the adyns don’t even have that. It’s easy to judge when you inherit property, and an important name, and amazing powers from your parents.” Robin’s voice had grown heated. “How easy do you think it is to build a life out of nothing?”

“You’re not just talking about the adyns and the Native Carythians,” Misaki said quietly. “You’re talking about yourself.” Having come to Carytha as a refugee with nothing to his name, it was no wonder he identified so strongly with these people.

“What?” Robin looked surprised. “No. I mean—I’m way luckier than most North Enders. Sure, Elleen and I were refugees in these slums, but not many Livingston orphans have powers good enough to get them accepted into a theonite academy.”

“It’s not your powers that make you special,” Misaki said, “either of you.”

Her father always said there were things you couldn’t train into a fighter—spirit, courage, the ability to be something bigger than oneself. Robin wasn’t like the hundreds of koronu who claimed bravery and selflessness. He would honestly die to protect the dirtiest beggar in this slum. It was ridiculous, it was beautiful, and it sent a terrible anxiety clawing through Misaki.

It was like Robin said: street fighting was messy and full of cheating. He might claim that gangs of North End kept to a code of honor, but Misaki was fairly sure there were no codes to protect an honest boy like him. She felt sick, standing there, thinking about all the ways the monsters of these alleys could take advantage of Robin’s kindness, all the things they could do to him... It wasn’t a question of whether or not he was going to die. It was a question of whether he would die quickly, with all his spirit intact, or slowly, after the evils of the world had ripped and beaten every shred of optimism out of him.

Robin was a strong fighter, but she knew better than anyone that it only took one decisively-placed needle to fell a giant. There were some fights you could only win by being more ruthless than your opponent. One moment of hesitation or gentleness against a truly dangerous opponent would cost Robin his life. That light would go out. The thought created a frantic, irrepressible panic in Misaki.

“But you would kill,” she said, and it came out as a plea, a demand, “if you really, really had to.”

“No.”

“Not even a serial murderer? A rapist? What about that witch doctor we keep hearing about who feeds his enemies to wild animals?”

Robin shook his head. “That’s not for me to do. The world doesn’t need another powerful theonite trying to force his idea of justice on a city of adyns. That’s not what I’m going to be.”

“And what about to save your own life?” she demanded. “If it comes down to your life or your enemy’s—”

“I’ll find a way to stop them without any death.”

“But if you can’t,” she pressed. “If they’re too strong, if there’s no other way, will you kill then?”

“No,” Robin answered without hesitation. “Look, Livingston’s first crime-fighters killed people and they all died violent deaths before their time.”

“Oh, good,” Misaki said, employing her newly-discovered Carythian sarcasm to mask her distress. “That’s very reassuring.”

“My point is that trying to stab criminals before they stab you isn’t necessarily a good strategy.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Misaki snapped, “and you’ve already said a lot of dumb things today.” She didn’t know how it worked with Livingston street fighters, but every swordsman knew that landing the first strike was crucial.

“I’m just trying to make things better.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Robin shrugged. “My brother’s been saying exactly that since we were little. It’s never changed my mind.”

Misaki stared at Robin for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek, an odd flavor of anger swelling inside her.

Then she pushed him.

The usually graceful fighter let out an undignified squawk and Misaki experienced a moment of heart-dropping dread in which she thought he was actually going to fall—that she had actually killed him—but he just barely managed to keep his balance on the edge of the roof.

“Misaki!” He turned on her, temperature rising in fury. “What the hell was that for?”

“I don’t know...” It was strange how comforting it was to see the anger on his face, to know that he didn’t want to die. “I needed to make sure you were sane.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“I don’t want you to die.”

“Misaki.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” she said. “I’m just not sure you will.”

“I will.”

“Really? So how many times could you have taken down Yaotl Texca today before he had a machete to your neck? How many times are you going to put your own life in danger to save a criminal who doesn’t deserve it? How long do you think you can keep that up before you’re dead?”

“If I have to kill for this work, then I should be dead. I’ve seen too many theonites who put their lives before others’ because they thought they were in the right. I won’t be one of them.”

“Do you not understand? You’re going to die!”

“Then I’ll die right!” He was stepping toward her when his injured leg gave out—and he fell.

“Robin!” Misaki lunged forward and grabbed his hand just as he reached for her.

Knowing she was not heavy enough to anchor them both, even in her most stable stance, Misaki threw all her weight backward. They toppled to the cement roof together, Robin falling on top of her. He caught himself on his hands, preventing his body from slamming down on hers, but Misaki realized in a rush of heat that this was the closest they had ever been.

Great Nagi! She thought dizzily. He’s so warm! Not blisteringly, brutally hot like the blue flaming Mathaba. Just... warm. He breathed out and the heat made steam across her coldness, washing her in a cloud of steam. Misaki felt her face turn bright red.

“Excuse me!” She said very loudly.

“Sorry.” Robin scrambled back off her, and she sat up with a huff, thankful that he didn’t have her superior senses. If he had, he would have sensed the way her heart was fluttering through her indignant exterior. Though now that she listened for it, his heart was beating rather quickly as well. Was he... Well, he had just had a near-death experience. That was probably why.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “I—”

“Don’t ever do that again!” Misaki burst out, surprised by the sheer emotion in her voice. It appeared to stun Robin too, and he blinked at her.

“Do what?” he asked. “Fall off a building?”

“Scare me like that! I told you not to stand so close to the edge, you idiot! I told you!”

It was as Misaki stared at him, her cheeks flushed, bristling with anger, that her own purpose started to take shape before her.

“You’re the one who pushed me,” Robin said in bewilderment.

“You’re the one who invited me,” she snapped.

“Why are you so mad at me?”

“Because I like you!” Misaki shouted the words without thinking. As Robin’s eyes widened, she felt her blush intensify, undoubtedly turning her whole face a blazing shade of pink.

“You… what?”

“I—respect you,” she amended, her cheeks still burning. “I respect that you won’t kill, and I’ll try to be more careful with my blades in the future, but I need you to understand something.”

“Yeah?” Robin said warily.

“If I think your life is in danger, I will kill for you.”

“What? I don’t want you to do that.”

“Well, it’s not up to you.”

“I don’t want you killing anyone in this city.”

“Then you’d better keep yourself out of mortal danger,” Misaki said.

“What?”

“It’s pretty simple,” Misaki said, drawing herself up to stand over Robin. “You want to keep your precious murderers and drug dealers safe, don’t let them kill you. All I’m asking is that you keep yourself alive. You can do that, can’t you?”

Robin sighed, putting a hand to his face. “Only you could turn an offer for help into a threat.”

“Just promise me you’ll be more careful with your own life.”

“This is weird.”

“Promise me!”

“Okay. I promise I’ll do my best.”

The next morning, Misaki woke early and went to see Koli Kuruma in the Fieldstone Tower. First years usually didn’t get their own private workshops, but first years usually couldn’t build their own computers and holographic projectors.

The tajaka was hunched over his table, broad hands skittering like spiders over his work. Most numuwu didn’t have much use for their theonite speed; Koli used it to keep his fingers moving as fast as his brain.

“Numu Kuruma?” she said, nudging the door open. “Sorry to interrupt—”

“I told you, just Koli is fine.”

“Koli...” It felt strange using the familiar address with a smith of such a famous family. “I’m sorry but I lost one of the knives you gave me.”

“Do you know how long my Koumbia friends took forging those?” Koli was a poor weaponsmith for a numu, but he had cultivated such an extensive network of other craftsmen that it didn’t matter. He would draw up designs and outsource the metalwork itself to siblings, cousins, and friends, in exchange for the complex tech work none of them understood.

“I’m sorry. Is it possible to get a replacement?”

“Those knives were twins, Misaki. You can’t just replace one and expect the set to be the same.”

Craftsmen, Misaki thought in exasperation. “Okay, well, if that bothers you, I’ll take a different pair. I’m happy to pay whatever—”

“My family has more money than you’ve ever seen in your life, Princess.”

“O-okay...” Misaki said uncertainly. She had known Koli Kuruma for months now, but his behavior still confused her to no end.

“I know you important koronu always think numuwu need to be protected and patronized, but I don’t work for money.”

Misaki wasn’t sure what to say to that. She didn’t know why he was taking such an accusatory tone; the vast majority of numuwu did rely on koro support to live. Koli’s massively rich family was one of the few numu clans in the world who had fought for and earned the right to run their own multi-million-walla corporation. No such precedent existed in Kaigen.

“I didn’t say anything about—”

“Understand, Misaki, I supply you, Robin, and Elleen because I want to. Respect that, and don’t offer me money again. If you need more daggers, they’re yours.”

“I—um... I actually wanted to talk to you about that, Numu Ku—Koli. I was thinking I might move away from the daggers. I...” She paused. “I want a sword.”

That made Koli swivel in his chair, raising his eyebrows.

“What?” Misaki asked, self-conscious under his scrutinizing gaze.

“Nothing. I just seem to remember suggesting a sword the very first time you came to me for arms. You told me something really inane. What was it?” He narrowed his eyes. “Swords are a man’s weapon?”

Misaki scowled. “You know what, never mind. If you don’t want to help, I can get a new weapon myself.” She turned to go and was almost out the door when Koli spoke again:

“Specifications?”

She stilled, one hand resting on the doorframe.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she decided after a moment. “I just need a blade with more reach than those daggers, something that holds its edge well enough to go through a few bodies if it has to.”

“Oh dear. Planning an assassination, Princess?”

Her hand tightened on the doorframe. “I hope not.”

Misaki’s next stop that day was the main gymnasium. She had avoided open advanced sword practices since coming to Daybreak. Early in the year, she had attended a few of the novice practices for fun, but she had never felt like she should join the more serious students. Talented though she might be, the sword had never been a serious pursuit to her. How could it be? She was a girl. But that morning, she joined the advanced sword students under the glass dome of the gymnasium.

Daybreak’s master sword instructor, Makan Wangara, usually delegated supervision of the novice practices to his son, Kinoro, or one of his other high-ranking students, but the weathered old koro always oversaw advanced practices himself. Today, he stood on the bleachers, overlooking the students as they filtered in. Advanced practice was open to everyone, though Wangara was known to bump students to the novice group when they were obviously out of their depth.

Misaki was confident that she could keep up with this group, some of whom had only been training with the sword for the three or four years they had attended Daybreak. She did, however, feel pitifully small as they all stood to find training partners. She was short among people her own age, and these students were all two to four years older than she was.

A brown-skinned Biladuguka girl took pity on Misaki and offered to drill with her. She looked to be about fifteen, in her second or third year.

“I’m Azar Tarore.” The girl greeted Misaki the Yammanka way, taking the jijaka’s hand in hers and touching her lips to the knuckles.

“Right.” Misaki returned the gesture, awkwardly bumping her lips into Tarore’s knuckles, and let go of her hand as quickly as she could without being rude. She hadn’t gotten used to the amount of touching tajakalu did, and she wasn’t sure she ever would. Inexplicably, she didn’t mind the heat, but she knew her cold skin made them uncomfortable and it always left her feeling self-conscious... although Robin never seemed to mind— She shook herself and returned the girl’s smile.

“I’m Misaki Tsusano. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Koro Tarore.”

“Just Azar, please,” the girl said as they went to select practice swords from the box.

The bokken here weren’t wooden like the ones Misaki used back home. Instead, they were made of some kind of synthetic material that wouldn’t catch fire in the hands of an overzealous tajaka. Few things in Carytha were made of wood except the trees. The country’s population was over forty percent tajaka, making wood an impractical building material.

Master Wangara called out the name of a drill Misaki didn’t recognize and the rest of the fighters surged into motion, synthetic bokken clacking together. Despite her experience, Misaki wasn’t used to Yammanka terminology and training methods.

“Have you done this drill before?” Azar asked patiently.

“No,” Misaki said, watching closely as the pair of students next to them ran through the set of moves once, twice, three times.

“Awa, I can walk you through it.”

“That’s okay.” Misaki’s eyes followed the other two students through the sequence a fourth time. “I’ve got it.”

“What—?”

“I’ve got it. Please, come at me, Koro Azar.”

The first time Azar attacked, she did so gently, as if worried she might break Misaki if she hit too hard. Misaki was used to that, but Azar picked up her speed and power as soon as she saw Misaki in motion.

“Where did you come from?” Azar asked when Master Wangara called a break between drills.

“I’m from Shirojima, Kaigen.”

“Why haven’t I seen you at these practices before?”

“I—um...” Misaki shrugged, not really wanting to explain.

Other girls at Daybreak tended to react with revulsion to the idea of growing up to become a housewife. A deep, restless part of Misaki was relieved to be in a place where her viciousness was an expectation, not a surprise. Another, equally deep part of her felt a need to defend her culture from these outsiders who clearly didn’t understand it.

“Who taught you?” Azar asked.

“My father.”

“Oh. Is he a military man?”

“No.” It was an understandable assumption. In most countries, the most skilled fighters all joined the military. The Kaigenese Empire mainly conscripted from their core provinces, leaving the koro houses of Shirojima and other provinces to arm and train their own.

Azar clearly had more questions, but Master Wangara called them back to their lines. The second drill was more difficult, and Misaki felt herself coming awake. Azar was good enough to keep Misaki engaged, though her stances were on the narrow side and she carried too much tension in her shoulders. Misaki didn’t say that of course. Azar was an upperclassman; it didn’t feel appropriate.

As they moved into more advanced drills, Azar started to grasp Misaki’s skill level.

“Great Falleke!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anyone shift stances so fast!”

“I’m little.” Misaki shrugged off the compliment. “Low center of gravity.”

Unlike some koronu, Azar’s knee-jerk reaction to Misaki’s skill was not to get defensive and competitive. She seemed excited.

“Next time you should drill with Kinoro or one of the fourth-year students,” she said when Master Wangara called an end to the drills, “someone closer to your level.”

Misaki had caught glimpses of Kinoro Wangara training and knew that Azar was being generous in suggesting that she was anywhere near his level. That or she just didn’t understand the difference between a competent fighter and a prodigy.

After another short break, Master Wangara had the students gather around one of the fighting circles marked on the gymnasium floor.

“What’s happening now?” Misaki whispered to Azar.

“Didn’t you know? Advanced practice always ends with matches. Everyone fights at least once.”

“Oh,” Misaki said in surprise. “Fun.”

Azar made a face. “Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes, it’s scary.”

Master Wangara clapped his hands together, calling the group to attention and the conversation trailed off.

“That’s enough of a break, kids.” The swordmaster never spoke loudly; he didn’t have to. He was the sort of person everyone leaned forward to hear. “Time for some fights.”

“Do you want me to referee a second ring, Baba?” Kinoro offered.

“No. I’m going to referee to start off,” Master Wangara said, “and as far as fighters...” He rubbed his hands together, turning to survey the students around the circle. “You.” He pointed to Misaki, and she straightened in surprise. “New kid. Are you familiar with point matches?”

Misaki grimaced inwardly. She was familiar with the international style of scoring sword sparring; she just didn’t think very much of it.

Tajakalu really seemed to like miserable, protracted struggles that pushed both fighters to their physical limits and provided a lot of opportunity for creativity and showing off. In sword matches, this manifested in a ridiculous points system that allowed combatants with practice swords to fight far past the point they would both have died in a fight with real weapons.

The first would-be lethal strike was worth five points. Every would-be lethal strike after that was worth two while any hit that would have drawn blood but not been lethal was only worth one point. The referee simply called out points as he saw them, with no breaks. While it did give that valuable five-point credit to the first killing blow, it was woefully unrealistic.

Misaki suspected it was this very approach to combat that had allowed Robin to delude himself into thinking he could get into fights with half a dozen criminals each week without dying. Any Shirojima swordsman worth his steel knew that a real fighter was one who could fell his opponent in a single cut. Then again, continuous point fighting might benefit Misaki, if she planned to go through North End, Livingston slicing and nicking criminals without killing them...

“Well?” Master Wangara prompted and Misaki realized she had been staring at him dumbly for a moment.

“Y-yes, Koroba,” she said in a small voice. “I’m familiar with point matches.”

“Excellent. Since it’s your first time with us, you get first pick.”

“What?”

“Pick anyone here to fight.”

Misaki scanned the group, weighing her options—she didn’t know any of them. She steeled herself and drew her shoulders back before naming her opponent.

“Kinoro Wangara.”

The gymnasium went silent.

It was brash, arrogant, and not at all the sort of thing Misaki usually did, but she needed to become something more than just Misaki if she was going to fulfill her promise. A middle-of-the-pack sword fighter was not going to be able to protect Robin.

Master Wangara was looking at her with new interest as murmurs broke out among the other students.

“I feel that this bears asking before you step into the ring: do you understand who you are challenging?”

“Yes, Koroba.”

“Good enough.” Wangara nodded for his son to step into the circle, but Kinoro hesitated. His gaze flicked from his father to Misaki, back to his father.

“Are you sure, Baba?” he said.

“Yes,” the swordmaster said shortly. “Take your positions.”

The younger Wangara still hesitated. “Are you sure?” he asked Misaki.

Kinoro Wangara was sixteen—two years older than Misaki—with typically-Sizwean dark skin and a mess of black braids that he pulled back with a hair-tie when he fought. He was built like a jungle cat, long limbs thin but rippling with muscle.

“Don’t be rude, Kinoro,” Master Wangara scolded. “She said she wants a fight. Show the girl some respect.”

Relenting, Kinoro stepped into the ring and Misaki took up her position opposite him. The surrounding students let out cries and clapped their hands. These non-Kaigenese had an infuriating habit of whooping, and stomping, and making all sorts of distracting noise while fighters were engaged in combat. As far as they were concerned, they were being helpful. They had this bizarre notion that praise and song could lend a person power. Much of a Yammanka jaseli’s job seemed to consist of following koronu around, talking them up and singing of their accomplishments.

Misaki had never understood how a song was supposed to make a person strong. Power was born into a person and lived in the wordless depths of their soul. The strength of a bloodline wasn’t something you sang about; it was something the holder knew and others witnessed. Kaigenese koronu rarely had jaseliwu follow them around. Real power needed no words. It spoke for itself.

She bowed automatically, hands at her sides, bokken resting in a reverse grip against the back of her right arm. The bow wasn’t part of fighting ritual here, but it felt wrong to begin a match any other way. Kinoro returned the bow smoothly, as any Kaigenese swordsman would, and Misaki remembered that the Wangaras were famous for training in different styles across the world, from Sizwe, to Ranga, to Biladugu. This boy had almost certainly trained with Kaigenese like her before. He would know her tricks, but she was unfamiliar with his.

“Assume your stances,” Master Wangara said.

As Misaki raised her bokken to mid-guard in the standard ready position her father had taught her, Kinoro dropped into a strange, catlike stance she didn’t recognize. Letting out a slow breath, she tried to see him as a criminal. She had to stop him from hurting Robin. She had to—

“Fight!”

Kinoro exploded forward as if shot from a canon. His bokken slid across Misaki’s middle before she could even start to defend.

Master Wangara called out, “Five points - Kinoro!”

And the end of the fight, Misaki thought with a sick feeling in her gut that had nothing to do with the practice sword that had just thumped into it.

But these were tajaka rules and the fight went on. Misaki tried to return the favor, slashing her own bokken at Kinoro’s neck, but he sprang back so fast that he was out of range by the time the weapon swung through. She was in the process of flipping the blade around for a second cut when he hit her again, this time in the leg.

“One point, Kinoro!”

The swordmaster’s son had every possible physical advantage over Misaki—size, strength, speed, flexibility—and the most infuriating thing was that he didn’t need any of them. His skill so far outstripped her own that he probably would have been able to trounce her with any number of physical handicaps. Each feint was perfectly placed to trip her up, each strike impeccably placed. His footwork was so inscrutably tricky that at times, he seemed to be teleporting from one side of Misaki to another.

As soon as she thought she had him with a cut, he was suddenly gone—only to reappear half a heartbeat later and score a point as her blade swung wide, exposing her center. He didn’t hit her hard, but each stroke of his bokken left her feeling shaken. The students on the sidelines were stomping and shouting so loudly she could barely think, and he was so fast—

No, she thought as he flashed through her guard again to strike her shoulder. It’s not just speed. It’s foresight. Kinoro Wangara moved with perfect timing, forecasting her every movement and striking in the split dinma she was vulnerable. She just had to be less predictable, trip him up.

The next time she advanced, she made the same decisive slice toward his neck she had attempted several times now. He evaded as she knew he would: falling back just far enough to be out of her swing radius, but still close enough that a powerful launch off his back leg would shoot him back in for an attack. However, instead of facing him as he sprang forward, she spun, letting the momentum of her follow-through carry her into another, downward slice in the same direction as the first.

A surprised Kinoro only avoided a blow to the head by inexplicably changing directions mid-stride. There was a smack as Misaki’s bokken caught one of his braids, and an appreciative roar swelled from the fringes of the circle. Apparently, even an almost-point against Kinoro was cause enough for them to celebrate. Not for Misaki. She had to do better.

She had always been a quick learner, but this Kinoro Wangara, it seemed, learned even faster. The second time she tried to feint into a spin, he responded by dropping into a spin of his own, sweeping a leg around to take Misaki’s feet out from under her. Her immediate impulse was to tuck and roll out of the fall, but Kinoro had somehow hooked her ankle with his toes, making that impossible. She caught herself on her forearms with bruising force, barely avoiding breaking her nose on the jonjo glass floor.

“Two points, Kinoro!” Master Wangara called as the tajaka’s bokken touched the back of Misaki’s neck and rested there.

“Yield.” Kinoro said.

Misaki wanted to. She was painfully out of breath and both arms throbbed from taking the impact of Kinoro’s swings. But Robin would get back up. Robin would still be fighting, and Misaki had to be there to protect him. Bracing her left hand against the floor, she gritted her teeth. Then she slammed her bokken into Kinoro’s, knocking it away from her neck.

The other students cheered and sang as she staggered to her feet, but it wasn’t long before Kinoro had her on the floor again. This time, she landed on her back, stars careening across her field of vision as Kinoro’s bokken touched her throat. She had to blink hard to bring the tajaka’s dark face into focus above her. To his credit, there was nothing gloating in his expression. Misaki herself was never so gentle with inferior fighters.

“You did well,” he said, his black eyes soft with a sympathy Misaki didn’t need. “You have my respect.”

I don’t want your respect, she thought bitterly. I want to be better than this!

“Do you yield?”

Misaki clenched her jaw. She hadn’t landed a hit yet. Kinoro looked to his father. “Baba, can you call off—”

Misaki swung her bokken with all her strength. It struck Kinoro’s bare ankle with a loud crack.

“Ow!” Kinoro cried out. The sudden pain caused his grip on his own bokken to loosen and Misaki twisted it from his hand. She rolled backward into a crouch with two weapons.

“That was uncalled for!” Kinoro exclaimed, clutching his ankle.

“One point, New Kid,” Master Wangara laughed.

“Baba!” Kinoro looked at his father, betrayed, and his temperature rose. It was hard to tell if he was more annoyed with Misaki or his father, but annoyed was good. Maybe it would make him sloppy. He turned back to Misaki and pointed to her. “I’m going to hit you for real now.”

Normally, Misaki enjoyed getting a rise out of another fighter. She had gotten a lot of good laughs punching Robin and tripping Kazu onto his face, but she didn’t feel like smiling now.

As Kinoro, now weaponless, coiled into a fighting stance, Misaki weighed her options. An honorable fighter would throw the tajaka his weapon back, but she had forgone honor when she took that swing at his ankle. Nobody cared about rules of engagement on the street; if she wanted to succeed where she was going, she couldn’t afford courtesy.

Throwing the extra bokken at Kinoro as a distraction was out too. His reflexes were so fast that he would snatch it right out of the air. She didn’t even trust herself to hurl the practice sword out of the ring without the tricky boy somehow managing to catch it.

Her only option, it seemed, was to hold onto both bokken and see what she could do. She had never properly learned to dual-wielded swords, but the twin daggers she took out crime-fighting had given her a sense of balance with a weapon in each hand. Keeping the right bokken clutched in a forehanded grip for longer-range strikes, she flipped the left one into a reverse grip, to use in defense if Kinoro got too close.

The tajaka’s keen eyes followed the movement, undoubtedly reading her train of thought. He didn’t ask his father to break again. He was engaged now. The noise from the crowd focused into rhythmic clapping, like a heartbeat, gradually quickening as the two fighters circled.

With the sword in her left hand as a backup defense, Misaki was able to slice at her opponent more freely. Mobile as Kinoro was, she managed to trap him against the edge of the ring. Even cornered, Kinoro still managed to block her attack, taking the hit on his forearm instead of his ribs, before darting past Misaki, out of range.

“One point, New Kid!” Master Wangara declared.

The crowd of students roared in approval, but the sound only grated on Misaki. One point wasn’t good enough. She needed a killing strike. She would have to swing faster to have any chance at a decisive, fight-ending hit. No hesitation.

Kinoro shook out his arm and then came at her.

There! She swung—and missed. Somehow, Kinoro had managed to duck faster than she could think. Her left hand, which should have raised the second bokken to defend her center, was caught in Kinoro’s burning hot grip. She tried to bring her right hand back up to slash again, but she had swung so hard on that first slice that she had thrown herself off balance. Kinoro used that momentum to flip her over, making to slam her onto her back.

Misaki managed to twist in the air and get her feet under her, but it didn’t do her any good. She had barely touched down when Kinoro’s palm slammed into her chest, throwing her backward. Both bokken flew from her grip. She heard them clattering away as her own body crashed to the floor and slid a bound. The glass dome spun above her. She couldn’t breathe.

“Kinoro!” A reproachful voice said—one of the older students. “That was too hard!”

“Sorry!” Kinoro said, and Misaki was dimly aware of his quick footsteps approaching. “Are you—”

“She’s fine,” Master Wangara said. “Leave her.”

The footsteps stopped. “But Baba—”

“Take over running matches, Kinoro. Use the next circle.”

With eye-watering effort, Misaki managed to draw a breath. She was only winded. Wangara was right; she would be fine. She didn’t feel fine though. She felt panicked, inadequate. Fighting—even losing—had never made her feel this way before.

Until now, swordplay had always been an experience of pure joy. Her natural talent and her access to her father’s instruction automatically put her above ninety percent of the other fighters she encountered. And if she lost a fight every now and again—if Kazu got a lucky hit in or if some boy knocked her down—well, what did it matter? She was a girl, and no one staked a girl’s worth on her swordplay. It was all just a hobby—a delight if she did well, unimportant if she didn’t. But if one of those slip-ups meant the difference between Robin living and dying... there was no joy in that thought. Only pain.

As she lay staring at the gymnasium’s ceiling, slower footsteps approached and she found Master Wangara standing over her.

“You did not enjoy that,” the swordmaster said lightly.

Misaki didn’t respond for a moment. She was still focusing on taking in deep, full breaths.

“Sh-should I have?” she grunted finally.

“A lot of fighters thrill in the challenge of trying to land a hit on Kinoro. Others enjoy getting a rise out of him, but every moment of that was grueling for you. For someone so proficient at fighting, you certainly seem to loathe it.”

“I prefer to win.”

“A lot of koronu prefer to win,” he said. “Most of those aren’t stupid enough to challenge my son to single combat.”

Misaki just lay still, breathing slowly.

“Get up.”

Misaki tried, but without the driving force of combat behind her muscles, she couldn’t manage it. Everything hurt.

With a sigh, Master Wangara opened his hand and shot fire at her. Misaki yelped and rolled onto her feet just in time to scramble clear of the flames.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Master Wangara said. “Who are you?”

“Tsu—Misaki Tsusano,” she said, just remembering to order her name the Yammanka way—given name and then surname. “I’m a first year in Limestone Four.”

“Tsusano,” Master Wangara said with a knowing nod. “I see. I’m going to hazard a guess you have no brothers?”

A good guess. It would explain why a girl had ended up training the sword with her father, but that was not Misaki’s situation.

“I have three,” she said with a note of pride, “just none as good as I am.”

“And you’re here,” Master Wangara said, “which means your parents can’t be entirely traditional people.”

“They’re pretty traditional,” Misaki said. “They’re still going to marry me off when I’m done with my schooling here.” A few months ago, the thought wouldn’t have pulled at this strangely painful feeling in Misaki’s chest. Why was Robin’s face suddenly filling her mind?

“Interesting,” Master Wangara said, crossing his arms.

“Is it, Koroba?”

“I just wonder,” he said, “why would a future housewife need to be a skilled fighter?”

Misaki frowned stubbornly. “Maybe it’s fun for me, Koroba.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is, but you didn’t come here today for fun. You came here out of need.”

Misaki eyed the swordmaster in surprise. “How do you—”

“You came here for a purpose today. I could see it on your face. It must be something very important for you to challenge my son, of all people.”

“Maybe I’m just an idiot with an oversized ego.”

“If you had stepped into that ring to sate your ego, your attitude would be uglier right now,” Wangara said confidently. “There are few things uglier than a wounded ego. You honestly wanted to see how you measured up, and you honestly wanted to do better.”

Misaki nodded.

“The sword for its own sake is a beautiful thing but I like a sense of purpose in a student.” Master Wangara considered Misaki for a moment and she was nervous that he would ask her to elaborate on why she had come to the practice. She couldn’t tell him what had given her purpose. She couldn’t tell him about Firebird, but he didn’t pry. Instead, he said, “I have time this Suradon at the tenth waati.”

Misaki looked up sharply. “What?”

“I’ll try to find you a training partner closer to your size and strength. Until then, I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with Kinoro.”

“What are you...” Misaki suddenly felt dizzier than she had any time Kinoro had knocked her down. “A-are you offering to train me?”

“Not offering, Tsusano. Insisting.”

“B-but...” Better fighters than Misaki competed viciously for the privilege of training with Makan Wangara. “But you don’t train first years,” she said blankly.

“I train students who need me.” Wangara put a toe under Misaki’s fallen bokken and flipped the weapon into his hand. “Most first years don’t have enough experience to benefit from my instruction any more than they would benefit from Kinoro’s or that of some other, less experienced fighter. If you want to advance beyond what you’ve already learned from your father, then you need me.”

“Wangara Kama, I-I don’t know what to say. Thank—”

“You know your Tsusano-ryuu katas?”

“Yes, Koroba,” she said, though she hadn’t practiced them in a long time, “all except the Stormblade forms.”

“Good.” He threw the bokken at her with blinding speed for a man his age and seemed pleased when she caught it. “Practice those. Have them ready to demonstrate for me by Suradon—and don’t try to cut corners. I know what they’re supposed to look like.”

Misaki clutched the bokken and found herself smiling. “Do I need to bring anything, Koroba?”

“Nothing except that smile.”

“What?”

“If you want to be a great swordswoman, you’ll need to find purpose and joy into your fighting at the same time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go oversee a few more matches.”

Misaki nodded. “Suradon on the tenth waati,” she said, just to make sure she hadn’t imagined it. “Tsusano-ryuu katas.”

“And a smile,” Wangara said and strode off to referee the next match.