The sun has finally broken over the horizon, but it does not bring any warmth. It just makes the dust in the air look like gold as we march toward the combat pits.
To our left, a second group of recruits is already warming up. There are boys there, their voices much louder than ours, the sound of their boots hitting the sand in a heavy, uneven thud. I scan their faces as we pass, my heart skipping a beat. I recognize a few of them from the neighborhood. There is Leo, who used to be the scrawny kid who lived three doors down, and Caleb, who was always trying to beat Kian's score at the arcade.
Now, they look different. Their heads are shaved, their expressions locked, and they move like they have never known a life outside of a uniform. They do not look at us.
"Eyes front!" the sergeant screams.
We reach our pit, a shallow circle of packed earth and sand. Ayran is already there, waiting. He has taken off his heavy command jacket, leaving him in a thin black tactical shirt that shows his well toned abs beneath. He looks muscular but leaner than I remember, his movements more precise and dangerous. He looks... exquisite in his fit..
"Combat is not about who is stronger," Ayran says, his voice carrying over the noise from the boys' pit. "It is about who is willing to do what is necessary. The Sync gave you the reflexes. I am going to see if you have the stomach to use them."
He looks over the row of girls, his eyes stopping on me again. I feel the weight of his gaze, a cold pressure that makes the hair on my arms stand up. I know what is coming before he even speaks.
"Ser" he pauses. "You. Step forward," he shouts pointing at me.
I walk into the center of the pit. The sand is soft under my boots. I can feel the eyes of the other girls on my back. I can even hear the boys' pit go quiet for a moment as they watch the Commander take the circle.
"Attack me," Ayran says. He does not take a stance. He just stands there, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, looking at me like I am a child trying to play a game I do not understand.
"Commander?" I ask, my voice staying flat.
"You heard the order," he says, his voice dropping. "Unless the Librarian wants to go back to her books, you will attack me. Right now."
The mention of my past life is like a spark hitting dry wood. He knows. He knows I remember. Or he is testing me to see if I will flinch at the word.
I do not wait. I lunge forward, my fist aiming for his jaw. It is a move Kian taught me in our backyard when I was fourteen. It was supposed to be fast, but Ayran moves faster. He sidesteps me with a grace that is almost insulting, his hand catching my wrist and twisting it just enough to make me stumble.
"Slow," he mutters. "And predictable."
I growl, a low sound in my throat that I cannot help, and swing my leg around for a kick. He catches my boot mid-air, his grip like iron. For a second, we are frozen. I am breathing hard, my face flushed with heat, while he looks like he is barely trying.
"You are fighting with anger, Serene," he whispers, leaning in so close I can see the dark flecks in his eyes. "Anger is for civilians. Soldiers use focus."
He lets go of my leg, and I stumble back, my heart thudding against my ribs. I want to scream at him. I want to ask him where he was when the soldiers came for my house. But I keep my mouth shut. I lock the emotion away behind the wall in my head.
"Again," he says, taking a step toward me.
This time, when I move, I do not think about Kian. I think about the target. I think about the way his pulse is beating in the hollow of his throat.
We clash again, my hands hitting his forearms with a dull thud. This time, I do not let him catch me. I move with the rhythm he taught Kian, a series of strikes. For a moment, I see his eyes widen. Just a fraction of an inch. A flicker of surprise.
He recognizes the move. He knows exactly who taught it to me.
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