As usual, everyone scrambled eagerly away from Twelve into their pairs. She rolled her eyes. If they were too frightened to spar with her, that was their problem, not hers. Her gaze wandered over the familiar buildings around her instead. The kitchen, dining hall, stables, armory, and resthouse surrounded the octagonal training ground where she stood. All of them were sturdy structures that had withstood the elements for centuries, but all were dwarfed by the defensive walls soaring above them. Even the council house, by far the grandest building with its beautifully carved pillars, appeared little more than a toy beneath those walls. High above Twelve’s head, the two skybridges arced gracefully between the ramparts, quartering the distant octagon of sky and allowing patrolling Hunters to see for miles.

“Twelve”—Victory frowned—“partnerless again?” There were a few snickers. The weaponsmaster scowled and stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Practicing alone will only take you so far. You need a decent sparring partner to challenge yourself.” Her blue eyes scanned Twelve’s face, piercing and expectant.

Twelve’s reply was halted by a hand squeezing her arm.

“I’ll p-p-practice with you,” Seven offered, carefully avoiding the weaponsmaster’s gaze.

Victory’s sigh as she strode away said it all.

“Keeping the weirdos together,” someone muttered. Twelve spun to confront them, her cheeks flaming, but the speaker was already lost in the shifting crowd.

The pale redheaded girl beside her beamed, and Twelve groaned. Sparring with Seven was worse than practicing with a straw dummy. Her attention span was shorter than a snarrow’s and her skills with any weapon doubtful at best. On top of that, although she was probably about thirteen years old, like Twelve, her build was that of a much younger girl. Twelve felt like a giant next to her. It made them particularly ill-suited and yet they were often thrown together. Everyone else avoided them: Seven was odd; Twelve was scary.

Most of the stumps were already taken, so the girls threaded their way across the training ground to a less crowded spot.

“W-w-where’s Widge?” Seven asked as they walked. “I haven’t seen him today.”

Widge was Twelve’s squirrel, but it had actually been the other girl who had found him as a kit fallen from his nest. Instead of keeping him, Seven had given him to Twelve, something Twelve still didn’t understand.

“I’m not sure.” Twelve shrugged. “You know he comes and goes as he likes.” She bit her tongue to stop herself saying more.

Seven nodded as she clumsily unsheathed her sword. Twelve reached over her shoulders, grabbing the hafts of her two axes. Her confidence surged with them in her hands and she leaped lightly onto the nearest log.

“Shall we?” she asked.

Seven snorted with laughter as she hopped experimentally between stumps. “Wobbly, aren’t they?”

“That’s the point,” Twelve said, unable to keep a snap out of her voice. “Can we start?”