Caledonia stared, and then, suddenly, he returned her gaze. The fury fell from his face, and he saw her. He knew her.

Pine pinched her wrist—hard—but it was too late. Sister had seen the change in Oran’s expression, and now she was studying Caledonia with a careful eye. Pine’s hand was a vise on her wrist, his whole body stiff beside her.

“An old friend?” Sister asked, stepping close to Oran.

Oran cut her with a glare. “Aric’s sons have no friends.”

Sister smirked, turning her attention once more to Caledonia. “Little sister, what is your name?”

The crowd quieted. Though she didn’t dare turn around, she felt every eye in the square seek her out, felt Sledge becoming a mountain at her back.

“Rhona,” she answered as steadily as she could manage.

“A strong name for a strong Bullet. Would you like to be our first volunteer?”

This was not a choice. This was another test. One she would have to complete without Pine or Sledge or Triple to guide her.

“I’ll fight anyone for the pleasure,” she said.

Sister laughed. “Then step forward.”

Pine released her wrist, and Caledonia stepped toward the basket as all the heat drained from her body. The blades were indeed short, not meant for killing, and just long enough to avoid puncturing anything important. Theater. The word echoed in her mind as she finally understood exactly what they’d meant. This was a show, a demonstration of pain and suffering, and they wanted it to last a long time.

She selected one of the small daggers, testing its weight in her hand. Her fingers trembled. She pressed them more firmly against the cold steel.

“Show us how we must cut this traitor out of our hearts.” Sister’s voice was crooning and soft, its message exactly the opposite.

Caledonia lifted her eyes from the dagger. Oran watched her, lids heavy with exhaustion. Black hair bent in sweat-soaked locks around his ears and cheekbones, and his lean frame was streaked with dirt and old blood.

He clenched his teeth and held her gaze.

Cold washed over Caledonia. He was giving her permission.

She pinned her eyes to his chest. The dagger was too shallow to actually puncture his heart. At least, that’s what she told herself as she drew her arm back. With a flick of her wrist, the dagger sailed through the air.

Oran’s cry was like a whip snapping against her own heart. His head bent forward. His arms strained against their bonds as his entire body attempted to curl around the fresh wound. Was he performing now? Pretending her blade hurt more than the others in order to protect her? Or was this pain real?

Caledonia quashed her thoughts before they could betray her. Sister would sniff out any hint of sympathy.

“Beautiful,” Sister said with a sigh.