I used to cross this bridge every week with my sister and father to go to that museum. Laeni would probably wrinkle her nose if she could see me crouched down here right now.

But it’s as safe a spot as any we can find. Patrols hate checking under these bridges because of the dampness and the stench of sewage bubbling up. When I was a boy, I used to gamble with the other new recruits for who had to keep the bridges free of people camping underneath them. Whenever I lost, I’d just take a reluctant peek under the arches, looking for people shivering among the wet weeds, before hurrying off to more interesting tasks. What a thankless, miserable job.

Well, I’m one of those shivering silhouettes now.

We stoop in knee-deep water. The quiet, sparsely populated night and our exhaustion have softened our fears, so we talk in low voices to distract each other from the wet chill of everything. Beside me, Jeran’s fingers run idly along his belt, as if he’s looking for all the weapons he used to have. I’ve learned over time what the idle gesture means.

“You’re thinking about Aramin right now, aren’t you?” I ask him as I chew reluctantly on one of our last sticks of dried seaweed and fish jerky.

Jeran glances at me and looks down. His fingers stop. “How’d you guess?”

“I’ve only been by your side for months,” I say, scowling at the jerky. How do people stand the taste of fish? It’s a crime. “I think I’ve picked up a few things.”

Jeran smiles briefly, then falls silent. After a while, he says, “I’m thinking about what Aramin would do if our situations were reversed.”

“I imagine he’d fly into a rage.” I wave a hand out at the world beyond our bridge. “Killing everyone in sight in order to get to you.”

At that, Jeran chuckles once. His cheeks look pink in the night. “Believe it or not, he’d probably still be back in Newage, gathering forces, crafting a less desperate plan than ours. Aramin is calculating like that.”

“Are you saying he’d leave you behind to be slaughtered in the arena?” I shake my head. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Of course not,” Jeran sniffs. “But Aramin became the Firstblade for a reason. He likes to gather all the information he can before he makes a move. He acts for the benefit of the greatest good.” He smiles a little. “And he’s usually cranky about it.”

I fix my gaze on Jeran. Somehow, underneath all he’s saying, I sense that he’s afraid to believe that Aramin would come to rescue him. It makes me want to shake the boy. Does he have no idea how much the Firstblade cares about him? Does he not notice what the rest of us do, the way Aramin’s eyes linger on him?

“Maybe,” I answer. “But not when it’s about you.”

Jeran’s blush deepens. Maybe he does know, then, and he’s just shy to admit it.