Maybe this is a thing that only happens to boys.

My body is vibrating now, like it always does after a vivid memory. I step into formation and do the next few sets along with the others, needing a release for the sudden surge in my limbs.

A Guardsman enters the arena to snuff the torches. He gives us a long glance before returning to the barracks.

“Training is over for tonight,” I say. “Let’s get back to the bunk room.”

In the morning, a slight burn permeates the muscles in my shoulders and forearms. It reminds me of training with Hector and Rosario. It’s the burn of accomplishment.

Pedrón, Itzal, and the army recruits seem to struggle, though, wincing as they pull on their boots, rising gingerly to their feet.

Aldo and I exchange an amused glance.

In the training arena, Master Santiago puts us through the forms again, this time adding Sandstorm and Sleeping Heron.

After a few sequences, he steps back, appraising us all. One side of his mustache is not as thoroughly waxed as the other; it drifts below his lip with the slight breeze.

“I did not expect to say this,” he says, frowning, “but some of you made minor improvements compared to your previous tragedy.” He walks over to Pedrón and sticks his mustache in the boy’s face. “Did you consume a magical elixir? Sell your soul to an evil trickster?”

“Er . . . no, sir?”

“And you,” Master Santiago says, moving toward Itzal. “You have suddenly learned the difference between left and right, like a serviceable three-year-old. How is this possible?”

“Got a good night’s sleep, sir.”

“I’m so glad to hear it. Since you slept so well, please step forward and lead your fellow recruits in the next set.”

Itzal opens his mouth to protest, closes it, glances at me in panic. I give him what I hope is a subtle nod of encouragement.

He forces himself to walk to the front of our formation. Itzal says, “Begin with Bulwark!” and demonstrates with his sword.

Without a reference, Itzal is once again terrible. Gradually, with some correction from Master Santiago and some snickering from the direction of the Basajuan boys, we make it through the entire sequence.

My shoulders tremble with effort by the time Santiago releases us, saying, “Even with your trifling improvements, all my hope dies when I look upon you.” He shakes his head in seeming despair and waves a hand at us. “Go. Be gone from my sorrowful eyes, for I can endure no more.”

That night, the Arturos and their fellow Basajuaños join our class.

During the next few days, we fall into a routine. Mornings begin abruptly with a clanging brass bell, followed by an uninspiring breakfast, then sword forms with Master Santiago. After lunch comes fitness training, occasionally accompanied by the second years, which consists of log lifting or sprints through the sand or—on one glorious day—drawing various sizes and types of bows. We don’t get to shoot anything, but the repetition of pulling back on the string and bending the wood is enough to make my neck and shoulders burn and puts a large blister on my finger.