We hurry to comply, scurrying around each other like ants after a dropped crumb.

“I said now, recruits.”

A bit more adjusting and our line is straight, though unevenly spaced. I end up with Aldo on my left, one of the army recruits on my right. The army recruit peers down at me, somehow missing my gaze. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s trying to see down my shirt.

I hope I get to spar with him.

“That was clumsy but serviceable,” the Guard says. “I’m Sergeant DeLuca. You will address me as sergeant or sir. Now, let’s see what riffraff God brought us this year.”

Sergeant DeLuca’s evaluating gaze sweeps the line. He nods to the silken-clad conde’s son with such deference it’s almost a bow. He nods again to the Basajuan contingent. His gaze slides right over everyone else, as if they’re not worthy of notice. Then it snags on me. A slight smile curves his lips, and I’m reminded of a cat that just sighted a sparrow.

He says, “Never in all my years have I seen a little girl take to the sands.”

I stare straight ahead, determined that my face will betray nothing.

“I can’t imagine what the empress was thinking, sponsoring you,” he says.

And I can’t imagine that I’ve never seen this Guard before, though I’ve been at court for eight years. What kind of Royal Guardsman is never allowed into Elisa’s chambers? Never watches over her at major functions? Only the lowest in rank, who manages to be just useful enough to keep from being dismissed.

Sergeant DeLuca is not someone I should trust.

Come to think of it, I recognize very few of the Guards in the arena today. Lord-Commander Dante must have left behind everyone who wasn’t part of Elisa’s inner circle of trust.

They’re still Royal Guard, I remind myself. Maybe not the best of them, but smart enough and capable enough to remain members of the most elite fighting force in the world. I’ll do well to not underestimate any of them.

“I expect you’ll wash out within a week,” DeLuca adds. “Maybe even today.”

I expect he’ll be surprised.

“Why are you smiling?” he demands, leaning in so that his breath is hot in my face.

A direct question, so I must respond. “Just glad to be here, sir.”

“We’ll see how you feel later. Name?”

As if he doesn’t know. “Red.”

The army boy beside me chuckles.

“Ah, yes, the half-breed who failed to become a princess. And what three items did you bring with you, Recruit Red?” Not Princess Red. Not Lady Red. He’s reminding me that I’m no one.

I’ve been dreading this moment. I open my hands and show him my items.

He peers at my right hand. “What is that?”

“A pot of black dye.”

“What for?”

“It has sentimental value.”

His eyes narrow; he knows I’m lying. “And this here? This is a baby rattle. Are you going to tell me it has sentimental value too?”