The monster woman helped Mula hobble to the table and sit, while the blue-fingered man poured some dark berries from a packet into a gray stone mortar and used a pestle to crush them, adding a bit of liquid that smelled like mead gone sour.

The monster woman instructed Mula to sit with her feet up on the table. It was awkward, and it hurt her healing ankle, but she knew better than to complain.

The mixture in the mortar turned bright blue like the sky. “Azure berries,” the man explained cheerfully. “Very rare, very expensive. That’s why not everyone can afford to have slaves. The tattoos cost too much.”

Mula gave the monster woman a puzzled look. What did he mean by “slaves”?

The man dipped one of the sharp quills into the bright ink.

“Now hold still,” the monster woman ordered. “No matter what.”

“Heels are very hard to tattoo,” the man said. “The skin is so thick. They will need a deep application.”

“I understand,” the monster woman said. “Whatever it takes.”

Mula was still puzzling their words when the man brought the quill tip to her heel, and pure fire shot into her skin. She screamed.

8

Now

EVERYONE takes a turn sparring. The Arturos from Basajuan show some talent, as does the darkly frowning boy Iván. The three army recruits are all brawn and no finesse—Pedrón is definitely the best of them. A few boys demonstrate little to no training, though I know this will not automatically disqualify them, especially the young ones. Everyone will be given a chance to learn.

One boy, though, ends up flat on his back in the sand and is deathly still for several breaths. We all lean forward, some with concern, others with unnerving eagerness. Get up, get up, get up, I plead silently, while Aldo whispers, “Is he dead?”

The boy moves, digging furrows in the sand with his heels and groaning. Several Guardsmen rush forward and huddle around, so that all I see are his still-kicking legs. After a moment, they heft him from the sand and carry him from the arena.

“Well,” Aldo says. “I guess we have our first wash.”

The mood is somber after that, the remaining sparring matches half-hearted.

The sun is high, the skin of my face and arms hot, before everyone is done. Sergeant DeLuca lines us all up again.

“What now?” Aldo whispers.

“No idea.”

Sergeant DeLuca steps back and faces us. “It’s time to take the oath. Your answers will be binding, so respond only if you are certain.”

He allows time for his words to soak in, gazing at each of us in turn. Then he draws his sword and raises it to the sky. His voice booms: “Do you have what it takes to be Royal Guard?”

“Yes, sir!” we answer in unison.

“Will you work harder than you’ve ever worked, through pain, through pride, through exhaustion, to become something more?”