We enter the bunk room to a smattering of applause. Everyone is standing at the foot of his bunk, each smartly dressed in a brown vest that laces up over a linen tunic. The vest and tunic fall mid-thigh over black woolen pants and brown leather boots. Everything is cinched up by a leather scabbard, empty until we’ve earned the right to carry weapons.

“I knew you’d make it, Red,” says Pedrón, grinning proudly in his new uniform.

“Your clothes are folded on your bunks,” Sergeant DeLuca says. “Please change immediately.”

As Aldo and I walk the gauntlet of uniformed recruits to our shared bunk, Beto says, “Yes, Red, change immediately. I promise I won’t look.” His voice is mocking, his intent clear.

Aldo grabs his new clothes from the top bunk and gets started right away, whipping off filthy pants and shirt. The other recruits whoop and holler, poking fun at his skinny legs. The mockery is undeserved; Aldo may be small, but he’s also fit, with muscled thighs and an abdomen like a granite cliff.

He finishes, stands at attention at the end of his bunk.

“What are you waiting for, Red?” taunts Beto.

I look to Sergeant DeLuca. Does he really want me to change in front of everyone? He returns my look with a raised brow.

All right then. I’ll make this quick. I’ll ignore them all. I’ll be fine.

I reach for the tie of my linen shirt. Someone whistles.

“Red,” says Iván. “Wait.”

He steps forward, stands in front of me with his legs slightly spread and his arms crossed. Aldo joins him, standing shoulder to shoulder with Iván, though a head shorter. Then another boy, whose name I haven’t bothered to learn—did DeLuca call him Itzal?—stands beside Aldo. They’ve created a privacy wall for me.

I swallow a sudden lump in my throat and dart behind them. I’ll have to work as fast as I can, before any of them think better of helping me or DeLuca decides to put a stop to it.

The first thing I do is fish out Bolivar’s key and transfer it to the pocket of my new pants.

Everything fits, even the boots. The vest hugs my shape so perfectly it’s as if the royal tailor himself sculpted it. The pants and shirt are loose enough for comfortable maneuvering. The boots are stiff, but they’ll allow room for my toes to flex once they’re broken in. I waste a precious moment marveling at how good this uniform feels to wear. Like it was meant to be mine. Like I’m truly a Royal Guard recruit now.

I tap Iván on the shoulder. “I’m finished. Thank you.”

He and the others step aside, and we take our places before our bunks.

DeLuca says, “You have the quartermaster and his staff to thank for your tailored uniforms. His eye for fit is extraordinary, as always. You will demonstrate your gratitude to the quartermaster by keeping your uniforms in good condition at all times. If you do not know how to launder or repair your clothing, you will be taught. Never enter the training arena in the morning with a uniform that is damaged or dirty. You will be given time each evening for laundry and ablutions. Do you understand?”