Ox lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Actually, it’s all been a charade, and I don’t really like Luca. Archers, am I right?”

“First off, you’re both archers. And he’s your friend. Of course you like him.”

“Not like I like you,” he replies.

“Well, I … good.” Heat sears my cheeks, but I mentally dig in my heels. I can’t let him best me so easily. “But really, go with him. We already spend so much time together. If I recall, we were up until nearly second bell talking in your room.”

He leans in closely so only I can hear. “And you could have been there all night, if you’d wanted.”

My blush rises. I can fight with all manner of weapons, but Ox is relentless with words. The question about me staying the night—and all that it entailed—had come up, but something held me back. Ox didn’t pressure me, but his eyes had ached for more.

“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and bringing me back to the present. “Let’s go do festival things.”

Despite what he said, Ox of course invites Vera and Luca to join us. Music carries from one end of the marketplace to the next, mixed with the laughter between warriors and citizens alike as wine is poured from cask to cup. Wares of silver and bronze gleam in the sunlight.

I glance at the increasingly familiar lines of Ox’s arms and chest beneath his cobalt-blue robes, the same robes that the sentinels will place in my hands tomorrow. For now, I’m stuck with the warrior-elect’s uniform: a long ivory tunic with cobalt hems, banded at the waist with a matching blue sash. The tunic has slits on either side, and underneath, tight-fitting linen pants go down to my ankles. A set of throwing knives—my preferred weapon, at least when first engaging an opponent—is belted over my sash with the sheath resting at my hip.

For a dance or formal ceremony, I might wear a dress, but I’ve worn this so often, it’s practically a second skin. Still, after seeing Vera all dressed up, I wish I were wearing something else. Something … prettier.

“Congratulations, Warrior-Elect,” a passerby says to me, placing her hand gently on my shoulder.

“Thank you,” I reply cheerfully. “May the skies keep you.”

“It’s happening,” Ox says, squeezing my hand as we move deeper into the crowd.

“One more day,” I reply. “It doesn’t feel real.”

Victory in the arena or competing in a race: neither matters as much as the fact that in less than a day, I will be a true warrior. Every cut scarred over, every weapon mastered. Every sleepless night as our superiors pushed us to the limits so we’d be ready to face any enemy. It will all be worth it when I take the warrior’s oath and accept my uniform.