“Shall we set this mess on fire then?” His eyes were on Vel as he cheerily tossed the twigs toward the circle of stones, managing to get only a few to their intended destination while the rest scattered like spillikins.

They dined on bread, cheese, and the roots, which turned out to be somewhat spongy and rather pleasant.

“I could set up some snares,” Vel offered as he tore into a root. “Maybe we could have meat tomorrow.”

James smirked. “Snares?”

“Uh, yes?”

James reached for his bow and nocked an arrow. Before anyone could ask what he was doing (or, in Scratch’s case, roll her eyes), he loosed the arrow into the brush. When he retrieved it, a hare was in his hands.

“If anyone could skin this, I would be much obliged.”

Brella, openmouthed, pointed at Scratch.

“Fine,” Scratch said. “Gimme.”

She skinned the poor beast in silence, the Shaes too stunned to speak.

“I’m an archer,” James supplied, after a moment or two.

Vel nodded slowly. “I gather.”

They didn’t follow, so James led harder. “Sometimes I go by another name.”

“Oh.”

Scratch snorted into her elbow. James glared at her.

“It’s a nickname. Have you heard of any . . . archery-related nicknames?”

The Shaes blinked blankly at him.

“Arrow?” Vel guessed.

Undeterred, James puffed out his chest. “Bowstring. Have you heard of a Bowstring in the King’s Guard?”

“Uh.” Vel spread his hands. “Now we have.”

“Does everyone have a nickname in the King’s Guard?” Brella asked quickly, James reddening beside her. “Bowstring, Scratch. Is it about the scar on your face?”

“Brella!” Vel whacked her. “You can’t just ask someone about the scar on their face.”

“No, no. I’m fine about the scar,” Scratch assured them. “That’s a boring story. I got it fighting a girl who hadn’t cut her nails in a while.” She slipped off the rabbit’s hide in one piece like a shirt and handed the meat to Vel to roast over the fire. “That’s not how I got my name, though.” She turned to James. He pouted down at his bloodied arrow. “You wanna tell it, Jam . . . uh, Bowstring?”

It had been their first day at the Academy, and Scratch had already become a target. Her sergeant, a stone-faced brick of a man, had called a group to the sparring ring and was setting up children to fight in pairs. “Separating the wheat from the chaff,” he had called it, and although the ritual was informal, it was important all the same. The winners and losers were split into groups after their spars, and Scratch knew that if she lost, she would be forever hampered by the weight of her first failure. There was no option but to win.