Something inside of Scratch told her to turn from him, to avert her eyes from this boy at his weakest. She did him this mercy, looking instead to her classmates, all wearing similar expressions of shock and horror, commingled with freshly earned respect. The combination left her with a feeling both terrible and intoxicating. Searching for a friendly face, her gaze landed on the boy who had yelled earlier, who had told her to “get up and fight” when she feared there was no fight left in her. It had been the cousin of her opponent, the green-eyed boy. He was smiling.

“My name’s James. Do you want to be my friend?”

And then there was madness, a cacophony of shouts and cheers, faces near her and hands slapping her back. The defeated boy was all but forgotten in the fray as low and highborn spectators alike introduced themselves. Some came to offer congratulations, but more hid thinly veiled threats beneath supposed praise. They had seen what this nobody girl could do to one of their own and wanted to tell her that they would not be next.

She had let these new faces melt into one exhilarated blur and, trembling, had fallen into the blissful relief of her survival.

“. . . and someone shouted ‘She doesn’t have a scratch on her!’” James told the rapt Shaes. “And it stuck.”

Scratch generally didn’t mind the story. Sure, there was a tint of guilt over the pride, but it didn’t bother her when she didn’t think too hard about the boy she had beaten. But today . . .

It had been her moment of renaming, when she went from Nobody to Soldier. She had planned to be a soldier forever.

Her hands were still red from rabbit’s blood. She wiped them on the grass.

“And Brella?” she asked, too quickly. “Where does that come from?”

“It’s actually short for Umbrella.”

James was in no mood. “Don’t tease us.”

“Not teasing. Vel can verify.”

“Not teasing,” Vel verified.

“Why Umbrella?” Scratch asked, receiving a roast quarter of rabbit from Vel.

Brella lifted a shoulder. “It’s a long story.”

“We have time.”