“I almost had you.”

It’s true that Jacobi is improving, but he has yet to catch up to me.

Motivated by his progress, Jacobi rushes to attack again, his right blade flashing under the fluorescent lights. His left remains aloft, on defense, prepared for my counterattack. It’s that blade I focus on as I charge him. Surprise flashes through his eyes, and at the last second, I slide to my knees, ducking under the blade in his left hand. As I rise to my feet, I use the hilt of my weapon to disarm him, and before he can turn to face me, both of my blades are around his neck. This is the executioner’s angle.

“Down,” I command.

And Jacobi kneels. I look up at two bulbs sticking out over the black glass pane. One is green, the other is red—green is pass, red is fail. In the old days, when the Order first began, the colors had different meanings, and knights could actually be put to death for disappointing commanders during training. Seconds tick by, and still the lights remain off. I hate not being able to see into the window. Are the commanders even watching? Of course they are—always assessing and recording. Every move I’ve ever made has been entered into the archive, and they’ll use all that data when I turn eighteen to decide my place in the Order.

My gaze falls to Jacobi at my feet. His head is down, his hair spills over his face, and his heavy breathing punctuates the air. It seems like every time we enter this room, we end up in this position, and each time, it takes longer for the commanders to give us the green light. I think they hope to embarrass Jacobi into performing the way they want, but that’s not how he operates. Jacobi’s not interested in fighting battles. He prefers hacking databases and stealing identities. Every time Roundtable has gone down, it’s been because of him.

But the Order doesn’t care half as much about those skills as they do our ability to fight. Because no matter where we’re placed in the hierarchy after graduation, our first duty is as soldiers.

And yet I still don’t like holding blades to my best friend’s neck.

Finally, the green light flickers to life overhead. I uncross my blades with a zing and step away. Jacobi exhales, and his shoulders fall. He reaches for his second blade and gets to his feet. A clear, robotic voice sounds in the training room over the intercom.

“Jacobi, report to Commander Quinn.”

While those orders don’t necessarily mean anything bad for Jacobi—Commander Quinn is his mother—dread swirls in my stomach. Valryn aren’t really all that nurturing.