Anger flushes my cheeks, and Rhiannon and I exchange a perturbed glance, which is mirrored by everyone in our squad, especially Visia.
“Note that I said absorb.” Devera stares pointedly at us. “You will not be teamed up or partnered with. You will fuse, you will meld, you will unify.”
This goes against everything we’ve been taught. Squads are sacred. Squads are family. Squads are born after Parapet and forged through the Gauntlet, Threshing, and War Games. Squads aren’t merged unless they’re dissolved due to deaths—and we’re the Iron Squad.
We do not bend. And we definitely do not blend.
“And if you don’t”—Professor Kiandra’s tone softens as her gaze sweeps over the gym—“we will fail when it’s time for combat. We will die.”
“We’ll take your requests now,” Emetterio says, concluding the lecture portion of today’s festivities.
Lines form for those requesting challenges, and it doesn’t surprise me that most of the queue is wearing brown. They have far more reason to hate us than most of us do to hate them.
“We are the Iron Squad, and we’ll act like it,” Rhiannon orders as the last of the line approaches Emetterio. “We stick together and travel mat to mat with any challenge leveled on us.”
All eleven of us agree.
The first challenges are called, and I’m not surprised when Trager names Rhiannon to come to the mat. No doubt he’s still pissed about the punch she delivered on the flight field.
She wins in less than five minutes, and his lip is bleeding again.
The third-year leader from Cat’s drift, the stocky one with the necklace of scars, Bragen, knocks Quinn unconscious with a punch combination that leaves my mouth hanging.
Once Imogen is called to the mat by Neve—another third-year in Cat’s drift, with short strawberry-blond hair and deep-set eyes—I sense the pattern.
“This is about me,” I say quietly to Rhiannon when Imogen lands a solid kick to the other girl’s head.
“That makes it about us,” she responds. “Please tell me you’re wrapped and wearing your armor.”
I nod.
Imogen and Neve exchange precise, calculated blows until Devera calls it a draw after they’re both bleeding.
“Catriona Cordella and Violet Sorrengail,” Devera announces. “Disarm and take the mat.”
“Don’t do this.” Maren tries to talk Cat out of it, but there’s nothing but determination in her narrowed gaze.
“Of-fucking-course.” I hand the conduit to Rhiannon.
“Why am I not surprised, Cat?” Imogen glares across the mat before turning toward me.
“It’s fine. Predictable but fine.” One by one, I unsheathe all thirteen of my weapons and hand them to her.
“She’s got at least five inches on you, so watch for her reach,” Rhiannon says quietly.
“From what I remember, she’s quick on the attack and won’t leave you much time to react, so commit to your moves. Don’t hesitate,” Imogen adds.
“All right.” I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, fighting like hell to steady the nerves that have my stomach doing somersaults. If I’d known this was where today was headed, I would have acted earlier, maybe laced her breakfast with the fonilee I saw growing on the ridge just beneath the valley.
“You’ve got this,” Rhiannon says with a nod. “You were trained by the best.”
“Xaden,” I whisper, wishing he was here and not on the border.
“Me.” She nudges me with her elbow and forces a smile.
“Violet?” Sloane moves to Imogen’s side. “Do me a favor and kick her ass.”
My mouth tugs into a real half smile, and I nod at her before stepping onto the mat. Guess nothing unites foes like a common enemy, and for some reason, Cat has decided I’m hers. The mat has the same density as the ones at Basgiath, the same feel under my boots as I walk to the center, where Cat waits with a malevolent smirk.
“Scratch her eyes out,” Andarna suggests. “Really. The eyes are the softest tissue. Just jab your thumbs in there—”
“Andarna! Use some common sense,” Tairn snaps. “The kneecaps are a much easier target.”
“Quiet time, now.” I slam my shields up, muting Tairn and Andarna as much as possible.
“No weapons. No signets,” Devera says. “Match ends when one of you is—”
“Unconscious or taps out,” Cat finishes without taking her eyes off me. “We know.”
“Begin.” Devera steps off the mat, and I block out the noise around me, giving all my focus to Cat as she takes a familiar fighting stance.
I do the same, keeping my body loose and ready for movement. If she’s quick on the attack like Imogen said, then I’ll need to play defense.
“This is for Luella.” She comes at me with a combination of punches that I block with my forearms, shifting my body so the blows glance off without their full impact. It’s…easy, like I know the choreography. Like it’s muscle memory. Her stance adjusts, and I jump back a second before she kicks out. Connecting only with air, her balance falters as I land, and she stumbles sideways.
Holy shit. She fights like Xaden.
He trained both of us.
