Fugitive of Death

6

 I was halfway through a bowl of dry lamb and rice when Markos slid onto the bench across from me.

"So," I said with a mouthful of food, "how soon can I expect my dishonorable discharge?"

Markos blew a steady stream of air out of his mouth. "Well, technically you completed your weapons assessment so they can't say you didn't follow orders. Though I don't think anyone is going to be particularly thrilled about your little outburst."

Taking another bite, I stared behind Marko's head and frowned. "Disgusting. How is that even allowed?"

He turned, following my line of vision until he spotted Yiani and the brown-haired girl nearly on top of each other looking like they were about to devour each other whole. "What, Yiani and Phoebe?"

"It's gross," I said. "We're soldiers, not escorts."

"Soldiers with needs," Markos said with a shrug. "As long as you're not messing around with anyone above your rank, who cares? And stop changing the subject, Bibi—you need to get that chip off your shoulder."

"I don't have a chip on my shoulder."

Markos sighed, shaking his head. "Unlike most people here, I'm willing to help you. Maybe that's a sign of weakness on my part, but I don't care. If it means bringing Lysidora victory, I suppose the means justify the end."

"So what are you saying?" I asked.

"If you walk onto that shooting range tomorrow with a bow twice your size, what's stopping anyone from cutting you down?"

I put my food down. "I don't have any other skills. I'm small and fast. Unless they're hiring pickpockets, this is the one thing I can bring to the table. Do not take that away from me."

"Divines, I'm trying to help!" he snapped, garnering a few stares from the other cadets. He winced, then lowered his voice. "You need to get good at something that suits you."

"Like what?" I was getting progressively more annoyed with his accusations of ineptitude. Just because it was true didn't mean I wanted to hear it while I was busy eating my feelings.

A twin pair of daggers clattered onto the table as Iris slid next to Markos carrying two bowls of food. "I saw you eyeing the throwing knives."

I laughed humorlessly. "That's funny. You two are hilarious."

She shoved the bowl in Markos's hands. "I don't joke, Border Girl." She shoveled food into her mouth like it was the last meal she'd ever eat. "The Zamakarian is right. You need to get better if you're going to survive the next three months."

"I'm Lysidorian," Markos grumbled, "but thank you for the support."

She scraped her bowl clean, stood, and scooped up her daggers. "I'm not of the mind to help but you're hard-pressed to find it around here. So take the damn opportunity while you still can."

"You're not helping me?" Markos asked.

"Nope. Good luck." She clapped him on the back and he nearly choked on his food.

He watched her leave, still coughing up rice.

No longer with much of an appetite, I pushed the bowl out of the way and crossed my arms. "Why are you doing this Markos?"

He pursed his lips, staring me down. Out of everyone in this camp, we both stuck out like sore thumbs, dark and pale in a sea of olive and honey. But unlike me, Markos actually belonged here. He may not look like the others, but he was a true-born Lysidorian. He could keep his head down and never talk to me again to get the other cadets off his back.