Page 17 of They Call Me Blue

A thick canvas curtain conceals the small space.

Pushing it aside, we step into the lava tube, the sides of our arms brushing against sleek walls as we walk.

Even single file, the tunnel here is so narrow, Nirissa and I are the only elves small enough to fit.

Raindrops patter overhead. Jars of glowflies hang from the ceiling, casting our surroundings in dim pink light.

“Julian wants me to run patrols next week,” I tell Nirissa, my voice echoing off the blackened stone. “Will you be okay on your own?”

“If I say no, can I come with you?”

I glare at the glowfly lights, wishing I could glare at her. “No. And don't try to follow me like you did last time. I almost shot you.”

The pattering rainfall fades into nothing. Our footsteps grow louder as we round the corner and descend a path of winding, uneven steps into the musty belly of Rayna. Nirissa doesn't speak. More importantly, she doesn't promise that she'll stay put.

“I mean it, bug.”

She grumbles then mutters something that sounds a lot like, “You're not my mom.”

It hits like a physical blow.

It doesn't matter. Mom or not, I'm all she has, and she will listen to me.

The stairway opens into a network of wider, taller tunnels meant for the other soldiers.

Armed men and women ignore us as we pass, chatting amongst each other, glamorizing their most recent kills.

The dewy admiration in Nirissa’s eyes has me balling my hands into fists.

If I could take her from this place, I would.

But we have nowhere else to go. As skilled as I am, I can't be everywhere at once, protecting her while I hunt, hiding her while I scout; it's too much for any one person.

I miss Giara.

True to her word, she never babied me, but she did watch Nirissa when I hunted. We’d still be in that cave, living a quiet, solitary life, if she hadn’t gone and gotten herself captured. Now, I’m stuck inside this shithole.

It takes us minutes to reach the dining hall, and I instantly regret it. A mess of crude language and familiar grunts comes from the other side of the curtained doorway.

“For the last time, Cheevy, no one wants to hear about your dick.” Julian’s voice cuts through the thick canvas.

“All I’m saying is that the hole’s wide enough—”

Julian cuts him off. “Get your hands out of my fucking med-pack.”

Cringing, I peek back at Nirissa, wishing I could cover her ears. Of course, she’s absolutely enthralled. Practically glowing with excitement.

“Five minutes,” I tell her. “In. Out. We’re not stopping to talk with them.”

She frowns. “You never let me do anything fun.”

Shoving past me, Nirissa sweeps the canvas aside and marches straight into the dining hall like she owns the place. It’s physically impossible not to roll my eyes.

The room dwarfs us. It’s the second largest space in the underground, formed from an empty magma reservoir.

The ceiling and walls extend hundreds of feet into the air, encircling us in jagged black and purple and red rocks.

Stone tables and chairs fill the space—firepits too—which form plumes of thick gray smoke.

A series of hidden air ducts and vents carry the smoke to the surface, but not fast enough to stop the room from hazing.

Through the fog, I spot my squad right away, having already ransacked the pantries and salted meat reserves. I sniff the air on impulse. Not salted meat. Fresh. Someone hunted and brought their kill to share.

My stomach gurgles at the thought of having fresh meat for once. It’s not worth the cost of speaking to them—not when Nirissa is so young and impressionable. Still, my mouth salivates.

“To the pantries, and then we go,” I remind her.

Quickening my pace, I step in front of Nirissa, guiding her away from the others, toward food storage at the other side of the hall.

As we pass, I make a concerted effort to ignore whatever my squadmates are laughing or fighting about.

I’ve nearly cleared them entirely when someone whistles at me, the sharp noise bouncing off the cavernous walls.

“Arden, come here.”

I stiffen at Julian’s command. The words fuck you form on my lips, but I hold them back, plastering on the biggest, fakest smile I can muster. Gesturing toward the pantries—deep recesses hidden in the rocks—I urge Nirissa forward. “Go. I’ll catch back up.”

She glances between my squad and me, huffs, then storms off. Her attempt at dramaticism is underwhelming; her bare feet hardly make a sound.

“Couldn’t this wait?” I hiss, my smile dropping as I approach the fire. The warmth of the flames sends involuntary shudders up my spine, my frigid toes curling in relief. I refuse to settle into it. To get comfortable with them. “If this is about earlier—”

Julian jerks his head, gesturing to the others.

Our squad forms a circle around the new recruit, all four of them examining his infected chest wound like they’re playing a game of Find It. Med-pack open, our field healer, Sora, grabs a magnifying glass, hovering it over the pus-filled, bloody mess.

“I’m no expert, but shouldn’t you be doing this in the med hall?” I ask.

“Can’t.” Sora’s fingers palpate the wound’s edges. Sweat glistens off her bald head, collecting on a cloth circlet. “They’re overflowing right now. Mission went topside in South Ridge.”

Something shimmering and blue ekes past a lump of the elf’s pale tissue. My brows furrow as Cheevy—our demolition expert of all fae —grabs a pair of tweezers and starts digging for it.

Metal? Rock? I can’t tell.

To Chest Wound’s credit, he doesn’t scream when the tweezers split apart flesh.

Aside from his ragged breaths, the elf is a perfect statue.

Pupils dilated. Cock hard and pitching a tent beneath his trousers.

If I had to guess, Sora drugged him with lavender oil—makes it easier to touch someone in pain.

Makes it easier to pleasure them, too, according to my squadmates.

Lavender oil is strictly forbidden. No one wants a soldier high as fuck responsible for staving off an elgrew attack, but the healers keep a secret supply.

The blue shard slips free of Chest Wound’s skin. It tings on the stone floor as Cheevy drops it from his tweezers. Tears leak past his and Sora’s eyes, but they don’t stop working. Cheevy, digging. Sora, palpating. Another shard rises to the surface.

“What is that?” I ask.

No one answers.

I take a step closer, narrowing my gaze. Upon further inspection, dozens of tiny cuts cover Chest Wound’s body, leaking silver onto the floor. Stitches close the worst of them, but most are narrower than papercuts. Sweat drenches his unusually pale skin. His lips and fingers twitch despite the oil.

This man is dying.

I’m not a medic any more than Julian or Cheevy are.

I’m trained for the basic stuff—everyone in Starra’lee is—but none of us can do better than Sora.

If the man looks like this . . . if she’s resorted to lavender oil already and Julian hasn’t reprimanded her for it .

. . if we’re doing Marr-damn medical extractions in the dining hall, I don’t see how the fuck I can be of any use to them.

“What am I doing here, Julian?” I ask.

“There’s been extensive damage,” he says. “Torvin worked as a foreman in the cold-iron mine. His master embedded the metal into his skin to make it harder to run. Sora and the others are pulling it out, but the metal slows healing. The infection—”

“No.” I practically spit the word.

“Arden—”

“No!”

I jam my hand into my back pocket, fingers coiling protectively around the pouch of ossi dust I keep there.

Dust Lyrick gave to me. Dust only Julian knows about.

It’s rare—difficult to find because the elgrew hoard it in their cities and impossible to make because no one knows what it’s made from.

Tribes have fought wars over it; my own chieftain nearly died once protecting his stash.

“Absolutely not.” I glance at the others and take a step away from the flames, the warmth. My heart splinters at the expectant look on their faces and the guilt in Julian’s eyes.

“You told them?” My voice warbles but doesn’t crack.

“We’ve never had inside knowledge of the mines before,” Julian says. The words are velvety soft, like he isn’t a lying, two-faced, trust-breaking snake. “Arden, we need him.”

If I could claw his face off, I would. “I kept it for Nirissa,” I say. “Not for your stupid missions.”

Tears of anger threaten to leak free. I won’t cry in front of them. I—

Cheevy rises from the floor. Unkempt hair falls over his freckled face and half-missing nose. Slowly, he approaches me, hands outstretched like I’m a feral animal, not his squadmate. I take another step back, only to hit Julian’s hard, unmoving body.

“I’m sorry, Arden.” He grips me by the wrists, wrenching my arms behind my back. “I wasn’t asking.”

I struggle against him, but I’m half his size. Moving him would be like moving a mountain.

Cheevy closes the gap between us, reaches into my back pocket, and snatches up the one thing that could save my sister if something went wrong.

The pouch is almost flat now—a lifetime supply for most tribes whittled to nothing.

Back when I was scavenging the marshes for scraps, still learning how to fight, it had been a literal lifesaver for bug and me.

If they use it now, there won’t be anything left.

“Don’t do this,” I hiss, my eyes burning with righteous indignation.

Julian doesn’t let up.

Cheevy kneels over Chest Wound, offering the bag to Sora. “Is all the cold iron out?”

“I think so.” She stops palpating then snatches the bag, frowning when she realizes just how close it is to empty. Sora doesn’t waste time measuring or scooping. Instead, she turns the pouch inside out and lets the plume of dust settle over the new recruit’s chest.

The whole time, I struggle, kicking and wriggling as my fail-safe vanishes from sight, magically fusing Chest Wound’s skin back together. When it’s done, Julian releases me.

I say nothing. Words wouldn’t change anything; they certainly wouldn’t bring the dust back.

“Arden, it had to be done,” Julian says.

“Of course it did.” I laugh a bitter laugh. “The squad comes first, right?”

We stare at one another for a long time. There isn’t a trace of remorse in his expression. Spinning on my heels, I try to compose myself as best I can before finding my sister.

“I just hope it was worth it.”