Page 30 of They Call Me Blue

“Your friendship with Blue is inadvisable. It puts everything we’re doing at risk. If you warn her of our plans, you will be executed on the spot.”

—Elder Risha of the Drift, High Priestess Supreme.

A classified letter to Commander Julian of Kariss.

B rush in hand, I untangle the knots in bug’s wet hair, working through each snarl with intentional slowness.

Being soft has never come easy to me, but I force my twitching muscles into submission, forgoing efficiency for comfort.

Eyes closed, Nirissa leans her back against my chest, the bedroom silent save for the swish-swoosh of the defeathered, korkuran-bristle hairbrush as it glides through her hair.

The straw mattress crinkles beneath us each time we move.

Freshly washed, we both smell a little too floral for my taste. Like kissy lips or jurry berries. Like elves who want to get eaten. But I’m on leave now, so there’s no reason to bathe with unscented lye or coarse salts. No one’s going to hunt us down here.

“Hey, bug.” I choose my words slowly, carefully. “I think you should take a break from studying with Elder Risha. I don’t like that she has you risking your life.”

“You get to risk your life.” Nirissa opens her eyes to glare at me. “It’s boring down here. What else am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

“Maybe you could stick to books.”

“Books are stupid. I want to help. I want to go topside like you.”

Stubborn kid. She doesn’t get it. She’ll never get it.

Nirissa was too young to remember when Mom and Dad died.

The fires. The elgrew. The Butchers and their cleavers.

To her, all this is some sort of abstract danger.

Maybe I’ve sheltered her too long, kept her too safe.

Maybe it’s time she saw with her own eyes what life is like up there.

The top bunk groans as I readjust, setting the brush on a blanket made from thick animal furs.

Even here, Nirissa lives in luxury compared to the other recruits.

Her bed is filled with soft blankets and thick pillows made from the animals I’ve hunted—not the standard issue, flimsy stuff the others have.

Her clothes are luxurious too—taken from the elgrew I’ve killed and resized to fit her.

She gets to bathe in expensive oils from the plants I harvest and read books in her spare time, when most of Starra’lee is illiterate.

It’s a cushy life. As cushy as it gets for people like us, but so long as she’s cooped up down here, she’ll never appreciate any of it. Worse, she’ll resent me for it.

“I’m on leave this week,” I tell her. “I think we should go topside.”

Every instinct tells me that’s a bad idea, but I know the safest routes. Unlike five years ago, I’m experienced enough and strong enough to keep her safe . . . at least for a few days.

“You mean it?” Nirissa’s face brightens. She pivots on the mattress so we’re face-to-face. “You want to take me with you?”

Want isn’t exactly the word I’d use. “Just for the week. We’ll harvest some jurry berries together, and I’ll teach you how to hunt.”

She throws her arms around my neck, clinging to me like a primate. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! This is going to be so much fun!”

“This isn’t a vacation, Nirissa,” I snap. “You’re going to have to do what I tell you. You understand that, right?”

Scooting out of my arms, she rolls her eyes at me before climbing from the bed. “Of course, Arri.”

My sister walks to the closet and begins gathering clothing, tossing it into the center of our bedroom floor. I arch a brow at her.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Packing.”

Sighing, I join her on the floor. I guess we’re really doing this.

“Okay, but first, let’s make a list.”

Several hours later and we’re almost ready to go.

A short trip to the mess hall to gather food rations.

A chat with Sora to refill my diminished emergency med-pack.

And then, of course, Julian’s office—not to ask permission, but because someone should know what we’re doing in case we don’t come back.

Go-bag in hand, Nirissa and I exit our bedroom door, pushing past the canvas curtain.

At the end of the dark, narrow tunnels is a silhouette sitting on the floor, blotting out the glowfly lanterns in the main chamber.

Brows furrowed, I step in front of Nirissa, squinting to get a better look at them.

No one ever visits us. I’m not exactly a gracious host.

“Chest Wound?” I ask, blinking twice when his face comes into view. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, rubbing his chin.

“That’s dangerous territory.”

Ignoring my barb, he stands up and ducks into the narrow passageway, coming as close to us as his gargantuan size will allow. “You said Cheevy is a demolitions expert?” he asks. “Meaning he knows how to make explosions and stuff?”

“That would be the definition.” Hands on my hips, I force myself not to roll my eyes at him or shake him by the shoulders when he doesn’t immediately get to the point of this little drop by. “Do you have something you want to blow up?”

“The cold-iron mine.”

My veins turn icy. A lead ball drops into my stomach. “That’s not possible. It’s surrounded by Butchers and protected by hundred-foot walls. The Grand Overseer lives there, for fuck’s sake. I know you want revenge, but—”

“I can show you how.”

The confidence in his voice is enough to give me pause.

Even if he has no idea what he’s talking about, I’d be stupid not to hear him out. Cutting off the elgrew’s supply of cold iron would finally give the elves in the forest a fighting chance. It could save countless lives.

Turning to Nirissa, I ruffle through my pants pockets and withdraw the list of equipment we still need. “Why don’t you finish gathering this stuff without me, and we’ll meet back here when you’re finished? I bet Sora would love to see you.”

“Okay! Promise you won’t leave without me.”

“I promise.”

Nirissa snatches the list from me, then the go-bag, sagging and grunting under the weight of a not-so-insubstantial cache of weapons.

As she walks away, half-dragging, half-hefting the bag, I sit on the floor and pat the space beside me, gesturing to Chest Wound. “I’m listening. Now tell me your plan.”

Chest Wound, Cheevy, and I sit at the war table in Julian’s office, leaning over two makeshift maps—one of the cold-iron mines, the other of the Grand Overseer’s estate.

Julian paces the room, his lips pursed in thought.

Tousled hair falls over his eyes as he returns to his seat and traces along the map’s escape tunnels and airways.

“And you’re sure this will work?” Julian asks, peering up at Cheevy.

Our demolitions expert nods. “If the air vents are where Chest Wound—Torvin—says they are and if Arden can fit through them like he says she can, it’ll work.”

“That’s a lot of ifs.” Julian sighs, scratching his head the way he always does when he gets nervous. “Leadership will never agree to it. Arden’s size makes her too valuable to risk.”

“It’s my size that will let us do this,” I snap.

Then, I peer behind me to ensure my voice didn’t lure any unwanted visitors.

Feet pass beneath the canvas flap but don’t linger.

Still, I lower my voice. “If the plan has any chance of working, we need to ride out tonight. Otherwise, we miss the opportunity until next year, and by then, it’ll be even riskier because the information will be out of date. ”

Chest Wound and I discussed this at length. Ring Day is the only time the mine shuts down, and it’s the only day Azerin’s property isn’t flooded with guards.

Groaning, Julian rubs his hand over his face. “Are you so eager to die, Arden? Or maybe you’re looking forward to a reunion with your master?”

I shrink back at the words, digging fingernails into my scarred palm. For once, the bond is quiet.

“What if Lyrick is at the estate?” Julian asks. “It’s not so deep underground that he won’t sense your presence. If he tracks you—if he takes you when you’re anywhere near that city—there isn’t an army in Rayna that could break you out of that fortress.”

“Shit, I forgot about him,” Cheevy says. “Arden, I don’t know . . .”

But I do know. Lyrick doesn’t live at Azerin’s estate; he lives in Hunter’s Square with his asshole friends.

He doesn’t like the games, nor the festivities that follow.

For all “my master’s” faults, for all his cruelty, Ring Day and the celebrations associated with it aren’t one of them.

Worrying about his presence there isn’t necessary.

The chair squeals as I rise from it. “I can do this,” I spit. “I know I can. I’m faster than anyone else in our unit. I’ll climb through the air vents and place the explosives before anyone even realizes where I am.”

“Have you ever been around that much cold iron?” Julian asks, his words sharp as steel. “You won’t be able to tell your ups from your downs, let alone have the motor skills necessary to climb through a ventilation shaft. The answer is no.”

Rage boils in my chest. My pulse pounds in my throat. Gripping the edges of the table, I fight to keep from breaking something . . . everything. “If I were anyone else, you’d let me risk it.”

“You aren’t anyone else, Arden. You’re my best fighter and this is a suicide mission.”

I flip the table, sending the maps scattering.

It isn’t fair. Julian’s protectiveness over me will get everyone killed.

“You saved Chest Wound because he had access to the mines. And now that you have that information, you’re going to do fuck all with it?

Because of what?” Angry tears blur my vision.

“I’m not a child, Julian. Don’t treat me like one. ”

He narrows his eyes. “The answer is no. You have a sister to protect.”

“I am protecting her!” I groan in frustration.

But Julian isn’t listening. He never listens to me. I’m not a soldier; I’m the little girl he pulled out of the marshes two years ago. It doesn’t matter how many swamp dogs I kill or elgrew I shoot, he will always see me as less than.

Chest Wound crawls onto the floor and collects his papers. Neither he nor Cheevy rush to defend me, though.

Fuck them.

Flipping everyone off, I storm from the room, making a beeline to my quarters.

I don’t need their help, and I don’t need his permission. I can do this on my own, just like everything else.

The crowded hallway clears for me, the other soldiers smushing themselves against the walls to stay out of my way. Footsteps thud from behind, but I ignore them, pressing deeper into the underground, wiping hot tears from my cheeks.

I shouldn’t have to prove myself to Julian. I’m the best Marr-damn soldier in the fucking army.

I make it to my room and push aside the canvas curtain.

Rushing to my desk, I find a fresh sheet of paper and scribble out a hasty goodbye to Nirissa, hoping she’ll forgive me, that one day she’ll understand.

Then, I scan the room for my go-bag and curse.

Bug has it. She has nearly everything I need to survive a mission like this.

I’m totally fucked. There’s not a chance on Rayna that Julian will allow me to collect new materials from the armory right now.

He’s probably warned the others that I’ll try.

Screw it. This shithole isn’t the only place I’ve stored a weapons cache. It’s just the most convenient. With no supplies and no armor, I return the way I came. Two soldiers guard the exit, their hands tightly gripping the hilts of their glittering bronze sabers.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” I scoff at them—neither of whom I recognize. “Get out of my way or I’ll—”

I’ll what? I don’t have my weapons. I don’t have my sawgrass. I’m entirely useless right now and they know it. Throwing my hands in the air, I curse them, their mothers, and every other person in this Marr-damn army before returning to my chambers.

It’s a minor setback. I’ll figure out another way. I’ll—

Two thuds sound from the hallway. Metal clangs and reverberates as it hits the stony floor.

“Bug?” I call out to her, but it’s a male voice that answers.

“Arden?” Cheevy asks. “You in there?”

What? A crease line forms between my brows.

I pad through the tunnels where the guards lay unconscious at the exit—hands tied behind their backs, weapons nowhere in sight.

Cheevy and Chest Wound bend over them, knotting their ankles together, pockets stuffed with maps and paperwork that had once been on Julian’s desk.

“You’re still going, right?” Cheevy asks. Hands on his knees, breathing heavy, he grins up at me. “We figured you might need a little help.”

Emotion clogs my throat. No one ever helps me—not unless they think they can get something in return. Swallowing past a hard lump, I tiptoe over the bodies and join my squadmates; they’re also empty-handed. “No weapons?” I ask.

“Julian posted guards outside the barracks and the armory. We couldn’t go back for them,” Cheevy says. “Don’t suppose you have any hidden in your bedroom?”

“Not the kind I need. But I know where I can get some.”

“ I? ” Cheevy quirks a brow. “We’re coming with you, Arden.”

That pesky lump gets bigger, making my throat all achy and sentimental. “What about Julian?” I ask. “You’ll both be reprimanded.”

“Fuck him,” Chest Wound says.

“Yeah, fuck him.”