Page 43 of They Call Me Blue

“An elf’s sezin should only be utilized in dry, quiet conditions.

Attempting to use them during a rainstorm event, near a loud water source, or inside a city could result in temporary or permanent hearing loss.

Our sezins work best while sedentary. Moving and listening at the same time can make filtering noises more difficult.

Before a soldier can be assigned scouting duties, they must first prove themselves proficient listeners. ”

—Ustas of the Ivory Forest, Starra’lee General

Leadership Correspondence

S hink.

Shink.

Shink.

Dagger in hand, I slide the blade across a whetstone balanced on my lap, sharpening the edges until even the shallowest graze could draw blood.

I won’t take any chances tomorrow. No risks.

My favorite rusty dagger has been tucked away and replaced with a lighter, standard issue one that better conforms to my wrist—easier to wield, easier to throw, and, most importantly, easier to kill with.

I finish sharpening the blade, then sheathe it at my thigh.

A pile of matching unsharpened daggers lies in the grasses at my feet. Maybe it’s excessive. Then again, can there be such a thing as too many blades?

Shink.

Shink.

I grab the next one and get to work, ignoring Cheevy and Chest Wound, who sit on the moist ground beside me, half-hidden by purple coneflowers and orange grasses.

Golden pollen dusts the landscape, the muggy air sweet and thick with its floral scent.

Up above, yellow glowflies blink across the night sky and starlight stretches for infinity.

It’s so fucking beautiful. And distracting.

And there’s no time to be distracted.

Shink.

Shink.

My squadmates chuckle, sipping spiced wine from their animal skin flasks.

Useless as ever. Squinting through the blackness, I bite my tongue and keep my eyes on the blade, on the porous sharpening stone, and on the woven threads of sawgrass reeds that crisscross over my thighs.

I could put a stop to it— make them help —but honestly, they’d do a shoddy job anyway.

It’s irritating as shit, but not worth the argument.

Shink.

Shink.

Cheevy strips his tunic free and chucks it somewhere in the darkened field, scooting closer to Chest Wound. Someone groans in what sounds like pleasure, and for the first time in my life, I’m so fucking thankful I don’t have darkeyes to see what’s going on. Their silhouettes are bad enough.

“How’d you get those scars?” Chest Wound asks. I don’t need to see them to know what he’s talking about. Like Cheevy’s face, his entire body is covered in deep, winding lumps that look like a child’s nonsensical cave drawings.

“A pair of garden shears,” Cheevy says, voice prideful. “Back when I was living in Kariss, I overheard my master say he was going to take me to the Stitchers for a transplant. Figured if I couldn’t wear my skin, neither could they.”

Chest Wound gasps. “You did this to yourself?”

Shink.

Shink.

“Yep.” Cheevy tips his flask and takes a long swig, hissing in satisfaction. “Best decision of my fucking life. When the Stitcher saw what I’d done and realized he couldn’t salvage it, he let me go. Pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to, but I’m not complaining. Wanna see the rest?”

Not waiting for an answer, Cheevy fumbles with his belt.

Metal jingles and clicks as he unhooks the buckle and threads the long leather strip free, tossing it into the grasses as well.

Fabric rustles. Flowers shift. Cheevy peels his pants down his thighs, and my grip slips on the whetstone, wrist hitting a sharp edge.

How is anyone supposed to work in these fucking conditions?

Gritting my teeth, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then, I return my dagger to the stone and—

Cheevy moans as Chest Wound kneels between his thighs and reaches for his dick. “This looks fine to me,” he says.

“Yeah, I left that bit alone.”

Fucking kill me.

I clear my throat and fasten dagger number two to a matching sheathe on my other thigh. The blade’s not as sharp as I’d like, but it’s good enough to get the fuck out of here. “I’m going to run another patrol,” I say. “Scout ahead for tomorrow. You guys good here?”

Cheevy’s thumbs-up emerges from behind a wall of grasses. And then they’re groping, kissing, exchanging spit and fluids and gods know what else—like sex isn’t the most repulsive thing in the world. Like having to look at Cheevy’s dick isn’t a war crime.

Biologically, I get it. Physiologically, though, it’s a mystery to me how anyone can find that pleasurable. Sticky. Messy. Gross. Everything about it is so fucking unappealing.

Trying not to look at them, trying not to gag, I check the tightness of my braids and the location of my twin daggers before taking off, heading south toward the Aegis River.

Once we’ve crossed it tomorrow, it’s only a two-hour hike to Azerin’s estate.

Normally, the proximity would make me nervous, but most of his lackeys will be in Kariss, preparing for their bullshit celebration, cramming themselves into the heart of the city for a good seat at the arena.

Yesterday, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Today, I could probably shout at the top of my lungs and not a soul would hear me, save for my squadmates.

Still, I’m not about to take any chances.

I vibrate my sezin and cringe when the first thing I hear is skin slapping against skin— no thank you.

It takes what feels like forever to tune them out, to focus on the other noises that surround me.

Chittering rodents. Shrieking wind. A faint burble of water to my left.

But no signs of any elgrew. I keep my hands near my daggers regardless, fingers sliding over the hilts, itching for another fight, another kill.

Number seventy-nine by my count.

As I walk, I continue straining my ears, vibrating my sezin.

Each footfall lands like a chisel against stone, so fucking loud my knees threaten to buckle.

Few elves can do this—walk and listen at the same time—but Julian taught me well, and on a mission this important, the throbbing headache seems like a cost worth paying.

Grasses crunch. Glowfly mandibles snap. The wind and water grow more deafening with each step. But I keep going. It isn’t until the river is a roar inside my skull and the pressure on my eyes threatens to burst them that I relax my ears and let my feet guide me.

Slowly, the grasses thin, replaced by sedges and cattails.

The moist dirt turns harder, sharper, the mud filling in with coarse gravel that digs into my calloused heels.

By now, I can feel little sensation in my feet—the same as most adult elves who’ve spent their lives shoeless—but what I can feel fucking hurts.

Hissing, I ignore the jabbing stones and press forward, where a row of spine trees forms a wall-like barrier between me and the rest of the riverbank.

I suck in my gut and squeeze past them, the thorny bark grazing and tugging at the layer of sawgrass reeds that cover my hide armor.

My cuirass threatens to tear as I wrestle free of the trees, then stumble onto a gravel bar that’s speckled with teal oo’ren moss and slimy orange algae.

Rocks of every size and tangly mats of purple vines create the world’s worst tripping hazard between the Aegis River and me. And gods, that river. . .

“Marr-dammit.” My jaw drops as I take in the wide expanse of water keeping me from Lyrick.

Not Lyrick, I correct. The mines.

But my heart knots all the same, constricting me until it hurts to breathe. I’m so fucking close to him—to ridding myself of this bond once and for all—yet the river forms an impenetrable barrier between us. Because I can’t swim.

In the moonlight, the jade-green water is so dark it looks black, with silver light bouncing and rippling in the current.

Cool mist sprays the banks on both sides as water crashes and bursts against boulders as tall as I am.

The current is fast and deep and impossible to cross—at least right here.

But that’s why I’m scouting. To find somewhere I’ll make it through without admitting to Cheevy and Chest Wound that I can’t.

Gods, the thought of them realizing I’m too scared or too weak or too incompetent to cross a stupid river is unbearable.

Eyes on the Aegis, I pace the gravel banks, searching for a better spot.

It never narrows. Occasionally, bedrock bursts through the surface, creating frothing rapids and sharp undercurrents.

A few spine trees lie uprooted near the water’s edge, slowing the current down until it forms stagnant, reeking pools.

A berserker like Julian might be strong enough to push the trees together and bridge the gap between one bank and the other, but neither my squadmates nor I have that kind of power.

Even if we did, the trunk would be too sharp to walk across.

It’s useless. It’s—

The air catches in my lungs as I stumble forward, nearly falling flat on my face. Visceral rage has me balling my hands in frustration, but then I realize what tripped me. The purple vines are so thick here, it’s hard to see the coarse gravel beneath them. Of course.

Smirking, I grab a fistful of vines and heave, yanking them from the surface into a wadded ball. I slide my dagger from its sheath and begin cutting through it until it forms long, uniform lines, red liquid oozing onto the ground below. In the darkness, the spatters almost resemble blood.

Avra vines . I haven’t seen them since my tribe abandoned me. Since they used their juices to poison my tea. A small amount will help an elf sleep, but a large amount will ensure they never wake back up.

I grab one end of the vines and tie it around the largest boulder I can find.

Then, I take the other and snake it around a smaller stone at my feet—this one is heavy in its own right, but not so heavy it’s impossible to lift.

I give the smaller stone a few test throws, tossing it high into the air and catching it in my outstretched palm.

It fits snuggly there, the rough grooves solid and warm against my darkened skin.

This is going to work. It has to.

Across the riverbank, more spine trees line the way, their prickly silhouettes ill-defined in the pale light.

One eye open, I squint and assess, then line my body up into the most advantageous position.

Feet shoulder-width apart. Right foot forward.

I take a deep breath and exhale, rotating my entire body as I chuck the stone at their branches.

If I throw it hard enough, I should be able to catch it on the branches and form a rope-bridge to the other side.

Plop.

My stone splashes into the center of the river, flicking silver droplets in the air.

As the current carries it downstream, the vine draws tight, and my boulder anchors it in place.

Cursing under my breath, I trudge toward the boulder and begin pulling the vine’s slack hand over hand, grunting at the strain of it.

Sweat sticks to my forehead by the time that damn throwing rock is back in my hands.

A few more practice tosses. A few more real ones. Each attempt is more of the same. A failure.

My useless biceps ache with the effort. They’re too small, too weak to get that stone across. Julian could do it, I think bitterly. So could Cheevy and Chest Wound.

Moping won’t change reality, though. I’m small and so are my muscles. That’s why I use daggers over sabers, why my fighting style leans more toward agility and stealth rather than charging elgrew head-on. I’m fucking useless when it comes to stuff like this.

Maybe I don’t need strength, though. Maybe wit is enough.

Sitting on the hard gravel, I clutch the dripping rock to my chest, panting, thinking, my dagger discarded somewhere in the moist, tangled mat.

If only I could throw my blade and use it to anchor me.

The dagger is certainly small enough, light enough, and more aerodynamic.

It could make it across the river, but could it catch between the branches?

Could it dig into the bark deep enough to hold my weight?

Fuck it. I’ve come this far.

Too tired to search for my buried weapon, I unsheathe a new one. My nails dig into the throwing stone, unknotting and reknotting the vines around my dagger’s sleek black hilt. Groaning, I stand up one last time, line myself up to the nearest tree, and fling.

The dagger hits its mark, whistling through the air as fast as an arrow or throwing star. It dives between a set of dark branches, flipping horizontal to catch on either side. When I tug on the vine, the grip holds.

“Yes!” I pump my fist in victory, then yank a dozen more times for good measure.

Once I’m certain it won’t budge, I step into the chilly water, resisting a shiver as I grab the rope-vine and hold on tight, using it to anchor me even as the current lashes at my ankles, my calves, my thighs.

The gravel shifts beneath my feet and I nearly fall, lungs seizing as the water splashes up to my cuirass.

Shit!

I jump to keep from falling in, swinging my legs around the vine like I’m a sloth.

The makeshift rope bridge jiggles. The world flips upside down as I crawl hand over hand toward the other side of the bank, staring at the spine tree that holds my life in the balance.

My dagger’s dark hilt wobbles with each shimmy of my ankles, each tug of my hands. But it holds.

If the dagger slips, I can hug the rope and use the slack to pull myself to safety.

I’m not in any real danger so long as I don’t panic.

Still, a pit of dread fills my stomach, and I fist the vine so hard my blue knuckles turn almost white.

Goosebumps pebble every inch of me, and my teeth chatter as the chilly water mists my skin.

Halfway there.

Three quarters.

The deepest parts loom below, ready to swallow me whole. But I refuse to look down. I’m almost there. Just a few more feet and—

The vine snaps, and my body smashes into the icy river.

Cold seizes my chest as I slip under and drop the vine on reflex.

Arms thrashing, lungs burning, I resurface long enough to cough up mouthfuls of water and gasp for breath.

Water bobs around me, and my brows furrow when I see my dagger still wedged firmly in the tree.

As I slip through the current, my head swivels to the other side of the bank where Sarvenna stands at my boulder, her longsword braced against it. The line lies cut at her feet.

And then I fall back under.