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I thought Engineering was immense, but it’s nothing compared to these training grounds, which confirms where the trollis place merit.It’s enormous and layered—I can see a second and third floor above me. They don’t meet the wall overhead, but end short of it, with guardrails to section it off. There are more doors and several sparring arenas. Much to my luck and relief, I see a familiar face in the very first one.
I close the door quietly behind me. Perg is shirtless, save for two leather straps across his torso, similar to what the noncombat guards wear. In the yellow lighting of the lamps, his skin looks more tan than green. Remarkably human. I wonder what his father looked like.
He swings a long-handled war axe with practiced grace in a series of memorized movements that repeat after every eighth swing. He is utterly remarkable with it, so much so that his movements look like a dance.
I wait, to avoid startling him. When he lowers the axe, his shoulders heaving with effort, I whisper, “Perg!”
He whirls around, sweat glistening on his face and chest. Confusion scrunches his features. “Lark?”
I wave a little awkwardly. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but ... the monster attacked Deccor housing. I wanted to make sure you’d gotten out.”
His brow relaxes, and I almost think a little pink lights his cheeks, though with their trollis tint, it’s hard to discern. “I ... did.” He lowers the axe head to the ground. “I’m surprised you remembered where I’d be.”
I shrug. “I asked earlier, because I cared.” After glancing over my shoulder, I take a few steps toward him. “Perg, I know you’re a Nethens and I’m only a human—”
He laughs. “You sayNethenslike it’s some great feat.” His humor evaporates, and he knocks the axe handle between his hands. “It’s not.”
“Regardless.” I splay my hands before me as though I have something to offer him. “You’ve been kind to me when others were not. I was hoping we could be friends.”
He raises a brow. “Friends.”
I lower my hands. “I wouldn’t ... tell anyone.”
“It’s not that.” He shakes his head. “It’s just ... well, no one’s ever made the offer before. Not so forthrightly, at least. Even the Plebs don’t care for me.”
Feeling bold, I say, “I care for you. Or I will, if you’ll let me.”
The expression on his face, though it lasts only half a breath, is so pained and vulnerable that I feel tears come. Something so childlike swims through it, so innocent.
“I would like that, Lark.”
I smile. “Good. I don’t mean to interrupt you. I should get some rest for tomorrow.”
“Perhaps I’ll see you in the marketplace.”
I nod. “Perhaps.”
Lighter on my feet, I turn back for the doors. I’ve nearly reached them when Perg calls, “Lark.”
I hesitate.
Letting the axe handle fall to the floor, he crosses over to me. He is immensely wide and tall, and yet his size fails in comparison to a full-blooded trollis. He reaches to his belt and pulls a sheathed dagger from it. It’s a reasonable size for human hands.
“Here.” He hands it to me. “I don’t want to worry about you, either.”
Stunned, I take the gift. The craftmanship is unelaborate but solid. I owned a small knife before coming to Cagmar, but the guards who captured me on the bridge must have taken it, for I haven’t seen it since then.
“Humans aren’t allowed to carry these,” I whisper.
“Then don’t let anyone see you with it.”
I clutch the dagger to my chest. I wonder, if Perg knew what I really was, whether he’d be so ready to befriend me. Or arm me. “Thank you.” I pause. “Perg, what’s your birth year?”
He tilts his head. “941, why?”
“Merces, the wren. Adaptable, quick, persistent. It suits you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What are you jabbering about?”
