Lost in a daydream in which Juuyu and Hallow were sent to extract him, Sinder nearly missed his cue.
Torloo crisply asked, “Do you understand?”
“We do,” the reavers answered in unison. All eyes swung to Sinder.
He smiled and said, “Blink.” And then he sprang away, knowing it would seem as if he’d vanished. Not because he wanted to impress them. That had been a warning. The only one they’d get.
Their orders were simple. Scatter. Search. They had one hour to find him.
In preparation, Torloo had given them each two bandanas—one green, one red. Every rookie went in with the green one knotted around their forehead and the red one in their pocket.
The next several minutes were more entertaining than most Sinder spent in the woods.
He wasn’t often deployed in this manner. It really wasn’t sporting. Wrapping up early, he returned to Torloo’s side.
“How many did you get?” He slipped his hand into Sinder’s.
“Not all,” he admitted. A few of the rookies had Kith companions. “Most, though.”
Torloo’s big blue eyes never wavered from his face. “Most dislike you.”
Sinder fluted disconsolately. “Can you blame them?”
“I might.” The young wolf’s hand tightened. “You are here to help them.”
“I’ve just humiliated them.” He gently extracted his hand, for the battlers were approaching, reporting back. “Let me goad them on. You be their ally.”
As the battlers regrouped, Torloo split their ranks. Only five retained their green bandanas. Confusion and consternation radiated from the rest.
“Is this some kind of trick?” asked one.
“It was a massacre,” said Torloo. “Everyone wearing red was either compromised or killed.”
“I never saw him!” protested one, then another.
“You do not remember seeing him,” said Torloo. “None of them ever do.”
A hand lifted. “How did he switch them out?”
“He did not,” said Torloo. “You did it yourself.”
“No way.”
Others shook their heads, muttered protests. But the proof was all around them.
“Tell us how it was done,” urged one of the battlers whose green bandana was like a badge of honor. Sinder had noticed him a time or two. Best of the bunch, and not simply because of his feline companion. The patch at his shoulder read Michaelson.
Torloo smiled at him, and his tail lifted. Like he knew the guy. “Your prey is a dragon, and dragons have a way with words. When he told you to switch colors, you thought it was a good idea. When he told you to forget you had met him alone in the woods, you did as you were told.”
“And it works on anyone?” asked Michaelson.
“Amaranthine and humans,” said Torloo. “But not Kith, which is why partnership is an asset.”
“Can we protect ourselves?”
“Yes.” With that, Torloo spun off into an orderly explanation of the next phase of their training. Michaelson’s questions encouraged others to speak up or interject. And if Sinder didn’t miss his guess, that was the guy’s intent. Because he got the impression that Reaver Michaelson already knew the answers.
He’d bear watching, that one.
Now that they had guidance, the rookies improved. Torloo introduced them to the survival tactics they’d need for the chase they’d be joining. Like working in twos and threes, so every reaver had eyes on their back. And learning tracker lingo, a verbal code that allowed them to communicate without tipping off eavesdroppers.
Those with Kith partners had the best survival rate, which hammered through the obvious. And put their futures into new perspective. To succeed, they needed to form alliances. Torloo brought in a group of Dimityblest scribes to guide the battlers through the application process for a Kith partner. Those who excelled over the summer could find themselves in a pairing program this autumn.
Talk about motivation.
Torloo decided they were ready for night maneuvers.
Sinder was finally forced to stay on his toes. His pursuers were getting better at limiting his options. Careful steps and the musical hum of crystals. Gruff commands in code and the eerie howl of wolves on the scent.
Torloo had brought two Kith with him. Torn and Yang were a matched set—light brown, blue eyed, and big enough to look a grown man in the eye. The wolves were packmates, companions, and bodyguards. Or possibly babysitters. Not that the kid needed babying.
No doubt Adoona-soh felt better knowing her youngest wasn’t alone. Few wolves embraced a loner’s status. But Sinder was in a position to know that Torloo’s buddies probably weren’t a gift from his mom. They’d been selected by his sire, for they had the Trebellair coloring.
Everyone was in fine form tonight. The encircling ranks were driving him toward a narrow place, likely in hopes of penning him in. It might have worked if they’d had the support of wards, but most battlers sucked at barriers.
Sinder streaked through the trees, circumventing the bulk of their ranks. Slowing to a stroll, he listened carefully, alert to movement in the treetops. One of the reavers had an owl Kith, and she was a regular stealth fighter. Hisoka should bring in more for support. It’d be in Sinder’s next report.
Something hit him. Not hard, but not in a good way.
He’d been made.
Bolting away, Sinder strained his senses for the position of his pursuer. It should have been easy. Even if a reaver was warded, their stones and sigils whispered in ways that every dragon knew. For sigils were written upon the wind, resonating with the songs of stones. But Sinder was at a loss. And that meant he wasn’t dealing with a warded battler.
There’d been a ward in the ranks after all.
Sinder leapt into a tree and quickly shed his tunic to check the back. A sigil shimmered against the cloth. Probably a tracer. He left it there and fled through the treetops. Which smacked of desperation, but it was also Sinder’s best out.
Quick, but less quiet than he would have liked. And far from graceful.
Leaves smacked. Twigs scratched. Bark bit. Pausing to listen, he peered back over his shoulder and caught the telltale gleam of a sigil creeping over pale skin.
He hung his head and wished—not for the first time—for Juuyu.
His partner made short work of any form of sigilcraft.
This was exactly why Hisoka frowned on solo missions. And why Boon was in deep shit. And why Sinder needed to either shed his skin—not ideal—or go to ground. Camouflaged, there was a slim chance he could outlast the night.
Right then, a wave of dizziness washed over him. A moment later, he hit the ground, and pain lanced through his side. Sucking in a shallow breath, he forced his way onto his feet and focused on a silent retreat.
Was his pursuer aware that he was flightless? That little detail was not on the approved lesson plan. With wavering steps, he made for one of the grottoes he’d located during earlier reconnoiters. Not the best of bolt holes, but it was closest, and that’s what counted.
Sinder crawled through a rocky narrow, tumbling into a den with an earthen floor. Perhaps it had once belonged to wildcats or wolves. It might have been a good hideaway if he wasn’t so certain that the sigil that continued to spread was beckoning to its crafter.