Step One: The Lead
“Yes, ma’am...”
That was all Jacob Nitrozian said. The mighty leader of their faction, triumphant against all odds and tactical to a fault, had been interrupted from the midst of battle by two sad, obedient words. Beside his comrades, Victor watched in disbelief as his captain departed beneath the shadowy threshold of his home with the chastising slap of a mean old maid on the back of his shoulder. The door clicked behind him; the lock turned. And that was that.
“It’s not fair,” Darian Lark said first, harrumphing. “My mom lets me come in at nightfall, and the sky’s not even dark yet.” He said more than he told: he was one of four that participated in the battle that afternoon, nearly half of the soldiers fighting. It would not be over until they were called in, or until someone won—that happened less often than any of them would admit.
Their father was a slaver, or rather the man who hired slavers and men to sell their catch, earning his blood money from behind a polished mahogany desk. Darian was the youngest, a scrawny and scar-riddled eight-year-old after Victor’s own heart, eager to prove himself tough no matter what it took. Unlike Victor, he had the advantage of his other brothers’ two-faced protection, the kind that dictated only they could lay a finger on him. His sister, Emille, was as dirty and angry as any of her brothers in that late afternoon. She was twelve and they said she had become a woman, but she always insisted she wasn’t and she wasn’t that pretty, anyway. She was taller than all of them, their resident oaf.
They were the lesser two of Vernon Lark’s offspring, but they had done well in their roles as the proud and valiant Syliran Knights. Even when Jacob made them march out in the open, easy prey to the sneaking rival team that called themselves ‘Stryfe, they still pummeled their brothers with surprising alacrity when they finally came out of hiding.
Victor had always thought it was stupid. Why did their team have to be the enemy? Why did they have to pretend to be anyone, anyhow? None of them would ever amount to the distant and terrifying men of the Ebonstryfe, much less become the shiny, plucky knights that called themselves Ravok’s enemy. Victor felt foolish calling himself either.
His eyes fell from where they had glanced at the sky to the final member of their team, a surprisingly intuitive seven-year-old who was not even a member of the Lark family. If Ander Benzina had siblings, the Lark boys did not know of them. His parents worked in cloths and furs, and there was always a crow weighing on one of his shoulders, bigger than his head. He did not talk much, but whenever he did, people quieted to listen. Victor liked that about him, and he liked his bird. Ander’s mouth was hanging when Victor looked at him, as if he meant to say something. Victor stared directly at his hazel-green eyes and bent his brow. Somehow, that always made them talk.
“Victor’s second-in-command,” Ander said, staring back at the other boy and sinking into himself a little. “Jacob said so. That means he’s the captain now.”
Victor’s expression did not change as he considered what that meant. He only looked away from Ander when Darian spoke again. “Yeah. You have to tell us how to do.”
“He already does that anyway,” Emille rumbled, docking her pudgy hands on her waistless waist.
“No, I don’t!” Victor retorted, “I just give him ideas, which is more than any of you can say!”
Darian was as unperturbed as ever by his sister and her objections. “Victor, I want to be in front of the party this time. Can I—”
“We’re not going to walk out onto Nautica like it’s some circus parade. That’s dumb.” His hands had risen from his sides, but only barely, full of strength in irritation. That seemed to silence them both for a few seconds, long enough for Victor to realize that his heart was beating too fast. His hands fell again and he glared pensively at the ground. Darian’s loose tongue was the first to interrupt him.
“Then what do we—”
“Shut up. I’m thinking.”
