Unach grunts. “Deccor housing. At least the deck will be reconstructed to a higher standard.”
Fear, my familiar friend, trickles back into my blood.
Hadn’t Perg been working in Deccor housing?
Azmar sniffs. “If the joists we’d asked for had been approved, there would have been no structural damage, at least.”
Unach waves off his concern with a flick of her hand. “I’ve every confidence in you.”
“Were there casualties?” I murmur.
Both siblings glance my way. “Not among the slayers,” Unach says.
“But in the city?”
“We won’t know until morning.” Azmar’s brow lowers. “What’s wrong?”
I lick my lips. “Perg was working in Deccor housing today.”
“The half-breed?” Unach asks, then laughs. When neither of us joins her, she sobers. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s survived worse.”
I wonder what she means by that, then remember Perg’s other task for the day—training to fight for a higher caste. Maybe he made it to the training hall before the attack.
“You’re right. He’s probably fine.” I smooth my unease as best as I can before glancing at Azmar. “At least with the breach, you won’t have to work on the addition right away.”
His lip quirks at that, and it pleases me that my attempt at humor struck home. Then I dip away, silently stepping into the cool outer hallway. This late, there’s no competition for the lift, and I make it to my room quickly. I’m tired, but it’s a sleepiness deep in my bones that doesn’t quite touch my skin. Taking a floral cake from my rations, I lie down on my cot. The quiet of the place eases the clutter of my thoughts and saps out the stress of the day’s events.
I rest for some time and whisper prayers of gratitude, for Azmar’s resiliency and kindness, for Colson’s being spared, for my and Unach’s safe return. But as I stare out my slip of a window, thoughts of Perg nag at me again. What if he hadn’t been evacuated before the monster broke through Deccor housing? What if another trollis enacted a cruel joke and locked him away somewhere, leaving him as fodder for the beast?
Would the gods be so cruel as to take away my friend so soon after allowing me to call him that?
Needing to know for myself, I slip out of my narrow quarters and head toward the lift. The night I spent sneaking about the city pulses fresh in my mind and body, but I don’t think I can sleep without confirming Perg’s well-being. Perg said I wouldn’t be allowed on the training grounds, but with nearly all the trollis recovering from the attack, there might not be anyone nearby to complain—at least, none of the human task force, or so I hope. I’ll stay away from the enclave, just to be safe.
If I can just see Perg, or find some evidence to attest to his welfare, I’ll be happy to fall asleep and leave the rest alone.
I pass through a corner of the market, trying to make myself small and unseen, noticing the same subdued activity as the night I snuck off to the schoolyard. No humans out. More importantly, no Grodd. I glance about for witnesses as I head down the corridor that I’m sure leads to the training ground, but the only trollis nearby are tucked away in an alcove behind a shop, thoroughly exploring one another’s mouths. I blush and hurry on my way.
Clearly trollis express affection the same way humans do. And their tusks don’t get in the way, either.
The corridor widens abruptly, and it ends in a doorway, unlike the other city cavities I’ve visited. It’s unlocked, and I peek inside.
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!”