Chapter 2: The Salt in the Wound

The chow hall was a pressure cooker. I sat at the end of a long plywood table, picking at a tray of beef stew. I kept my head down, my sleeves rolled tight to my wrists.

Suddenly, a heavy tray slammed down directly across from me. Thorne.

"Hey, Witch," he said. "You’re awfully quiet today. You trying to summon a storm?"

I didn't answer. I took a slow sip of lukewarm water.

"You know," Thorne leaned in, his grin widening as his buddies gathered around. "We were thinking. If you’re so good at hexing things, why don't you hex this food into something edible?"

He reached for a salt shaker, but his hand "slipped." He knocked a full glass of iced tea directly toward me. The cold liquid surged across the table, soaking into my sleeves. I jerked back, but Thorne reached out with a handful of rough napkins, aggressively scrubbing at my jawline.

"Stop it!" I hissed, shoving his hand away.

I stood up and ran straight into the chest of Captain James. He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. He looked at my disheveled uniform and the tea dripping from my sleeve. He looked past me at Thorne, who was still smirking.

"Is there a problem here?" James’s voice was flat.

"Just an accident with the tea, Sir," Thorne said casually.

James simply glanced at the mess. "Clean it up, Thorne." Then he looked at me. "And you, Ramírez—go to the latrine and fix yourself. You’re a soldier, not a victim. If you can’t handle a little mess in the chow hall, you aren’t going to handle the valley."

He stepped aside, letting me pass. As I hurried away, I heard him mutter to the sergeant beside him about "boys being boys." The humiliation was worse than the tea. He hadn't defended me. He had just accepted it as the cost of my presence.