The bell tolls across the courtyard and, for the first time since I arrived at Silverpaw, I think I might be late. Not by much—maybe three minutes, five at most—but in a place where lateness means weakness and weakness is just another word for prey, that’s enough to get the adrenaline thrumming in my wrists and jaw.
I tear through the east corridor, trying to make up time and silently cursing myself for going through the book on lineages one last time. Each step sends a shock through bruises that never had time to heal. My hands are bunched tight in the sleeves of my too-large uniform and the trousers bunch at my ankles, threatening to drag me down every time I try to sprint. My ribs, still bruised and battered from yesterday, throb in time with each step. The binding underneath the shirt
