Sullivan, the veteran fighter beside me, spits on the floor. “Filthy wretches,” he mutters. I toss him a raised brow—he nearly spat on my boot—but he just grins. Like me, he’s human. Unlike me, his skin is lighter and his hair is the color of faded straw. My skin is rich brown from all the time spent outside training, and my hair is black as tar—but both are just as dirty as Sullivan. His scraggly beard may be longer than mine, but it only barely covers the boils thickening his throat above his armor.
