Chapter 4
Caster Shield /kast?r-SHēld/ noun
An invisible forcefield surrounding a vesseled caster in which only a bonded spirit can enter.
The place where a spirit and caster come together to draw upon their bonded power.
—Definition from The Zo Lexicon
Ipunch and kick a white leather bag, dangling from a chain, until my knuckles are bloody. It won’t help me win my last level-five duel in forty minutes, but it curbs my rage from today’s execution, so I won’t lose control of my temper in the ring.
Liha will be dropping in any minute. I have no doubt her little ball of energy is floating around the coliseum, taking note of all the new fashions sported by the wealthier spectators.
She’ll be upset that I’m still in my execution dress and it’s torn up the leg now. She liked this one.
Another right hook sends a shudder through the white bag, dangling above a red marble floor. I breathe in, ignoring my guards stationed near the steel door of my royal dueler suite. Their gazes continually sweep the massive room full of weights and weapons on one side, and plush furniture, a dressing room, and a food table on the other.
I deliver a spray of punches as a flash of the earlier execution burns through my mind.
My arms are a blur in front of me when a young, spindly servant assigned to my suite rushes in, jolting my guards. All seven guards have their swords pointed at him, blocking the entrance. The servant curses, pointing to his security card pinned to his red, leather uniform, before my guards recede. He hastens over to me as seven swords slip into their holsters, a grazing sound of metal on metal filling the room.
The servant takes hold of the punching bag as I lay into it, yelling as I hit. My bloody knuckles leave smeared kisses across the white leather.
“Are you nervous?” The kid has a coy set to his lips, but his light eyes remain downcast from mine.
He’s either new or has a death wish because he’s not supposed to talk.
“No,” I growl as my fist connects with the dense leather, jolting him off balance. He’s definitely new.
His gaze finds my thigh between the torn strips of my black dress, and he smirks. “My brother doesn’t think you’ll last a minute once you reach the level-six circuit if you win today.”
I pull my black dagger fastened at my thigh, from under the dress’s new leg slit—courtesy of this training session—and deliver a punch-kick-dagger combo. The bag vibrates, emitting a satisfying ripping sound in my dagger’s wake.
He eyes the tear with an air of brooding mischief and readjusts. “My brother would report you for that,” he says.
I eye his red attire, which has a little dragon emblem on the shoulder. He’s from the Zem Kingdom, which explains his bold, cocky mouth.
“Your brother must be an arrogant Zem asshole,” I say.
That might be the only thing that transcends social statuses in the three kingdoms.
I stab the leather between his fingers, and he jerks his hand back. He doesn’t deserve to lose a finger, but once daggers and rage are involved, it’s a slippery slope for me. He rubs his hand, grinning like a cat.
“That’s exactly why I bet him you’d win today. I even bet him you’d last one round in the King’s Duel Tournament if you decide to enter.”
The King’s Duel Tournament—a blood bath for level-six duelers, which I’ll be after I win today. It only comes around on moonless winters, so this year is my only shot. If I want to make a change in this kingdom, I have to win it.
Left, right, kick, dagger.
“If you like your head attached to your shoulders,” I say between ragged breaths, “learn how to be silent.” I won’t kill this servant, but my father will.
His eyes regain their arrogant air, a sly question lingering behind them as his mouth opens, then closes.
“Just ask,” I snap.
He positions the bag to cover more of his torso. “You are going to enter the King’s Duel, aren’t you?”
Nosy Zems. I take a deep breath, and count as I let it out, reminding myself that he is not the cause of my ill temper. “Yes.”
I have no alternative. Since I’m the chosen heiress of Zarr, I am subject to the betrothal law, and winning the tournament is the only possible way for me to get out of it. The winner gets a gift of their choosing bestowed by the three kings. My father hasn’t announced my suitor yet, but whoever he chooses won’t agree with what I’m going to do when I’m queen. No one in the higher classes will. I may not have asked for this throne, but I intend to make the best of it.
Which begins with rebuilding trust with the rebels, among other risky things.
Dagger, spin, jump, kick.
“You better find another duel suite,” I say upon landing. “My father doesn’t tolerate chatty help.”
His eyes dart to the door, surrounded by guards, then back to the high slit in my dress, and swallows. “But—”
I throw my dagger at where he’s gripping the bag. It sinks through the leather and against his hand, leaving a bright-red slice on his finger.
His mouth snaps shut, and my guards part, allowing him to leave.
Liha’s invisible, but palpable, spirit feathers into the room and settles into my caster shield, humming around me like an invisible cloak of energy.
“Ready to warm up our power before your duel?” she asks, her voice like tinkling bells inside my mind.
She knows why I never wanted to be a caster. Spirit power is addictive, intoxicating, and runs the risk of accidental possession, but everyone in the three kingdoms sees nothing but prestige and possibilities. They don’t care that there are risks involved.
“Father will force us to warm up our power when he gets here,” I project through our bond.
My father. Liha doesn’t understand why I still resent him for forcing the vessel ring on me. Her soft, airy presence nudges the dagger in my clenched fist, like a warm draft, with slightly more substance than the rest of the air around me. It’s her way of comforting me.
I close my eyes, squeezing the hilt tighter. Even though I never wanted a bond spirit, Liha’s big heart—smothered beneath her fiery attitude—has grown on me over the years, and I’ve come to love her close friendship. Even if she was a prestige-seeking princess from the Heshena realm in her past life.
Oftentimes, she’s all I have.
A duel referee, sporting the colors of the three kingdoms—black, red, and white—knocks, opens the door, and peeks his head into our suite, holding up two fingers, and a fist.
“Twenty minutes ‘til go time,” he says before bowing out again.
Father enters soon after, his infantry general, Sorren, not on his heels for once. He glances at the punctured, bloody bag, then at me, still in my torn execution dress.
“You’re angry,” he says.
I ram my blade into the bag with a backward jab, halting its sway before ripping it out
again.
He smiles and for once, it touches his eyes. “The noblemen who fund this place don’t like when you put holes in their punching bags.”
I scoff. He doesn’t care what anyone likes.
He signals for my guards to leave the room and, once they’re gone, he walks over to me, his eyes clear. I swallow against the tightness in my throat. It’s such a rarity for him to be sober, but I know better than to fall for this ever-shrinking version of him. Sometimes I wonder if anyone else understands what it’s like to feel both unconditional love and such deep hatred for the same person.
He reaches up to touch my face but when I flinch, he has the nerve to look hurt. His voice thickens with some gravelly emotion I don’t care to identify.
“Ask me why I kill the rebels.”
My fingers strangle the matte-black dagger in my hand, but I keep my mouth shut, holding back waves of rage and fear from what he’s put me through these last few years.
He shakes his head, a small twitch on his lips beneath his stark white goatee. “So stubborn,” he says, a gleam in his unnaturally youthful face, as if he’s proud of that stubbornness. “I kill them,” he says “because the rebels want to wipe our blood off the throne, and I will not pass that problem on to you. Everything I do is to protect you.” “Don’t lie to me,” I hiss.
Protect me. Is that what he calls it when he loses his temper? When he leaves bruises around my neck?
Breathe. I am an adult. I shouldn’t allow him to control my emotions this much, but here I am. The air zigzags in a warm pocket around me. It’s Liha, uncharacteristically quiet for once, unable to hover in one spot when I get confrontational.
Regret washes over my father’s face as my accusation hangs in the air between us. I know it’s regret in those black eyes because I see it every time he wipes away the scars he’s caused me. The cuts, the bruises, the black eyes . . . Gone. They disappear with a wave of his power. The pain of them remains, even if no one can see them.
“I may not always show it, but I care. You’re the only weakness I have, Nizzara.”
“I am not a weakness.” I am not some soft spot, or liability that needs to be hidden. He’s made sure of that.
“You are,” he says, his temple vein popping. The first sign of his temper. “Caring for people is the biggest weakness one can have.”
“Is that why you took Tian from me?” I ask, angry tears threatening. I’ve never brought it up, but in my bones, I know it was Father who ordered my friend’s execution in Zo.
Father stiffens. “Caring for people is unacceptable. It makes you vulnerable.”
I lift my chin, defying his paralyzing gaze. “Then you should rid me of yourself while you’re at it.”
He closes his eyes, which are so much like mine, and balls his fists. Dark, oily power falls from them, traversing the red floor between us. When he opens his eyes again, they’re the hard, malevolent things I’m accustomed to. He backs away, calls my guards in, and orders me to warm up my vessel power.
“Again,” he commands, folding his arms.
Tiny black gems woven into his black uniform sleeves, glisten as he does. Typical Zarr fashion, too showy. Just like the glo gems overhead instead of electricity, or the exquisite gran-stone table loaded with the finest meats on the far end of the suite. Meat I won’t eat. Sweat rolls down my forehead now, sticking white strands of loosened hair to my face.
“Your faux-hawk braid is all messy now,” Liha sniffs, her spirit filling my vesseled hand with pink smoke as she hovers at my shoulder.
“What ever will I do?” I say, releasing our power upon an eighty-pound disk. It lifts an inch into the air and slides a foot above the stone floor before our power snuffs out and the iron weight clinks to the polished floor.
She flicks my nose, a quick puff of warm air against my skin, before she says, “Our power is still growing. That’s rare from what I’ve heard.”
I scoff. “I wouldn’t know.”
“I’m sure your father has good reasons for hiding the more detailed knowledge of vessels from you. Besides, knowing more than the basics makes you look scholarly.” Her invisible pocket of charged air shudders as if appearing scholarly is worse than an unsightly nose.
“The basics?” I say, ignoring Father’s pointed gaze. “I want to know more than how to fling daggers around! I want to know where the vessels came from, what they’re forged of, and how they are able to bond souls. I want to know what determines who gets a unique Mark like we have, what makes this power so addictive, and how possessions happen.”
I leave out that I’ve filed away bits and pieces of vessel history throughout the years, like how the first sign of possession is when a caster loses control over their casts. I want to know why Father allows me to have one, but not learn of its workings.
Unfortunately for me, many casters share Liha’s opinion on learning. They see power and take it without question. The Zos are the only exception, but they hoard their knowledge like the Zems hoard their riches.
Her energy shudders above my head. “Don’t speak of nasty things like possessions.”
I deliver a narrow side-eye toward her invisible presence. “Why not? For all I know you’re turning me into your mindless, possessed minion as we speak.”
She sniffs. “I’m not dignifying that accusation with a response.”
It’s not so much that I want to learn about vessels specifically. I want to learn about everything. Knowledge is an addiction, and books are my drug of choice.
“Next.” Father points to the hundred-pound weight beside the one I just moved.
I straighten, folding my arms. “That’s too heavy.”
He breathes through his nose before saying, “You won’t survive level six if you don’t bolster your training. Now, move the weight.”
I swallow. Level-six competitors are drastically better, and death blows are legal. The King’s Duel festivities begin in a few short weeks, which means I’ll only get one duel in the level-six circuit before the tournament.
Father points to the heavy weight on the marbled floor. “Now.”
In answer, Liha musters up another wave of power. It builds inside my veins like too- much energy trapped beneath a too-flimsy lid, waiting for me to release it into the world.
I breathe through the sensation, fully understanding why casters will bond a vessel with so few questions. The feel of power inside my veins is a specific kind of high. I close my eyes against it and ground myself with facts I’ve collected about vessels.
All bonded casters wield moving power over lifeless objects. Objects, not living things.
Liha’s bubbly energy zaps and sparks through me. I breathe again, working to remain grounded in my thoughts.
When a spirit and caster are compatible, a unique gift can surface between them, called a Mark. Liha and I have one, just a small trick of light. The possibilities of Marks are limitless.
“Nizzara,” Father warns.
Liha’s warm, tingling power begs for release, so I open my palm and direct it at the hundred-pound weight. Our power wobbles a corner up before it snuffs out, clinking the weight to the white-and-red marble floor.
“Stop holding back,” Liha says, knowing we have far more than this.
I’m sure if I can feel the vast expanse waiting to be tapped into, so can she.
Father’s eyes drill into me as he stands, feet spread, and chin high. “Unacceptable. Do it again and do it better.”
After fifteen minutes of me shirking my power and sensing Liha’s growing annoyance around me, the duel ref returns with the five-minute signal. I reach for the fighting leathers draped over the velvet ottoman near the dressing room. Like with all my attire, Liha picked them out. Skin-tight leather, black spikes, gold stitching, and loaded with daggers.
I step toward the dressing curtain.
“Nizzara,” Father signals for a guard to take my fighting leathers.
We’ve fought about this already. He wants me to showcase my dimensional abilities before I enter the level-six circuit to reestablish my reputation as a powerful dueler instead of a scrappy brawler. And much to Liha’s excitement, he believes an outfit swap will be the most memorable.
Of course, Brunar, the head of my guard, is quick to obey, avoiding my pointed stare as he tugs the material from my fingertips, his silver Military Vessel forcing him to obey my father’s orders.
“Put them on the ottoman,” Father instructs Brunar before his black irises zero in on me. “You will not shy from your power any longer. You will demonstrate your ability with dimensions, and they will fear you for it.”
My teeth clench as I suddenly become too aware of the seven beastly guards encircling me, all sporting silver vessels.
Father’s jaw feathers. “And make sure to use your vessel after the bell. We don’t want a repeat of last year.”
A bunch of cart cow shit. That was last year. Apparently, it’s actually illegal to beat a dueler without using vessel power. I was knocked back thirty-two wins on my record. Part of me liked the delay toward level six, but the competitive fire inside me loathed it.
My fists curl at my sides, and I take a calming breath like my anger-management books are so keen to lecture on, but my response comes through gritted teeth. “Fine.”
The duel ref returns, signaling for me to follow.
My guards fall in around me as we walk through the dark halls, lit with red glo stones. From levels above me, the voracious crowds scream and chant over angry electric guitar and mad-drum music, thudding like the heartbeat of this bloodthirsty building.
We climb until the music and chanting is so loud, I can’t hear the ref when he calls to me.
I read his lips, though. “The ring is ready.”
He eyes my torn dress, opening his mouth to say something, but I push past him, and my guards block him out by their sheer size.
My opponent from the Zo Kingdom is already waiting for me, dressed in their customary white. Their symbol of purity and knowledge. This is the scene I’ve been entering repeatedly for the last two years: a round duel ring centered on the floor and surrounded by spectators. Its posts are red, its ropes white, and mat black, signifying the three remaining kingdoms. This coliseum is new, so it doesn’t sport the silver of the fourth kingdom, and it doesn’t have electricity like the older, level-six Megadome.
Chants fade to murmurs, as fingers point at my gown from above. The music fades to its lowest, building up to an inevitable beat drop, so I call Liha’s charged energy. It fills my veins once again, and when I release it, pink smoke swirls high and thick around me. Under the cover of smoke, in a matter of seconds, our power moves my fighting leathers from their place in my dueler suite, through a dimensional portal, and replaces my dress with gold-tipped spikes.
As the beat drops like a realms-damned hammer, my smoke falls away to reveal my leathers. The Zo nobleman’s jaw slackens, and the crowd explodes. The call to challenge buzzes throughout my entire body. I may be softer than my father, but I’m no less competitive.
As I catch my sister’s gaze narrowed on me from the royal box, Father climbs up to the ropes behind me and leans over. “If you don’t duel like you’re supposed to, you’ll be punished. No more level-five shit.”
My hands curl into dried, bloody fists as he detaches from the ropes and returns to our box. Punching the leather bag took the edge off, but my rage is potent and constant, just like his. I loathe it about myself.
The bell rings.
“Our outfit change doesn’t count as a vessel move,” Liha reminds me, because she knows how I get once my daggers are out.
“I know.”
My opponent circles me, flipping long white daggers in showy spins before shooting one toward my chest with a puff of purple smoke from his Second-Made Vessel. I flip over it, an arc of pink smoke trailing me as I slice a portal in space and time, stealing the dagger from its spot midair beneath me, and portal it across the ring, sinking it through the Zo’s thigh. The realization of how fast my dimensional abilities are takes over his tan face, and he curses as blood blossoms to the surface of his leg.
“That language isn’t very Zo-like,” Liha says.
The corner of my lip twitches. “No, it’s not.”
Beating opponents into a bloody pulp and being a decent human is the sharp edge I balance on. Violence and vessel power, mixed together, are a very heady, dangerous combination for me.
After regaining his ever-calm expression, unique to Zos’, my opponent fires a spray of daggers laced in purple smoke. They fly at me in a V-formation, just like the strange aircrafts from other realms. Not that I’ve seen them, but I’ve read about them.
I use my daggers to deflect his.
Spin, clink, step, clink. Jump, spin, clink, clink.
He throws his last dagger, and I catch it an inch from my nose, its blade slicing through my hand, wiggling as he drives it further with his power. He’s not allowed to use killing blows here in level five, but the refs will only penalize him after I die. I grip harder as the dagger slips further.
The bloodthirsty crowd is chanting for more and it slides again, blood slipping out of my fingers.
“Just use our magic so you don’t die, or worse, scar your face,” Liha scolds, pouring that addictive power into me as pressure builds against the blade.
I angle the inching dagger up, just enough so when I duck forward with a roll, it grazes my thick braid. By the time it sinks into the duel post behind me, I’m already on top of him, hooking my arm around his neck and using my body weight to slam him down.
My raw knuckles screech in pain as I reopen the fresh wounds with a rapid three-four punch combo to his face. Before I know it, my hand has a dagger in it. I slash it through the air and plunge it into the crook of his elbow, earning a bitten-off howl of pain.
He calls one of his fallen daggers from across the ring and sinks it into my shoulder. Pain erupts down my back, webbing out from the blade. A shriek escapes my lips, and he grins up at me, his teeth bloody from my fists. I battle-cry, smashing my fist into his face, and flattening his nose. He screams. Such a terrible, beautiful sound.
The gold-and-black shape from the spirit dimension flickers at the edges of my sight, as it usually does when I get too worked up for too long. I try to calm myself, but my opponent, thrashing and bleeding beneath me, calls another fallen dagger. Its white blade sinks into my side, twisting as it goes. Fire ignites up my torso as his fist surges up toward my jaw. I dodge his blow, catch his arm, and wrench his shoulder into submission, forcing him to roll to his stomach. Jerking his arm into an unnatural angle over my thigh, I crank his elbow the wrong way.
“Tap,” I growl.
His power yanks the dagger out of my shoulder only to slam it back in, inflaming the fire through my back. It takes all my control not to reach for Liha’s power. If I touch that power with this much rage, I”ll drive every last blade through his flesh.
I wrench his arm harder. “Tap!”
“I do not submit to usurpers!” he cries from under the bone-splitting tension I’m loading on his elbow.
“Have it your way.” I break his arm over my knee with a sickening crack, and his eyes roll to the back of his skull. I can’t tell if the scream came from him or the thousands of spectators.
The victory bell rings, and the massive crowd chants my name.