Chapter 20 Not My Finest Hour
Not My Finest Hour
Lucian
C
onsidering the condition of Desdemona’s hand, I’d say her two middle fingers are broken and the index finger shattered. She winces as I finish wrapping the gauze around her wrist, but she doesn’t cry.
More remarkable than her lack of tears is that she stayed and fought with me against Leiana. She didn’t leave when I told her to run—when I fully believed she would take off the instant she rose.
Now, I meet her gaze. Beneath her glamour are the same eyes that killed my parents. Within her is the hot, fluid nature of the Arcanes—the very nature I felt in the room where my father was killed.
She feels exactly like them, yet not at all.
“How are your ribs?” I ask, cutting the last strip of gauze.
Desdemona’s cheeks redden. “I didn’t know you saw her kick me.”
I clear my throat, avoiding a response. I watched her the entire time. I know what Leiana would do to me; I have no idea what she would do to an Arcane. She couldn’t kill Desdemona, but she could keep her locked away for lifetimes. Perhaps that is what I must do once we bring Azaire back.
For now, I drag a hand across my chin, holding up the bandages. “Would you like me to wrap them?”
She opens her mouth and I’m sure she’s going to say no, as she’s already shaking her head. Once more, she surprises me. “Yes.”
We rise together, and I step behind her, gently tugging her hair over her shoulder, fingers grazing her neck.
I pull my hands away quickly, clearing my throat. Desdemona looks over her shoulder at me. Even if she doesn’t feel like an Arcane, she is one. I shouldn’t be mending her.
I should be breaking her.
“You’ve never untied a girl’s corset before,” she says with a grin. “Have you?”
Girl’s, she says, not lady’s, adding proof to what I read in her journal—she was raised septic. Perhaps this is all a calculation. If so, she’s playing it better than I am. I step closer, bringing my hands back to the laces of her corset.
“Not an Arcane’s, no,” I mutter, pulling the string with more strength than is required.
The bodice falls from her chest, leaving her in only undergarments.
My hands graze her skin, her power potent, drawing me in, and then reminding me of what that could cost. I look only at the gauze as I begin to wrap her ribs.
Desdemona raises her arm, her voice taunting as she says, “Now you have.”
“Our secret,” I say.
“Don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. I doubt many men untie corsets for broken ribs.”
“Your ribs aren’t broken.” I cut the gauze with a sigh. “Only bruised. Do you have anything else you’d like me to wrap?” I ask, my voice tighter than it should be. It’s difficult to touch her.
Harder still to turn away.
“No.” Desdemona pushes away from the table, and I let out a deep breath. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to take the distance I need.
Desdemona grabs the uniform she wore before we left for Ilyria, wincing as she tries to shrug the shirt on. I move next to her, gently pulling it over her ribs, careful not to touch her skin.
No matter what she is, I may need her.
She hadn’t used her magic against Leiana and still managed to get the upper hand.
She’s a useful ally, for the time being.
?
Later that week, Yuki and I walk past the glowing bonfires scattered through the woods, approaching our fighting ring, dug out of dirt. To my surprise, I pass many familiar faces—Calista, Aralia, and even Kai. None of them are in fighting gear or carrying weapons.
“Why are so many people here?” I ask.
Yuki glances around, appearing stunned. I know he’s anything but. He must have noticed the crowd the moment we entered.
“I have no idea,” he answers.
At first, when I fought Alec, only those who wanted to fight showed up. Slowly, an audience began to form, though never to this extent.
It seems our unruly fights have become well-known. They’re not particularly legal, mainly because we threw gambling into the mix.
Yuki has been the champion of nearly every fight. It’s either sword or fist, depending on the night, and no powers are allowed on the mat. Everyone who fights these days wants to try to best my advisor. I’m in second place, and people are just as eager to beat me.
He and I fight first. It’s how we kick things off now.
“No blades this time,” Yuki shouts, gesturing to the crowd. “A longer fight! What do you think about that?”
The audience cheers in response; Yuki’s quite good at riling people up.
Yuki wastes no time unsheathing his swords and throwing them to the ground. I do the same, adding mine to the pile and leaning into a fighting stance.
“Whenever you’re ready, mate.” Yuki smirks.
Yuki and I have fought thousands of times; I don’t hesitate to punch straight for his face. He smiles a bit—cocky—before twisting at the last possible second. He comes back at me fast, fighting with more pizzazz than usual. We have an audience, after all.
I stick with practicality, driving my fist into his gut.
“That was dirty,” he says with a grunt before sweeping a leg toward my feet.
I catch myself and swing right. He ducks and swings, both actions fast. He’s not going easy on me. He wants to win, just like me—but with a smile. I catch his wrist mid-swing and twist, using his momentum to flip him over my shoulder, breathing hard.
Yuki hits the ground hard. He doesn’t stay there. His hands plant firmly above his shoulders, and he jumps to his feet. Instantly, he’s punching—three in rapid succession. He lands two: one to my cheek, one to my gut. I kick the back of his knee, and he stumbles.
Sweat beads at my brow as I move behind him, bringing my arm around his neck.
“I’m out, I’m out,” he chokes. I begin to let him go, my chokehold loosening. His voice lowers as he says, “I surrender.”
My heart stops.
Azaire’s final words.
I’m in the hallway of the academy. Blood flows from Azaire’s body, filling the air with the scent of iron. The fatta scorpion’s stinger presses into my stomach. Azaire looks up, shaking his head. I can’t tell if he’s condoning my actions or condemning them.
“Luc-Lucian. Let me go.”
Azaire slowly fades away, like a reflection in rippling water. Gone forever, if I can’t bring him back.
I’m going to bring him back.
The woods materialize around me once more.
I glance down to where Azaire should be in my arms, but it’s Yuki’s face I meet, veins bulging in his forehead.
At once, I release his neck, and he recovers quickly, rising as he grabs my hand and raises it over our heads.
He smiles, as if I didn’t choke him for far too long.
The crowd remains unfazed. They clap and scream, with a few yelling nasty things along with my name: “King of nothing.” “Worthless Lyrian.” Others shout flirtatious nonsense.
I smile at the hollering people.
“Who’s next?” Yuki screams, shaking my hand in the air. “Who thinks they can take on the prince of Ilyria!”
Amidst all the screaming, I hear something unexpected.
“Desdemona does!” Fleur holds up Desdemona’s hand the same way Yuki holds up mine.
Desdemona frowns, shaking her head.
“I’ll put one hundred pence in for her name!” Fleur shouts.
The audience screams her name. She clenches her jaw. “Fine.”
She steps forward, taking Yuki’s place and standing before me.
As she rolls up her sleeves, it’s clear she didn’t dress for the occasion.
Still, she looks fierce. Vicious. Not a goddess of love, but a goddess of war, worthy of fear.
Her orange hair is tied into two braids.
She wears a long-sleeve white shirt, just barely see-through, and leather pants.
Pants from Eunaris—Fleur’s clothes.
Yuki shouts for us to start, though I can’t help but notice the freckles that scatter across her face.
They dust her sharp nose like they were painted on by hand, her lashes catching the light when she blinks.
I clench my fists, trying to muster the courage to fight her, but all I can manage to do is stare.
Then she punches me square in the nose.
I stumble back, blinking stars as warm blood flows into my mouth. Oh, she’s certainly broken it.
A goddess of love and war, indeed.
Mostly war.
But I’d kneel either way.
Another fist hits my face.
All right, then. I have to fight, and I convince myself I will do just that as I roll my shoulders, breathing heavily through my mouth. But even as I throw a punch, trying to use all my strength, I feel the lackluster of my movements.
Desdemona is back on me quickly—relentless—kicking my shin, my ribs, my chest. Each one lands like she means to break me.
In a different setting, I’d ask her to do it slower.
The next time she kicks, I catch her foot midair and yank. She falls hard on her knees. But before I can take a breath, she twists. Her legs snap around mine and pull. I topple to the ground, hitting my head against the mat. Desdemona gets up, crawls on top of me, and punches again.
She doesn’t stop.
Her face twists into something brutal, knuckles coming back bloodier with each strike.
I don’t even raise my arms to block, even as I know I should.
Her face blurs, as if disappearing, though someone remains on top of me. The same orange hair. The same fit of rage. A blurry image—a different scenario.
How many times have we done this?
I can’t hold onto the image for long. When the real Desdemona comes back into focus, she doesn’t seem to realize I’m under her. She’s lost, forgetting herself as she punches and punches. Perhaps in a hallucination—that must be it.
When Yuki hauls her off me at last, my blood stains her white shirt.
Desdemona shoves against Yuki, but he wrenches her arms behind her back, then hoists one overhead in triumph. The crowd cheers, likely glad the prince has finally been beaten by someone other than his advisor.
Soon, another boy meets Desdemona on the mat. She beats him in three minutes and looks just as angry as when she punched me.
Perhaps there was no hallucination.
?
When I make it back to my room, I collapse on my bed, my broken face healed by a Eunoia.
Broken by Desdemona’s hands.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and seeing her freckled face and determined eyes.
Our fight wasn’t a hallucination. She must have her reasons for hating me, reasons I cannot recall. I feel a pang in my heart, a deep desire to know what we went through, she and I—the truth of us. Did I really kiss her? Is that all I feel now: the residue of what was left unfinished?
I long to remember how well I knew her, how she knew me. There’s only so much to find in her journal entries. Only a fraction of one side of the story.
With a sharpened sense of purpose, I walk to the closet.
I intend to reach for the journal, yet my hands drift toward the silvers—once my father’s, each one steeped in my magic.
But my fingers close on nothing but air.
When I turn, a figure stands behind me, cloaked in darkness from head to toe.
Beneath its hood, the face is smooth, featureless, black, untouched.
The figure looms by my door as I rasp, “Who are you?”
At my sides, I summon shadows, but I’m too late. Unseen magic slips by before I can react. A numbness spreads through me, crawling under my skin. My limbs go heavy, my mind spirals, and my consciousness fizzles out like a match at sea.