CHAPTER 20 #2
I nod, the number 317 turning over again in my mind.
I’m low, but not as low as Miss Linwood.
I want to help her, yet part of me keeps wondering whether she was one of the students who wanted me dead when I arrived, one of the pro-Bliss voices that cheered as I fled like a rat from a snake to survive.
Even the loudest screamers are smiling now, their friendliness painted on like stage makeup.
“How do you handle the fakeness?” I ask. “People hating you one day and wanting to be your friend the next?”
“I’m a politician, honey. Being diplomatic is my job.
” Dad presses a shoulder against the elevator wall and loosens his tie with a sigh.
“Your mom and I sheltered you girls growing up. We wanted you to know what life was like without the pressure you’re feeling right now.
But the world doesn’t work that way for everyone, and there were things we couldn’t prepare you for.
This is one of them. Now you’re seeing how most of the Civilized World lives, Loredana.
Nothing is guaranteed. Every day is a game you have to learn to win.
You don’t have to like these people, but you do want them to like you.
You’ll be at Grandmaster for six years. In that time, you’re going to need allies. ”
I realize Dad is speaking from experience. If he struck back at every politician who knifed him in the back, he wouldn’t have a political career. Or worse, he’d be dead.
“You’re doing the right thing by accepting invitations,” he continues. “Do it regularly. It’ll take effort most days, but you might surprise yourself. You might even make real friends who can help you.”
Dad steps out of the elevator, murmurs to one of his aides, then turns back to his phone.
“And about Miss Linwood,” he adds, “if you don’t have civil credits to spare, don’t spare them. It isn’t easy watching people struggle, but this is the way the world is, honey, until we change it.”
After I thank Dad for the advice, he ends the call to head into a policy briefing.
I walk back to the Green Dormitory, still thinking about Miss Linwood and how even her own family lacks the power to keep her safe.
A part of me wants to forget her altogether, to wipe her frightened face from my mind, but when I picture Hillaire or Vivian in her place, Miss Linwood’s face remains exactly where it is.
I open my civil credit panel and read through the terms of service for transfers, combing every line twice.
Despite what Dad said, there doesn’t seem to be a catch, at least not for this type of transfer.
So I send Miss Linwood seventeen civil credits, dropping my score to an even three hundred.
Maybe the civil credits won’t be enough to get her off the expulsion list, but it’s all I can spare.
By the time I reach the Green Dormitory, I’ve thought long and hard about Dad’s advice.
I know he’s right. If I’m going to survive at Grandmaster, I need to have a plan.
My membership in Edmund’s entourage expires after one year, and with it, his protection.
In the meantime, I can’t drift through the motions, flashing polite smiles, and tolerating my social life.
I need to make friends, build a network, and find allies.
So the next day, I play nice. I look genuinely pleased when people invite me to clubs and private lounges, even though it’s irritating to watch them pretend that a few drinks and a laugh can rewrite history.
I remember everything, even when I try not to.
I remember how they looked at me, how my own Greens turned their backs when the world wanted my head.
I might not be as unforgiving as Hillaire, but I’m not as forgiving as Vivian either.
You don’t get to hand me flowers with the same hands that threw knives.
What cuts deepest is the cover-up. No one says the word Bliss. No one apologizes. No one brings it up at all. They smile, nod, and keep moving, as if time will bury it for them.
But I won’t forget. If I can’t get an apology, I at least want someone to look me in the eye and acknowledge what happened.
At least, that’s what I think I want… until someone finally does.
Were it not for my weapons restriction, Mondays would be my favorite day of the week. It’s Fraternity night, a time when the campus crackles with the kind of reckless energy that’s only possible when you’re young.
Officially, the Fraternities are about honor, camaraderie, and teamwork.
That’s what the Manual for Fraternal Order and Conduct claims. But anyone who’s actually been to a meeting knows better.
They’re a chaotic mix of sharp toasts and sharper tongues, wrapped in decades of tradition.
They’re roaring drunkenness that somehow stays dignified, singing that echoes through the halls like battle hymns, and debates soaked in ego and wit. And the best part: saber duels.
Joining a Fraternity is mandatory. Every university student in the Civilized World is assigned one based on blood color, and once you’re in, you’re a member for life. Even my parents, with their suffocating schedules, never miss their monthly meetings in the Green District.
The four Fraternity Houses cluster along the shores of a bioluminescent lake on the west side of campus.
At night, the water glows a vivid blue, illuminating their facades and making them shine like washed-up pearls.
Flags fly above each entrance, their crests bold against deep fabric.
Ours bears a saber thrust clean through a shield.
The crest should fill me with pride. Instead, I watch longingly from the sidelines, my saber locked away and my heart heavy.
Inside the Green Fraternity, the air is thick with smoke, carrying the odor of sweat and spilled beer.
On the ground floor, reserved for first-years, we shoulder up to each other, our bodies pressed against the worn wood of the balcony railings and the velvet booths lining the walls.
At the center of it all, two students face off in a friendly duel.
The room vibrates with cheers, shouts, and occasional curses whenever a close hit narrowly misses its mark.
Each strike sends sparks into the air. The duelers’ movements are fluid and precise, more like art than combat.
Their sabers wink in the smoky light, sharp enough to draw blood, but their faces remain uncovered and their bodies unarmored.
Instead, they wear the same black-and-green uniforms and flat-top caps as the rest of us.
Watching the duelers awakens the same phantom pain in my empty hand that I feel every Monday night. Each swing of their blades reminds me of what I’ve lost. It’s unbearable to feel the call to participate while knowing I can’t.
Across the room, Miss Linwood watches me with a broad, grateful smile, still thankful for the transfer I sent her last week.
I don’t know if seventeen civil credits were enough to remove her name from the expulsion list, but she looks steadier now, less pale and frantic than before.
I smile back, trying to seem friendly and to look like I’m enjoying the duel as much as everyone else.
Most nights, I can stand with the crowd and breathe through it, but tonight my body won’t cooperate.
My feet carry me away from the crush of students toward a bench hidden in the shadows.
Charlotte wriggles free between two shouting boys and starts after me, but I shake my head.
She pauses, concern crossing her face, then nods and stays put.
The air here is cooler, clashing with the heat on my face.
I try to sit still and calm the fire inside me.
No one understands why I don’t fight. Besides Charlotte, no one knows about my weapons restriction.
They think I hate fencing or never learned.
Since participation is optional, no one questions my lack of a saber.
My gaze lifts to the upper floors as a fourth-year student descends, his flat-top cap pulled low over his brow.
The crowd parts before him in a wave of black leather boots.
My chest tightens as I get a better look at his broad shoulders, dark, slicked-back hair, and mustache that appears sharp enough to cut his cheek. Vincent Lee.
I couldn’t forget him even if I tried. After the way he betrayed Harrison on the train platform—demanding that Harrison formally introduce us so Vincent could challenge me to a death duel—I’ll forever see him as a two-faced, backstabbing bastard.
Vincent stops at the edge of the piste. At first, I think he’s here to watch the fight. His eyes lock onto one of the duelists, who looks like a younger version of him. It’s his brother, William Lee.
William fights like a whirlwind, darting in and out relentlessly, forcing his opponent to overreach and leave openings.
Vincent watches with pride, his mouth twitching at his brother’s clever feints and clean counters.
He looks healthier than the last time I saw him; his face is flushed, and his skin is fuller around his bones. He even stands taller.
Vincent steps back from the duel and walks over to our Grandmaster.
Each year has its own Grandmaster, and ours is Eve Weathers.
She’s a sixth-year with the force of a jackhammer and long yellow hair tied at the nape of her neck.
I don’t know much about her, but rumors say she’s in love with a Purple.
The freckles on her face bunch together as Vincent talks. With a curt nod, she hands control of the duel to the Deputy and walks with Vincent toward me.
I sit up straighter as I meet his gaze through the moving bodies. Whatever he wants from me, this won’t be like our last encounter. I don’t have to be afraid of him anymore.
“Miss Waldsten,” Grandmaster Weathers says. “I have been requested by Mr. Lee to provide an introduction to you. Do you accept?”
“I accept.”