CHAPTER 54
Only a fool believes his life is governed by his choices alone. The wise understand that the choices of others carry just as much weight to influence, shape, and sometimes even to alter the course of a life… for better or for worse.
—HEDY BISHOP, AN ORANGE
Holding my saber breaks a dam inside me, sealed for so long that the rush feels like it’s drowning me. With the hilt settled in my grip, I want more than to hold it. I want to swing the blade and land a final touch.
Jack will duel Edmund at the Mensur in a few hours.
But I wish it weren’t Jack.
I wish it were me.
I rub my stiff leg as my Pinkie dresses me in my Fraternity uniform.
The cloth support wrap remains snug around my thigh, but the pain has eased, leaving only a lingering stiffness in my muscles.
I mentally test my form, from the advance to the lunge.
With my injury and nearly two years away from proper fencing, am I still as skilled as I used to be? Would I be good enough to win?
I know the answer. I knew it the moment I watched that footage from the death duel in the Tangerine Tree, where Edmund moved like something forged for the blade, cutting down two Blues who challenged him.
No, I wouldn’t be good enough.
But I’d still try. I’d still want to show Edmund that when he called me helpless, when he called Dad helpless, he created someone as driven as he is.
The Pinkie adjusts my green-and-black Fraternity jacket over my shoulders, then sets the flat-top cap on my head, its visor slanted down over my eyes. Finally, the robot fastens my scabbard around my waist, my saber hilt tucked inside.
I head to the parking garage, slide into my hovercar, and drive to the front of the Green Dormitory to pick up Charlotte.
While I wait, I activate my Bond and pull up the news.
The top story reveals that President Reeve has announced he’s launching an investigation into civil credit fraud.
Bogart doesn’t say it outright, but everyone knows who Reeve will drag into the light by the end of this: his own kind, the Blues.
Bogart avoids showing the crowds in Charleston City who support Reeve, but it doesn’t matter.
Dad already sent me drone footage of streets filled with low-citizens, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder for miles, some chanting until their voices break, others collapsing against each other and weeping.
Reeve moves through the masses like hope made flesh; low-citizens drop to their knees as he passes and claw at the cuffs of his trousers.
Bogart ignores the footage and instead speaks of the Blues’ glory and years of sacrifice, reminding us of the dark days they carried us through and warning that those dark days could return sooner than we think.
His words are cautious and vague, the same old loyalty dressed up in a new sense of dread.
While Bogart speaks, my eyes drift past the campus buildings to the beach, where the edge of the energy shield arcs upward into the sky.
Tonight, it seems to crackle differently, thinner somehow, more fragile than before.
For the first time in a long while, I don’t see the shield as both a prison and a protector.
I see only a protector.
And I want it to hold.
When Charlotte and I arrive at the Green Fraternity, the drinking hall is already packed with first-year Greens in uniform.
After everything that’s happened over the last few weeks—the Blue guilty verdict, the Blue execution, the viral footage of me killing Charles Blackwell, and the civil credit fraud investigation—the entire Fraternity crackles like a fuse burning toward the powder.
I know the Greens want blood tonight. This fight has become more than a duel; it’s meant to prove that if we can beat the Blues with a blade, maybe we can beat them in areas that matter far more.
But there’s just one problem.
Jack is drunk.
Charlotte watches him from the crowd, her face twisted with horror and guilt.
He’s backed into a corner with Harrison and Vincent, his cap askew, his words slurring as he insists that he only took a couple of shots to take the edge off.
Yet his body sways as if he’s one shot short of forgetting how his legs work.
“This is how I always fight, boys,” Jack says. “Fought almost every duel this year like this.”
“Damn it, Carroway,” Harrison barks. His hand keeps running through his hair as if he’s about to rip it out. “This isn’t a street scuffle. It’s the Mensur. Clean fight. No liquor, no pills, no boost. You know the rules.”
Vincent shakes his head. His eyes are too gentle for this mess, the kind of hard-won mercy that comes from overcoming addiction himself. “Did it ever occur to you, Jack, that the bottle’s the only fight you’re losing tonight? That maybe alcohol is your enemy?”
Jack throws his arms wide, his grin dull and crooked. “Mama always said to love my enemy.”
Harrison lets out a muffled groan and covers his eyes. His pale face looks bloodless, taut with panic. “You’re out, Carroway. It’s not just reckless; it’s illegal. If you step onto the piste like this and the Blues call it, you’ll be disqualified. We all lose.”
Jack rubs his mouth, his jaw flexing under his palm.
The tremor in his throat undoes me, because sad doesn’t begin to cover it.
After all the hours he’s spent training with Edmund, after fighting so hard to stay sober these past months, I know he must’ve been pushed to the brink to pick up a whiskey bottle.
Charlotte seems to realize this, too. She sinks into a chair and drops her head into her hands, as if blaming herself for choosing today, of all days, to reopen old wounds.
But regret can’t undo what’s done. Jack’s shame is clear on his face, and the whiskey on his breath is strong enough to alert every Blue on the Sailing Strip. Unless someone steps up now, we’re finished.
So I take my chance.
I cross over to Harrison, who looks as if he’s watching the energy shield crack open above his head.
Vincent stands beside him, every word pushing to keep Harrison upright.
Harrison lifts a shaky hand to Vincent’s shoulder, his fingers curling as if he needs to feel another pulse to remind himself that he still has one.
“Grandmaster Somerset,” I say, stopping before Harrison and Vincent. “I wish to be considered as our challenger.”
Harrison furrows his brow. His eyes flick to my scabbard, to the saber resting there for the first time all year, then drop to my left leg. He knows I’m still stiff and, worse, how close I came to losing the leg entirely.
Before he can respond, Vincent cuts in.
“That would not be appropriate, Miss Waldsten. You are in Mr. Prew’s entourage. You are his friend.”
I lift my chin. “So is Mr. Carroway. And for the record, I am on my own now. Mr. Prew’s and my arrangement has been formally dissolved.”
Vincent goes still, watching me with that quiet interest he reserves for anything that pulls the Blues a little lower. I can feel the question lingering: What did she see that changed her mind?
Harrison places a hand on my arm, firm enough to signal refusal before he speaks.
“My apologies, Miss Waldsten. I know you desire this honor, and I truly believe you would perform admirably. But you have not earned a ranking through dueling this year. I cannot risk it. The fight must go to our second-ranked fencer. It is tradition.”
He gives my arm a gentle yet final squeeze. And just like that, the opportunity I was willing to bleed for slips out of my reach.
Harrison glances at Vincent as if seeking approval. Vincent hesitates, looking uneasy, then nods. His gaze moves past me to William, who’s already stepping out of the crowd.
“Do you accept the role of challenger, Mr. Lee?” Harrison asks.
William’s apprehension shows in his eyes, yet he stands taller. “I do, Grandmaster. I shall uphold our honor.”
“Good.” Harrison pulls on his cap. “Then we proceed.”
I try to school my face, pushing down the disappointment even as my heart feels like it’s dropping through the floor. As I fall back into the line, Vincent follows and catches my sleeve.
“Miss Waldsten,” he says. “Forgive me. I know you also wished for this honor, and I am certain Grandmaster Harrison is correct. You would have performed admirably.”
The way Vincent speaks makes it clear he’s seen the video, the one of me killing Charles Blackwell. Maybe he’s already pieced together that Charles was Edmund’s cousin. Maybe he even thinks that’s why I’m no longer in Edmund’s entourage.
“Things are changing, Miss Waldsten,” Vincent continues. “Men like President Reeve and your father are making sure of it. In due course, we will all have our moment to stand up for what is right. And when your moment arrives, I promise, this time, my saber will be with yours.”
I stare at him, my throat constricting as his vow echoes through me. It’s harder than ever to believe he’s the same man who tried to kill me on the train platform. Then again, when I look at myself now, I wonder if I’m the same person, either.
“I wish your brother well tonight,” I say.
Vincent’s eyes dim slightly. He clears his throat and fiddles with a small tear in the band of his cap, as if he’s already picturing William facing Edmund and doesn’t like what he sees.
“Do you think he has a chance?” I ask.
Vincent’s mouth tightens, then relaxes as if resigned. “William’s true opponent will be his own temper. All I can do is stay close and, if he falters, do what an elder brother must… claim his failures as my own.”
He holds my gaze a little longer, with the same shy, quiet smile. Then he bends and presses a kiss to my hand before crossing back to Harrison and William at the front of the line.
“Straight backs, straight shoulders,” Harrison calls.
His voice echoes over the stone steps as he guides us from the Green Fraternity House to the shore, where our hoverboats bob against the dock lights.
“The Mensur is not a death duel,” he reminds us, as he paces the planks.
“But it is similar in this: the Mensur’s success rests entirely upon an honorable exchange.
Do not risk our name for your pride. Do not disgrace our House. ”
“Understood, Grandmaster,” comes a chorus of replies.
Harrison, Vincent, and William board the first hoverboat alone. Once they push off, the rest of us split into twos and threes, climbing into the waiting vessels.
Charlotte settles in beside me as a Pinkie releases the mooring line.
“How are you doing, Char?” I ask under my breath.
“Wrecked,” she mutters, hugging her elbows. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut till after the Mensur.” She shakes her head. “I just can’t stop making a mess of things, Lore. Every time I think I’ve hit rock bottom, the floor splits open, and I fall straight through.”
“You didn’t mean for this to happen.”
I rub her back gently as we lift off from the dock and glide over the glowing waves of the Luminescent Lake.
Beneath the hulls, schools of piranhas twist and scatter, their scales flashing in the shallow water.
A shudder runs through me at the memory of their teeth in my flesh, but I remind myself they’re no threat tonight.
Every student has a Rippletone strapped to their wrist.
I grip the gunwale as our hoverboat swings wide to join the growing line.
Ahead, the Sailing Strip appears like a floating fortress: a vast platform dotted with ringed lamps, the piste shimmering under a grid of spotlights and broadcast drones.
Thousands of velvet chairs circle the piste in perfect tiers, one side draped in the deep indigo banners of the Blues, the other in our vivid green.
From the far shore, the Blues arrive in force, their fleet of hoverboats arranged in a wedge formation, gliding forward with an arrogance worn like war paint. Even from here, I can hear their loud, invincible laughter, drunk on their certainty that no low-citizen could ever outdo one of their own.
Our side keeps quiet. We wait like a single pulse beneath the skin of the night, ready to watch William prove to all of us that we can beat the Blues at something they claim as their own.
As we near the dock at the Sailing Strip, Charlotte’s and my hoverboat rises on its lift jets and joins the others’ steady ascent before landing on the platform.
Charlotte and I disembark with the crowd, but I steer her toward the far back row on the Green side, away from the piste and Edmund’s line of sight.
“Back here?” Charlotte whispers as we settle into our velvet seats, each topped with a carved wooden tankard of beer on its armrest, ready to be raised at the right moment.
“Yes,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the piste where William will stand in Jack’s place. “I can’t risk being seen by Edmund tonight.”
Charlotte squeezes my hand hard enough to pull my mind back to our side of the platform, then lets go and sinks into her seat.
The Blues arrive in a mass of stomping boots, caps tilted at carefree angles, their laughter brash and lively as they spill onto the platform.
Grandmaster Lily Burton leads them, with Edmund by her side.
Though he matches her step for step, shoulders squared in his blue-and-black uniform, his expression seems far-off, as if his body is trained to fight without his mind.
Edmund halts at the piste, scanning the crowd for Jack, and when he spots William, a line of confusion cuts across his brow.
I lean forward in my chair, hating the part of myself that still believes the way Edmund kissed me was real, even after he tried to make me take Bliss. My heart feels like a traitor, a small, treacherous thing that still thinks the storm might turn back for me if I call it by name.
“Why did you do it, Edmund?” I whisper.
He doesn’t hear me, doesn’t seem to feel me here.
He stands where he always does, above, while I stand where I have to: below, wondering whether, when he lifted me as high as he did, he always meant to let me fall.