CHAPTER 55
You can measure a person’s heart by their courage in the moment, and their soul by how they bear the cost of what follows.
—brUCE WALDSTEN
The Green side of the Sailing Strip is as silent as a coin spinning on its edge. We all watch Harrison and Lily from our seats, locked in an argument beside the piste. I know they’re fighting about William, about how swapping him in is a mockery of tradition, even if it’s not against the rules.
Behind Harrison and Lily, the Blues clomp around in a flurry of bodies, tankards raised high, with half already drinking their beer before the first blade is drawn.
Rosamund stands among them, her monkey perched on her shoulder.
She joins in as the Blues belt out an old Fraternity song, a victory anthem usually sung when the last point has already been scored.
William stands rigidly beside the piste, waiting for the signal to go inside. Vincent places a hand on his shoulder and whispers final words of strategy. William nods, though his eyes are glassy and unfocused, as if none of Vincent’s advice sinks in.
Across from William, on the Blue side, Edmund stands alone.
His hands are clasped behind his back, and his head is tilted as if listening for the wind above the noise.
The Blues keep roaring, stomping their feet and sloshing beer down their collars, but he seems outside it, as if running the bout edge to edge in his mind.
Near the piste, Lily jabs a finger at Harrison’s chest. He flinches, his teeth clenched as he nods, a gesture he clearly doesn’t mean. His left fist curls at his side as if to defy her, but I doubt he will. Not unless he wants to risk losing his membership in her entourage.
Above us, fifteen drones hover in a halo formation, their lenses focused on the piste.
By morning, every swing of Edmund’s and William’s blades will be broadcast to the entire university.
Half the drones dip lower, capturing wide shots of the platform—when a sudden, deafening bang cracks through the air.
Charlotte and I jolt from our seats as the drones scatter like startled flies, blinking red as they struggle for control.
What the hell was that?
A ripple of alarm passes through the Greens, and the Blues pause mid-verse, mugs half-raised, eyes squinting into the darkness.
Thousands of heads snap toward the lake, then drift farther out to the black seam of the ocean, to the energy shield rising from the waves into the clouds.
For a moment, no one seems to breathe. We watch and wait, and somewhere behind the shield, too far to see but close enough to feel, something watches back.
The barrier remains secure, glowing brightly against the salt spray, but the echo lingers too long, creeping into every ear before finally fading.
Lily, who’s turned as pale as bleached stone, swiftly regains control of herself. She glances back at Harrison, her tone commanding our attention. “Proceed.”
Only then do I realize how tightly I’m holding onto Charlotte and how tightly she’s holding onto me.
Around us, students struggle to regain their composure, remembering where they are and how important victory is.
Edmund is one of the few who haven’t looked away from the shield.
He keeps staring until the Blues start singing again, louder and louder, as if to drown out doubt.
A Pinkie meets Lily and Harrison at the center of the piste, where it produces a bright coin—the same kind Hillaire carries—to decide who will referee the Mensur.
The robot tosses the coin into the air, and it spins in a lively whirl of gold before hitting the marble with a clatter that silences the front rows.
Green.
Lily folds her arms with irritation. Harrison exchanges a glance with Vincent, relief flashing between them.
He crosses to the Bout Dial, a tall brass meter mounted on its own pedestal at the edge of the piste.
The dial resembles an old ship’s speedometer, its face etched with three markers: Exhibition, Mensur, and Death Duel.
Harrison’s hand hovers over the lever for a moment, then flips the dial to Mensur. Above, the drones adjust their feed as Harrison moves to the center of the piste and acknowledges the witnesses. “Keep the field pure,” he calls.
“Hail,” the Greens reply in unison. The Blues, meanwhile, keep singing, their tankards clashing.
Harrison’s nostrils flare. He wipes sweat from under his cap, plants his boots wide, and raises a fist high. “Willing?” His voice cuts through the noise, targeting Edmund and William directly.
“Willing.” Both give the two-finger salute, then step onto the piste. Harrison drops his fist and steps away. “Commence.”
William draws quickly and jerkily, sweat streaking down his temple as the blade activates.
Edmund straightens his posture, as if he’s finally surfaced from his thoughts, and studies William for a moment.
The way he watches him—with a cold, unflinching fixation—sets my nerves on edge.
Edmund doesn’t know William; he’s never even met him, as far as I know.
The only motive I can imagine for his dislike of William is that William’s civil credits are linked to mine.
But after the way Edmund acted the last time we spoke, I find that hard to believe.
Edmund draws in a quick, fluid burst of light that makes the Sailing Strip go still. He tests the grip, then switches the blade to his left hand as he advances on William, head tilted low.
I lean forward, my gut tight, because I know we’re not the only ones who want blood tonight.
Edmund lunges first with a quick disengage from the inside line, his blade grazing William’s parry before cutting back across the outside.
The heat in his eyes is matched only by a piste-wide focus that makes him look like he’s counting beats in his head.
He lands the first touch, a shallow cut on William’s forearm.
William hisses through his teeth, his boots scraping the marble as he stumbles back into guard.
“Lick Prew’s boots already, Green!” a Blue shouts.
“Give us your teeth!” snarls another.
William’s eyes flash with the kind of fiery, reckless fury that never helps in a duel.
His point droops for a moment before he rights it again, shoulders tense under the weight of every gaze on him.
Around me, the Greens lean forward, their backs stiffening and their expressions curdling.
Near the piste, Harrison and Vincent mutter curses into their palms. No one is supposed to speak, but Grandmaster Lily keeps her mouth pressed flat as the Blues keep tearing holes in the rules.
“Halt,” Harrison calls.
Edmund lowers his blade, flicks blood from the edge, and accepts a tankard that one of the Blues pushes through the front row. Edmund lifts the tankard high toward his side, his Blues.
“Good health.”
“Good health!” they roar back.
Then every Blue drinks.
Edmund drains his tankard halfway, then tosses it aside and returns to the piste.
The second touch comes quicker. William attempts to bait Edmund with a high feint, aiming to provoke a bind and counter-disengage, but Edmund avoids taking the bait.
He closes the distance in two steps, disengages low, and slashes across William’s thigh.
William gasps and nearly loses his footing.
The Blues howl louder, their voices cracking from drink and delight.
The third touch hits William’s side, a shallow cut that draws a snarl from him and a fresh wave of jeers from the stands. One of the Blues throws a half-empty tankard at the Greens; it shatters just short of Harrison’s boots.
By the fourth touch, William is breathing heavily, dragging his feet on each retreat, his edge control sloppy.
He tries to keep Edmund at a distance, but Edmund feints low, pulls his guard down, and flicks the tip across William’s left leg.
That makes four touches, with one more to go, and Edmund hasn’t broken a sweat.
The Blues jump to their feet, cheering for the final touch like a pack of rabid dogs. The Greens lean out of their seats as if they’re one spark short of catching fire.
William forces himself back into guard. I watch him check his footing and adjust his lead hand, his blade trembling.
He feints high, but Edmund doesn’t bite.
He tries again, a desperate thrust to the inside line.
Edmund knocks it away with a clean beat four, follows through, and then… misses for the first time tonight.
William’s blade glances off Edmund’s shoulder with a direct strike. His first touch.
The Blues’ howling dies at once. William lowers his blade, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his jaw, defiance sharp on his face.
A Green in the front row holds a tankard out to him, and he accepts it without lowering his blade.
He should turn to us, the Greens, but instead he faces Edmund, his eyes still blazing with fury.
Then he swings toward the Blues, who bare their teeth right back at him.
“Good health,” William spits.
Silence.
For a single, terrible moment, even the drones hang frozen, lenses fixed on William’s defiant sneer. Then the Blues burst forward, fists pounding marble, boots stomping, and tankards crashing. The noise is no longer a song but a roar, raw and rising.
I suck in a ragged breath. Oh, William. Oh, shit.
He knows what he’s done. He has to. We all know the phrase ‘Good Health’ is meant only for your own side. Said like this, it’s the worst insult a challenger can throw at another.
Edmund’s blade drops for half a second. Then, slowly, it rises again, and his eyes turn hard. Outside the piste, Harrison and Vincent stand bone-white, too stunned to move, even when Lily cuts across the piste.
“This dishonor shall not stand,” she thunders.
She pivots on her heel, moves to the Bout Dial, and flips it to Death Duel.