CHAPTER 55 #2
Harrison rips off his cap and throws it to the ground with a growl.
Vincent staggers back, his face contorting in horror as tears stream down his cheeks.
And William—I can see the moment the fear hits him square in the stomach, when he realizes the weight of what he’s done.
To his right, the Blues are still stomping on the marble, chanting and hungry for William’s blood.
In the center of it all, rooted deeply enough to seem part of the piste itself, stands Edmund. His gaze drifts past William’s trembling guard, as if he sees how quickly this will end, how easy it’ll be to cut him down and watch the marble turn green.
He looks toward the Greens and scans the tops of our caps.
I don’t know who he’s searching for, but I still sink lower in my seat until his eyes pass me by.
Finally, with a flash of frustration, he looks down at the saber in his hand.
If he tilts the blade vertically, it signifies acceptance of the death duel.
If he tilts the blade horizontally, it means pardon, a chance to let the dishonor pass.
But even I know what’s at stake. There’s no room for mercy or compassion in situations like this, only honor. If Edmund pardons William, he’ll stain the name of every Blue in his Fraternity.
Edmund lifts his blade vertically.
Lily breaks into a smile that shows her clenched teeth.
Behind her, the Blues erupt in applause as Edmund and William scan their Blood Rings to formalize the death duel.
William is shaking so badly his saber tip rattles against the marble, yet he still performs the salute, clumsy and off-balance.
Then, just before he and Edmund advance, two voices cut through the silence: Harrison’s first, strained as he tries to hold Vincent back, and Vincent’s next, as he tears free and vaults over the railing of the spectator stands, saber already drawn.
“I, Vincent Lee, stand as Second for William Lee,” he shouts. “I bind my life to his and claim his dishonor as my own. If I prevail, he walks free. If I fail, you, Edmund Prew, alone hold the right to decide his fate.”
Every Green around me leaps to their feet.
I stand, too, but see nothing beyond the backs of their heads, all of them shouting, roaring, and cursing.
It’s a Bonded Duel. Vincent has every right to offer it, but if he fails, his sacrifice will be meaningless.
The Blues will demand that Edmund kill both brothers to restore their Fraternity’s honor.
Vincent pulls William close, whispers into his ear, then pushes him back toward Harrison, who stands petrified with disbelief. His eyes are wet, and his arm is still half-raised, clutching the only piece of Vincent he managed to catch: Vincent’s Fraternity cap.
Charlotte and I lock hands, bracing each other because we know there’s no stopping what’s about to happen.
Edmund and Vincent are already on the piste, circling each other while William sobs at the edge.
Edmund lowers his saber and dips his chin to Vincent as they scan their Blood Rings to formalize the Bonded Duel.
There’s a sudden sense of relief in the way Edmund sets his shoulders, as if this fight is fair enough to live or die by.
The Blues launch into The Last Walk, humming the mournful tune from deep in their throats. Fists pound the rails in time with Edmund’s footwork as he and Vincent exchange a salute.
Edmund opens with a simple glide step and a probing feint; Vincent counters point for point, parries six with clean blade contact, and drives Edmund back with a riposte along the inside line.
I watch every angle, every advance and retreat, through unblinking eyes.
For a moment, it feels as if there can’t possibly be a winner.
Not when it means one of them has to die.
Edmund closes in again, deflects Vincent’s blade, and strikes low at the thigh. Vincent disengages and responds with a stop hit to Edmund’s shoulder, deep enough to draw a ripple of sharp breaths from the Greens.
Edmund glances at the bleeding slash with a grunt, sweat breaking at his hairline. I clench my fists until my nails bite into my skin.
The two men break apart and reset. Then, as Edmund launches a flèche that Vincent parries perfectly, everything blurs.
Vincent ripostes, and Edmund dodges at the last instant with an inside step and a pivot, and in that perfect slip, he cuts deep beneath Vincent’s arm. Blood blooms dark against his sleeve.
Vincent stumbles, and his blade drops as he attempts to recover.
Edmund waits, chest heaving, giving him time to find his guard.
Then they clash again, sabers cracking like thunder.
Edmund catches Vincent’s blade midline, beats it aside, and drives his point clean through Vincent’s ribs.
A single breath hisses from Vincent’s throat.
His saber slips from his hand, and he sinks to his knees, tipping sideways onto the piste with a choking gasp.
William screams, and as he barrels toward Vincent, the Blues break into wild laughter.
They pound the rails, drunk on death, tankards smashing as they bay for Edmund to move on to William next.
And I stand there, fists slick with my own blood, rage crawling up my throat until it tastes like vomit.
I hate them, every Blue howling for another kill.
I hate this piste, this ceremony, this rotten world that eats the best of us alive.
Edmund backs away, swallowing hard as he watches William throw himself over Vincent, his knees slipping in the pool of blood. Then Edmund turns toward the Greens, saber still drawn and dripping, and his eyes darken, as if he knows what’s coming next.
The Greens are beyond fear now. Beyond grief. We stand from our seats as one, hell rising in our hands as we draw our sabers. The graphene hilt vibrates in my grip as my blade bursts to life with a flash. Across from us, the Blues jeer and spit and dare us to come.
We all turn to Harrison. He looks like a ghost, tears streaming down his face as he stares at Vincent’s body, his brother by every bond that counts. Beside him, William chokes on sobs so loud that Grandmaster Lily bristles.
“Restore order to your Fraternity, Grandmaster Somerset,” she snaps, her voice like a lash.
Harrison turns, eyes sweeping over us—his Greens—all of us with blades drawn and no appetite for mercy. For an instant, I see him waver. I swear he’s about to break, drop his saber, and force down his rage.
Harrison holds out his hand, a signal for us to stand down. But instead of standing down himself, he turns and, in one violent flick of graphene, draws.
The sight of his saber leveled at the Blues detonates something on the Sailing Strip.
Every Green surges forward as if pulled by the same current.
Stand-down order be damned. We’re done watching from the sidelines.
We race across the platform as one, a wave of green crashing into blue, blades raised, voices hoarse with fury and the promise of blood.
On the piste, Edmund braces himself, the only calm left in a storm he knows he helped create.
His fingers tighten around his saber, though the blade stays tilted downward, as if he hasn’t decided where to point it yet.
He bows his head, and his shoulders strain with the weight of resistance.
Even he seems to realize there’s no avoiding it now. He has to make a choice.
With a flash of teeth, he lifts his saber, ready to choose, when another bang cuts across the platform. Around me, Greens keep charging, but half of them look toward the beach, sabers faltering.
BANG.
The sound comes again, louder and closer. There’s no mistaking it for an accident this time. Harrison jolts to a stop, his attention fixed on the yellow rim of the shield.
When the third bang hits, a blinding flood of light follows.
Fire flares down the wall of the shield into the ocean, smoke and sparks rolling sideways before the water swallows them.
We can’t tell how severe the breach is, but the fear hits anyway, the kind our grandparents only ever felt.
In the silence of the aftermath, a low, bone-deep growl pushes through, growing louder, closing in fast.
I don’t know who says it, maybe me, maybe all of us at once, but that single word cuts deeper than any saber tonight.
“RANGERS.”
I see the glint of the jets’ underbellies first: matte black, battered at the seams, wing edges jagged from old repairs and sand scoring.
Red stripes slash across their sides, leading up to the cockpit glass, which is smoked dark.
There’s no elegance in how the two jets fly through the breach, only desert-hardened muscle and a promise to destroy whatever waits below.
The jets bank lower until I see the symbol on their noses, a rattlesnake coiled around a bullet, half-buried in wind grit.
We stand frozen on the Sailing Strip, sabers dropped, watching death come screaming in black and red.
Then ten of our AI patrol jets streak overhead. One dives so fast I lose sight of it until it collides broadside with a Ranger jet, ripping it open in a burst of flame. The Ranger spins out, belly ablaze, and vanishes into the ocean in a thunderclap of steam and smoke.
The second Ranger jet keeps coming toward us.
It drops lower, guns blazing as tracer rounds rip across the Sailing Strip, tearing the marble apart.
A student in front of me collapses so fast it’s as if his legs turned to water, while another is hit by flying shrapnel and knocked sideways.
The Blues scatter first, then the Greens.
I lose sight of Edmund, Harrison, William, and Vincent, all swallowed in an instant by a crush of terrified bodies.
Sabers clatter onto the marble, abandoned in the rush toward the hoverboats waiting at the platform’s edge.