CHAPTER 58
The day a high-citizen publicly stands up in defense of a low-citizen is the day the world stops, flips us the bird, and starts spinning the other way.
HARVEY HOLT, THE DIRTY FLAPPER
Charlotte never learned to fence. It’s one of the many skills she refused to acquire for the sake of fitting in. “Why bother with all that fluff?” she’d laugh, propping her stilettos on my vanity. “Why use a saber when I’m strong enough to snap a neck?”
Now, under this ashen sun and a circle of Blues licking their lips for blood, I see the cost of that stubbornness etched in every clumsy swing of her blade.
She lunges wildly and desperately, her shoulders wide open, her footing sloppy in the sand.
Rosamund remains patient, playing with Charlotte like a cat pawing at a wounded bird.
She toys with distance, drifting in and out of reach before lashing in low and fast. A cut to the shin blooms green across the fabric of Charlotte’s Fraternity uniform.
Another slice lands beneath the knee, deep enough to force a gasp from her.
“Kneel,” Rosamund calls, loud enough for every Blue to hear. Her saber drags through the sand before she snaps the blade up again and grazes Charlotte’s calf. “Kneel and beg for mercy.”
Around us, more Blues close in, an eager ring of spectators in ragged Fraternity uniforms, already betting how many swings it’ll take to finish Charlotte off.
Laughter ripples across the sand each time she stumbles and steadies herself.
Beyond the ring, William Lee watches too, his eyes vacant, his arms hanging limp at his sides.
I don’t know why he’s here or why the hell he keeps following me, but I don’t have room in my head for him right now.
My body locks up, every muscle straining with resistance as I force my hand away from my saber.
Charlotte wouldn’t want me to step in. She might take it as an insult to her pride, or worse, her honor.
Don’t do it. Don’t interfere.
But my heart refuses to listen. Every sharp cry of pain, every new bloodstain on her uniform, tears another hole in my chest. I can’t lose her like this, crawling and bleeding out on the sand while I watch.
Rosamund slices again, the blade carving open the flesh below Charlotte’s right kneecap. Charlotte chokes out a hiss. Her left knee buckles, and she flops to the sand. I squeeze my eyes shut, choking back a sob and a scream all at once.
“There it is,” Rosamund says, towering over Charlotte. “Almost humble enough. One more knee, then you can crawl for the mercy you’ll never get.”
The muscles coil in Rosamund’s arm as she lifts the saber for another swing.
Even from here, I can tell it won’t be just a cut this time.
She means to follow through and cleave Charlotte’s leg clean off.
I see the aftermath before it happens: Charlotte writhing in her own blood at the feet of a dozen jeering Blues because I chose not to be the protection she waited for from Jack, but never received.
The image detonates inside me, and with it, my leash snaps.
I remove the energy shield from my chest and pocket it. Sand scours beneath my boots as I move, drawing my saber with a screech of graphene. Rosamund’s blade drops, and mine clashes with it midway, the sound cracking the air like thunder over the waves.
Exclamations of shock erupt from bystanders, but I barely hear. I only see Rosamund’s wide, confused eyes, fixed on me as if I’m a kill she confirmed too soon.
Charlotte trembles on her knees, blood seeping through the tears in her trousers.
I plant my boots deeper in the sand, shielding her with my body, and shout, “I, Loredana Waldsten, stand as second for Charlotte Deering. I bind my life to hers and claim her debt as my own. If I prevail, she walks free. If I fail, you, Rosamund Prew, alone hold the right to determine her fate.”
Rosamund’s lip curls in irritation. “You can’t stand as second. I know you have a weapons restric—”
“Not anymore,” I say. “But you’re going to wish I still did.”
Rosamund regards me with renewed interest, her sneer faltering. I notice a slight spasm in her throat before she masks it. With expert aim, she lifts her saber, dripping with Charlotte’s blood, and flicks a drop onto my cheek.
“All right,” she says. “You can pick up screaming where Deering left off.”
Rosamund scans her Blood Ring with mine to formalize the Bonded Duel.
Murmurs of disbelief spread through the spectators.
The Blues around us transform from an audience into a mob, their voices building into a furious roar.
They shout obscenities, call me “Blue-killer,” and chant for blood.
Bonds activate, glowing blue, some of which I’m sure are livestreaming the fight on Quill.
A few of the angriest Blues advance, their sabers half-drawn, threatening to challenge me themselves if I cut Rosamund down.
Rosamund lifts her chin as if feeding on the sound while I watch two Blues drag Charlotte from the circle, her saber slipping from her limp fingers.
She groans and tries to push herself back up, but her bleeding legs give out in the sand.
I stare at her until our eyes meet, begging for her understanding, her permission.
She nods, a weak, shuddering dip of her chin, but it’s enough.
My resolve hardens as I take my mark in the sand.
The ring of spectators presses in closer as Blues shout Rosamund’s name, and we drop into en garde.
I lift my blade to my brow, then my shoulder, and extend it straight before me.
As Rosamund returns the salute, every inch of my focus narrows to her face.
For a moment, all the attacks she’s waged against Charlotte and me flood back, blunting the edges of my vision with rage.
But it’s the last thing I need. Leaning on anger will only drag my blade down. I draw a deep breath, using everything I learned from the Florence Engine to take my fury and grind it into a single word: Steady.
A steady pulse, a steady hand, a steady swing.
Then I advance.
Rosamund charges down my left side, aiming for my still-healing leg. I pivot, intercept her blade with mine, deflect it, and riposte, slashing her sleeve. She hisses, pulls back, and circles wide, her saber low and taunting.
The Blues keep roaring for her. “Rosamund! Rosamund!”
I try to fight as I once did, but the gap is wider than I expected.
My body struggles to keep up with what my mind remembers.
Two years off the piste show in every misstep and stiff recovery.
Rosamund sees it. She’s more patient than I anticipated, testing me with quick feints and sharp taps to my guard, never giving me a clean opening.
She may not have trained with Julian Lake, but I know she’s trained with Edmund.
Rosamund feints high, then nudges my boot to throw me off balance.
I stumble a fraction, and she snaps her blade low to kick up a cloud of sand.
I squeeze my eyes shut instinctively as I whirl back, barely dodging her next thrust. The circle of Blues presses closer, their bodies tightening around us like a cinch cord.
Through the cloud of falling sand, I see Rosamund’s blade arc overhead, angling for a slash to break my guard. I duck under, parry hard, and drive my shoulder into her ribs. The impact rattles her, and she staggers back, coughing out a snarl as she wipes spittle from her mouth.
“You’re slower than you were,” Rosamund rasps. “Charles would’ve finished you today.”
“And if I kill you now? What will that say about you?”
She grunts and rushes again, crashing into me with the full weight of her momentum.
I catch her in a bind, graphene shrieking as my arm jolts from the force.
She tries to wrench my saber free by forcing it wide, but I rotate my wrist and drive her blade down, our hilts grinding together.
Rosamund breaks contact and launches into a quick flèche, lunging hard for my inside line.
I parry six and riposte low to her flank, only for her to beat it aside and cut at my shoulder.
Sparks spit between us as I block, feet digging into the sand to hold my ground.
We move faster, wilder, as the fight dissolves into pure instinct.
Rosamund thrusts; I parry. I lunge; she counters.
Our sabers clash in close quarters, blades snarling as we shove against each other with all our might, breath tearing out in ragged bursts.
I circle her, attempt a beat attack, and drive in with a thrust that grazes her arm, but she recovers quickly, eyes blazing, and charges at me again.
The crowd roars all around us, but the sound is drowned out by the pounding of my blood.
My lungs are burning, my legs are screaming, and for a moment, it feels like I’m fighting on willpower alone.
All the times I stood helpless with an empty scabbard, all the times I wanted to defend my family’s name and couldn’t—every memory rushes back in a spike of adrenaline that breaks out of me in a raw, grating cry.
I catch Rosamund in the instant she overreaches, her arm stretching past her guard.
I hook her blade, twist, and drive her hilt downward.
Her saber wrenches free, flips in the air, and buries itself in the sand at her feet.
A collective gasp erupts from the circle. Several Blues freeze mid-motion, gaping at the sight of Rosamund disarmed, while Charlotte lets out a choking, relieved breath.
Rosamund lunges for her saber, but I slam my boot down on the hilt and point my blade at her throat. She halts, trying to catch her breath, sweat streaming down her temple.
“Beg,” I shout, my chest heaving. “Beg Charlotte’s forgiveness. Beg mine.”