As a sensible man, I know that the only place for a just man in an unjust
world is the guillotine. —DICKIE LANGELY
CHAPTER 20
Autumn passes in a riot of color. The trees burst into shades of red, orange, and gold, as if the campus itself were burning. Days grow colder and shorter, with evenings casting long shadows and drowsy light. Leaves swirl along the sidewalks like confetti from a forgotten party. The Pinkies vacuum them up each morning, erasing every trace of the wild that dares to disturb our order.
But as the autumn rains arrive and the chill deepens, the cold seeps past fingers and coats, creeping into people’s hearts, too. It leaves them hungry in a way food can’t fill.
And that’s when students start approaching me.
I’m leaving my favorite class, Political Theory & Governance, when a group of Green girls spots me by the elevators. As they close in, I recognize most of their faces. We’ve already been formally introduced. Now that I’m part of Edmund’s entourage, introductions no longer feel threatening.
“Good day, Miss Waldsten,” one girl, Miss Pryce, says with a graceful curtsy. She’s red-haired and curvy, with a heart-shaped face and tan skin as flawless as the photo on her Quill profile. Miss Pryce posted a flood of vicious shit about me during the first few weeks of class. Now the sneer is gone, replaced by a beaming smile that shows off a neat row of eager white teeth.
“Would you care to join my friends and me at the Peacock Club this evening?” she asks. “We are celebrating my birthday, and I would be happy if you could accompany us.”
I know exactly what this is. It’s Edmund. The girls either want an introduction to him or are angling for a place in his entourage. Either way,
they think pretending we’re old friends is their way in. While I’m tempted to shoot Miss Pryce down and tell her exactly what I think of her, I know the satisfaction wouldn’t be worth it. I don’t need her friendship, but the last thing I want is her hostility.
“I am afraid I must decline your invitation,” I say. “I already have plans this evening. However, I would be delighted to accept an invitation for a future date.”
Miss Pryce’s smile widens. “Most certainly, Miss Waldsten. I look forward to the opportunity to become better acquainted.”
The girls flanking her nod happily in agreement.
I smile back, despite the posts Miss Pryce made about me still writhing in my mind. Even if she deleted them, I remember every word.
In the days that follow, the advances harden into a relentless campaign.
A girl in my gymnastics class slips a pastel envelope into my bag, inviting me to train with her and her friends over the weekend. A boy in Civilized World History leans over with an easy grin and asks me to join him in his private box at an upcoming horse race. I politely decline most invitations, suggesting we might meet in the future, and the few I accept feel like work.
It’s difficult to sit in a jazz club and pretend I’m enjoying myself with the same students who would’ve happily watched me bleed out a few weeks earlier. When I can’t stand the company and my smile starts to feel glued on, I find ways to enjoy the atmosphere instead.
I start finding gifts in my suite: gowns, shoes, and jewelry with exorbitant price tags, each labeled with a name in a font large enough to be a wall sign. I pick up one gift—a platinum-and-diamond cocktail watch worth a small fortune—and see the sender is Aleksander Kurek. I know him. His family has money, but not the kind that buys something like this. Aleksander must’ve spent his entire student allowance on the watch, hoping for something I can’t even give him. Access. Protection. A place in Edmund’s entourage, just as I once sought.
I set the watch down, feeling guilty even to touch it.
At some point, I realize the sudden change in behavior is only partly due to Edmund. It’s also tied to Bliss, or the drug’s absence.
The trance is finally lifting. I see it in people’s eyes as they walk through the first-year Lecture Hall corridors, like windows wiped clean of fog.
They’re waking up and realizing how much the drug controlled them. Many students grow more cautious, while others grow more desperate. They see the
playing field of Grandmaster with sharpened, frightening clarity.
One morning, I break away early from a run with Charlotte on the forest trails, my tired, aching legs struggling to keep up with her pace. As I cross a golf course toward the Green Dormitory, a smoky-eyed Green steps into my path. We were introduced at a university polo match a few days ago, when she paid my drink tab before I could. She looks elegant in an embroidered felt cloche and a wrap coat with an oversized fox-fur collar, but her face is pale, and her lips are drawn tight.
“Miss Waldsten,” she says, her eyes anxious as she offers a stiff curtsy. “I am very pleased to find you here. I was told you exercise on these trails on weekdays.”
“Occasionally,” I say. “I am happy to see you, Miss Linwood. Are you well?”
Miss Linwood’s smile falters, and the composure she’s been fighting to maintain cracks. “Not so well.” She touches my arm, gently at first, then her grip intensifies. “Please allow me to speak, Miss Waldsten. Please hear what
I have to say.”
I nod despite my discomfort. “I will.”
“I did something—something entirely unintentional—and now I find myself low on civil credits. Unfortunately, my family is not in a position to assist me. I sought help in every way I could imagine, but every attempt has failed. That is why I have come to you.”
People are watching us now. A golfer in an argyle sweater lowers his putter to listen.
“How do you think I can assist you?” I ask, silently dreading what she’ll say.
“By introducing me to Mr. Prew,” Miss Linwood says. “If you put in a kind word for me or invite me to one of your gatherings, perhaps he will find me worthy of his company.”
I shift uneasily on the grass. “I am very sorry, Miss Linwood. Please believe me when I say I wish I could help you. But I do not have permission to issue invitations.”
“Miss Waldsten, I beg you.” Her mouth quivers as she steps closer, her chest rising and falling rapidly. For a moment, I think she might pass out on the grass. “I am under two hundred civil credits. I am already being considered for expulsion. If you do not help me, I will surely face arrest.”
Regret overwhelms me as I search for a way to help her, but I don’t know
what to do. Being a member of Edmund’s entourage doesn’t give me influence over him or the people he meets. Still, after he defended me at the Tangerine Tree, I understand why Miss Linwood and half the university think we’re close. They must think I’m heartless for refusing to help them, just as they refused to help me.
I try to explain, but all the events of the past few weeks funnel into a single, crushing point, and my words collapse before they can form.
“I am sorry, Miss Linwood,” I say. “Please excuse me.”
I hurry off and duck into the first place with an ounce of privacy, the women’s lavatory. After locking myself in an empty stall, I lean against the door, my arms wrapped around my chest. The pressure of these first weeks at Grandmaster feels like being slowly buried alive.
I call Dad.
He answers on the first ring. He’s leaving a hearing at the Capitol Estate, his security team flanking him as he steps into an elevator. His expression is distant and distracted, but it brightens when he sees me.
“Hi, honey,” he says. “I was just thinking about you. How are you doing?”
I want to tell Dad the truth. I want to say I joined Edmund’s entourage and am now being swarmed by desperate low-citizens who believe I have the power to help them.
But I can’t. So I blame the shift in everyone’s behavior on the Bliss withdrawals finally easing and on our family being in the spotlight after Dad saved President Reeve.
“A few weeks ago, most of the students here wanted me dead, and now everyone wants to be my friend and is buying me gifts,” I say. “Some of them even think I can help. A student—Miss Linwood—just told me she’s being considered for expulsion and asked for my help. What should I do? Should I give her civil credits?”
Dad’s eyes widen, and his expression turns anxious, as if the thought of my civil credits decreasing turns his stomach. He starts to say no—his mouth even shapes the word—then he stops and drags a hand through his hair. I can see the conflict tighten his features, the part of him that wants to protect me fighting the part that knows saying no would betray everything he’s been trying to teach me.
“I… well… do you have enough to spare?” he finally asks.
I don’t need to check my score. The number 317 is already burning a hole
in my mind. Thanks to Edmund, I’ve been losing civil credits every week for missing executions, gambling in restricted rooms, and arriving late to class. If I lose 117 more credits, my name will be right next to Miss Linwood’s on the expulsion list.
“A few,” I say, forcing a calm expression.
“I’d rather you didn’t give away civil credits unless it’s life or death, honey,” Dad says. “If you ever do, be careful. Certain transfers come with risks, so always read the terms of service first. And don’t give any away at the cost of dropping too low.”
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.”
She runs through the formalities, reminding us to log the introduction in our Blood Rings, then returns to the duel.
Vincent lowers himself onto the bench beside me. For a moment, the only sound is the clashing of blades on the piste. His left hand is clenched on his knee, revealing a long, winding saber scar across his wrist. It must be his honor scar, the one mark we’re allowed to keep from the duel we consider our most noble. The rest we heal with rejuvenation cream. I have an honor scar on my chin from my very first duel. But there’s something about seeing this traitor with one that makes my blood boil.
What does Vincent want from me? And why now?
The duel ends with a decisive final touch. William Lee stands victorious, while his opponent lowers his blade in defeat. Cheers and stomping erupt as the crowd applauds. Kegs of dark beer are rolled out, and students swarm the tables, their voices rising as they launch into an old Fraternity song, Drink, Brothers and Sisters, Drink.
Two students climb onto the bar, their laughter echoing as they tap dance between the beer tankards. The room feels lively and warm, but Vincent sits in silence, staring ahead. His jaw works, and his mouth opens, then closes again, as if he’s practicing lines that still don’t sit right in his mouth.
His shyness reminds me of the first time I saw him. He was standing on our front porch, waiting to pick up Harrison and Vivian for drinks at the Silver Stiletto Lounge in the Green District. I was coming down the stairs, but Vincent didn’t notice me because his eyes were fixed on Vivian. He blushed when she opened the screen door, a deep red that contrasted with his pale green suit.
I wasn’t surprised. Most men react the same way when they see her. But with Vincent, it looked sweet, in a handsome way. That’s why it never made sense that this man was the one who tried to kill me, and even worse, that he tried to kill his own friend.
But that’s what Bliss does.
As the song transitions to another, Vincent finally takes off his cap and says, “During our prior meeting, Miss Waldsten, I was not myself. There is no excuse for my actions, and no way to justify them. However, if there is a path to make amends, I hope you will guide me toward it and, in time, forgive my shameful conduct.”
I scoff so sharply that he flinches. “With hopes so high, Mr. Lee, you could be a Blue.”
Color rises in his face, and he clears his throat, fingers twisting the cap as if he wants to crush it. For a moment, I think he’ll walk away and pretend this never happened. But then he leans back against the bench and laughs— slightly bitter, yet amused and oddly self-aware.
“I do not expect us to be friends, Miss Waldsten. I seek only to offer my
apologies. To right a wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because when the Bliss withdrawals ended…” Vincent falters, his voice trailing off.
Desperation flashes in his eyes, like a man surfacing from deep water, his lungs still burning. “When the withdrawals ended and I finally broke free of it, I realized your father was right.”
Vincent turns away, jaw tightening, mustache bristling like the pelt of a proud animal. His eyes scan the crowd, laughing, singing, and clinking glasses, but I know he’s not truly seeing them.
He’s still waiting on me.
I know I should say something. Dad’s warning about not making enemies comes back to me, sharp as a cut in my mind. I’ve been waiting for this, hoping for an apology in every hallway and on every street corner. Now that it’s here, I’m surprised by how hard my heart has become and how bitter my first weeks as a Public Person have made me. I can’t forgive Vincent, and it’s
not only because I don’t want to.
I don’t know how.
I don’t know how to reach out and shake the hand that tried to kill me, even if it’s trembling, even if it’s sorry. Dad would. He’d know how to lift someone out of their shame without bending himself.
But I’m not Dad, even if I want to be.
Vincent seems to sense he’s not getting the forgiveness he hoped for. He clears his throat and stands slowly, but the fact that he hasn’t put his cap back
on tells me he’s not finished.
“Pardon the intrusion,” he says. “Is it true you have joined Mr. Prew’s entourage?”
I stand abruptly from the bench, knowing where this is headed. “Yes.
However, I do not have the influence to—”
“I am not requesting a favor, Miss Waldsten. I simply wish to warn you—
well, to remind you…”
“Of what?”
“There is no family outside the home.”
December is when students unpack their fur coats, shake off the dust, and start strutting around campus like a sleuth of bears on a stage. Mom says it never used to snow at Grandmaster, but time has a way of changing things, even the weather. Now, the beaches lie under drifts of snow, a cold blanket covering what was once the warm edge of the world.
Despite the campus’s paleness, the mood is dark. Right now, all of us should be packing up and jetting off for two weeks of freedom. I should be in the mountains, skiing with Vivian and Hillaire, or wedged between Mom and Dad at a theater show. Instead, I’m still here, buried under snow and a pile of unfinished assignments.
Frustration hangs over the Lecture Halls as thick as the frost on the windows. Everyone knows this is the Blues’ fault. We’re stuck here because their dormitory renovation delayed the start of the semester by two weeks.
Now we’re paying for it by not getting a winter break.
But no one dares say the truth out loud. Instead, we do what we’ve been taught to do: keep our mouths shut and our posture perfect. The days blur together with lectures, training sessions, and carefully measured conversations with Edmund, where I’m still trying to be polite, holding back half of what I want to say.
All the while, Vincent’s warning looms over me like a shadow I can’t shake. Asshole. Who does he think he is, preaching to me?
There is no family outside the home.
I know what Vincent meant. I thought the same thing on Harrison’s jet when he told me he’d joined an entourage. Blues can’t be trusted. Stick with
your own. Breaking ranks leads to disaster.
But Vincent is wrong if he thinks this betrayal was mine alone. He knows what happened. The Greens and other low-citizen groups pushed me into this corner. They turned their backs and made it clear they wouldn’t help. So I picked the only color left: blue.
I keep telling myself that joining Edmund’s entourage was the right choice. There wasn’t a better one. Still, Vincent’s words keep festering inside me like mold spores in the bloodstream.
The weight of them hits harder every time I check my civil credit score and see the slow, relentless bleed from trying to keep up with Edmund. It’s always his world and his whims. There’s hardly a club we go to that doesn’t charge civil credits for entry instead of money.
And last week, Edmund even tried to persuade me to paraglide off the Blue Dormitory roof with him, Jack, and Dickie—completely illegal, and an automatic loss of at least twenty civil credits.
For the first time, I understand what Dad meant when he said money doesn’t matter in the Civilized World. Every married citizen receives a yearly civil income, enough to live comfortably without ever working. You can take a job if you want more status or luxury, which many people do, though even without it, you’re insulated.
But I see now what Dad was really talking about. Civil income keeps you fed and housed, but it doesn’t protect you. Civil credits do. They decide how much you’re forgiven, how harshly you’re punished, and how much room you’re allowed to make mistakes. They’re the real currency.
I’ve managed to scrape together a few extra civil credits through decent grades and civilized behavior. Still, when I’m hemorrhaging fifteen a week because of Edmund, the loss outweighs the gain.
It makes me wonder if Edmund thinks the fear will fade. Does he think his kind will challenge him again? Is he trying to push me out before he’s forced to fight another death duel? Is he trying to sabotage me slowly, tank my civil credit score, and trigger my expulsion so I’ll be shipped back to the Green District, where he won’t have to keep me safe?
There, his badge can protect me from a distance. There, I’d no longer be his burden until he needs me to testify, to take the stand and point the finger at Irene.
But I won’t be a tool Edmund keeps on a shelf, gathering dust until it’s convenient to pull me down.
I have a future to protect.
