Why do I resist? Why, as one among many, do I refuse to bend to Blue?
Some call me a radical who rejects authority, but what I truly seek is authority in its rightful form. I will kneel, and kneel humbly, before the man who earns greatness—but never before the man who steals it. —FREDERICK GLASS, CO-FOUNDER OF THE HERETICS
CHAPTER 22
On Monday morning, all the Civilized World flags on campus hang at half- staff.
Blue, white, and gold, each marked with the double-headed eagle, the flags ripple in the icy wind on the Lecture Halls’ steps or hang stiffly in the parking lot, too frozen to move. In every corridor and on every street corner, students stop beneath them, bow their heads, and give the two-finger salute.
Edmund, Jack, Dickie, Charlotte, and I do it, too. We pause in the first- year Lecture Hall lobby, in front of the flag, next to a giant bronze statue of our first president, and raise our index and middle fingers to honor the victims of the latest Heretic attack.
It happened Saturday morning, a few hours after Edmund and I were talking on his terrace. A group of Heretics bombed a charity event for the families of Coppers who died in the line of duty, killing sixty-three people.
Only nineteen of the victims were Blues.
My hand, still raised, clenches as I recall the footage from Benjamin Bogart’s report: low-citizen bodies broken on the floor, their flesh ripped open, with blood rushing in trails that pooled in the craters left by the bombs.
One of the victims, whose upper body was all that remained intact, looked the same age as Hillaire.
I try to understand the Heretics. I try to understand why they keep choosing a form of revolution that kills innocent people, but I can’t. I hate that they’re the face of our discontent.
On the way to our first lecture, Foundations of Formality, voices echo through the halls like a riptide, some laced with anger, but most with the melancholy notes of fatigue. We’re all used to this. The Heretics have committed these massacres for nearly sixty years. When we flip on the television and see news of another bombing, it’s as unsurprising and familiar as rush-hour traffic.
As we turn into the corridor toward the lecture room, Charlotte and Dickie break away from our group, whispering about possible birthday gifts for Edmund. I follow a few steps behind Edmund and Jack, who walk with a broad, square-jawed Blue who’s orbited Edmund ever since the death duel in the Tangerine Tree.
“I don’t fear the Heretics,” the Blue says, tossing a shiny red apple into the air. “It’s they who should fear us.”
“They should,” Jack mutters, taking a pull from his flask. “But sixty-three
dead bodies say they don’t.”
“Then we make them afraid.”
“How?”
“All too simple.” The Blue catches the apple and bites into it, juice glistening around his teeth. “We execute the Heretics’ families along with them.”
Jack grimaces. “Start cutting off innocent heads, and you might as well use the blood to print the Heretics’ next recruitment poster.”
“It would be a calculated risk.”
“No,” Jack fires back. “It wouldn’t. A calculated risk would be to try the one thing we haven’t: talk to the Heretics. See if there’s common ground.”
“Common ground?” The Blue tilts his head, a bead of juice slipping down his chin. “That, low-citizen, would be treasonous.” His gaze cuts to Edmund, as if warning him to leash his dog before he does it himself.
Instead, Edmund takes the flask from Jack, sniffs it, then takes a sip.
“I’m not saying it’ll work,” Jack adds as Edmund tosses the flask back.
“But if the Heretics ever pull off their real play, attacks like this will be the least of our problems.”
The Blue’s mouth curves into a grin, his eyes bright with challenge, untouched by the fear twisting in my gut.
I think Jack is right. If all the Heretics wanted was to detonate bombs on street corners, we wouldn’t bother with public executions. Their attacks would just be another crime statistic. But that’s not the Heretics’ ultimate
goal. Their true goal is to destroy the energy shield that protects the Civilized World.
“The Heretics’ revolution is one of weak men led by weaker ones,” the Blue says coldly. “They’ll never breach the shield.”
“Maybe not. But it’s a bet that pays out badly either way.”
The Blue’s gaze scrapes over Jack as if he’s prey unworthy of the hunt yet still tempting to strike down. “War is never clean, low-citizen. Losses must be accepted for the greater victory. The Heretics signed their death warrants the moment they spilled Blue blood.” His hand settles on the hilt of his saber.
“Or do you suggest such a crime is forgivable?”
“Heretics might be enemies,” Jack says, squaring his shoulders despite being nearly a foot shorter than the Blue, “but they’re still ours. If the shield
falls, we’ll face enemies who aren’t.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yeah, I did.” Jack leans in, chin high. “You just don’t like the answer.”
The apple hits the floor with a dull thud. The Blue’s saber slides halfway from its scabbard before Edmund steps in and shoves Jack out of reach. Jack stumbles into me, knocking us both down. Through the blur, I see Edmund’s hand clamp over the Blue’s saber hilt, halting the draw.
The Blue lowers his head and glares from under his brow. “There are moments that make our names, Mr. Prew. This is one of them. Will you let a low-citizen speak to a high-citizen as an equal?”
Students stop in their tracks and crowd around, wide-eyed, whispering about whether they’re about to witness a death duel. One student activates her Bond to film until Edmund turns his head and snaps his fingers. The glow in the student’s eye vanishes like an extinguished flame. Edmund tightens his grip on the Blue’s saber hilt, forcing the blade back into its scabbard, inch by inch.
“Yes, Mr. Stratton,” Edmund says. “I will.”
“Why?”
“Managing my own mouth is already a full-time job. I have no interest in managing another.”
Stratton lets out a short, humorless laugh. His gaze flicks to Edmund’s other hand, resting on the saber at his own hip. “Mr. Prew, I see I was mistaken. I hadn’t taken you for such a diplomatic man.”
“You weren’t mistaken, Mr. Stratton.” Edmund nudges the apple toward him with his shoe. “I’m not.”
“Well then…” Stratton’s eyes narrow on Jack, who’s pulling me to my feet. “This has been most illuminating. Good day, gentlemen.”
Stratton stoops, retrieves the apple, and takes a large bite. The crunch echoes down the corridor as he disappears into the lecture room.
Jack moves to Edmund’s side, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry, Ed.
Shouldn’t have run my mouth like that.”
Edmund shoots a look at the lingering students until they scatter, then nods toward the flask in Jack’s hand. “Bad things happen when you don’t drink the good stuff.”
“Right.” Jack clears his throat and forces a grin. “Next time, I’ll go for cast strength.”
Edmund grins back, bright enough to light up his face, but as soon as Jack moves ahead, it fades. I fall into step beside him, watching as he pulls sharply on his tie until it loosens. The skin around his eyes looks tight, like it does on someone torn in half, standing on a line they can’t bring themselves to cross.
It makes me wonder whether Edmund defended Jack because he cares about him or because he agrees with his views.
The Heretics aren’t wrong to feel that their lives began to rot the moment they were born. All low-citizens feel the same. What’s wrong is how the Heretics are choosing to revolt. Yet only a few low-citizens dare to say the obvious aloud. If the Blues were willing to cut us a better deal, low-citizens wouldn’t have a reason to become Heretics in the first place.
The fear and anger over the attack last only a day before the media shifts to its standard sermon: vows to hunt down every Heretic, promises to care for the victims’ families, and speeches about how we’ll emerge stronger and more united than ever.
Then, like clockwork, people begin to forget. The next distraction erases their memories of the horror, whether it’s a political scandal or a celebrity breakup.
Here at Grandmaster, that distraction is Edmund’s and Rosamund’s upcoming birthday party.
A Blue’s birthday is always a vanity parade, with them burning through money like it’s going out of style. But Edmund’s and Rosamund’s party on
Saturday, planned down to the smallest detail by their mother, is more than that. Everyone’s still stewing over being stuck on campus for winter break, itching for a distraction that doesn’t involve Heretic attacks or guillotine
executions.
And this party is it.
As the date draws closer and Tattletale starts dropping intel like honey, one anonymous tip at a time, the excitement turns electric. The party becomes the event. Everywhere I go, people are gossiping about it, from the dormitories to the dining halls to the locker rooms in the training gym.
On Wednesday, while I’m icing my sore shoulder in the lavatory between classes, I overhear three of my classmates talking about it.
“Rumor has it there will be a private rooftop for VIPs only,” the first girl says, washing her hands in the sink beside me.
“I heard Headmistress Prew arranged for a temporary snow dome to be built so guests can ‘experience winter with a view,’” the second girl says.
“My boyfriend knows someone on the guest list, so I can confirm both rumors,” says the third. “But do you want to know the real cherry on top?”
The other two girls eagerly turn toward her.
The third girl lingers, savoring the moment as a Pinkie refreshes her makeup. “Scarlet du Pont,” she says at last. “She is going to perform.”
The other two girls gasp in excitement.
I massage my sore shoulder muscle, thinking the third girl’s intel is good.
The jazz seductress, with smoke in her voice and fire in her heels, will indeed be flown in for a single night to croon beneath a thousand diamond lights.
But that’s only part of the story. The main reason Scarlet du Pont accepted the booking is the venue, the Lotus Lounge. It’s a velvet-drenched high-roller club on the Moonshine Mile that’s become so notorious, even people outside the university know its name. Dickie told me that the price for entry isn’t money, but a hefty transfer of civil credits.
“We absolutely must secure an invitation,” the second girl declares.
“There is no way to do that without a contact in Mr. Prew’s entourage,” the first replies, smoothing her lavender drop-waist gown as if the point needs emphasis.
“I have heard Mr. Prew’s low-citizens are very kind,” the third girl says, her voice pitched loud enough to reach me. “Generous, even.”
I press the thawing ice pack harder against my shoulder, embarrassed to realize they think I can help. I would if I could. I’d invite a hundred low-
citizens just to see the pissed-off look on the high-citizens’ faces.
“Apologies, ladies,” I say. “I cannot secure you an invitation, as I am not
invited myself.”
All three swivel toward me, wide-eyed.
“You are not invited?” the first girl asks. “But you are in Mr. Prew’s entourage, Miss Waldsten. How is that possible?”
“I requested the evening off,” I say, fidgeting with my drop earring.
I politely excuse myself, and as I step into the hall, my shoulder starts to ache again, but I barely notice. Charlotte and I are both in Edmund’s entourage, yet neither of us made the guest list. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t sting—being overlooked like a dust ball in the corner always does. But I remind myself that Edmund and I aren’t friends; we’re business partners under contract. And in contracts, nothing comes free. Kindness is just another form of currency, and every so-called favor is a debt waiting to be collected.
That’s why I need to find the perfect birthday gift. If I can give Edmund something that pays off my ever-growing tab—for the civil credits and his protection in the Tangerine Tree—that’s a start. Better still would be to find something valuable enough to shift the balance between us, because I’m tired of every breath that I take feeling like it’s on loan. If I can give Edmund something he couldn’t get on his own, maybe, for once, the scales will tip back.
The trouble is, I don’t know what that thing is. What can someone like me give someone like him? I don’t know what he needs, let alone what he likes.
The truth is, I hardly know anything about him.
I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with something that doesn’t look like I grabbed it off a sale rack at the campus strip. I even asked Dickie, but he brushed me off with a smirk, guarding his ideas like state secrets.
All I’ve got is a single clue: Edmund’s pocket watch, made by a brand called Altimor.
Thanks to Mom and Vivian, I can rattle off most luxury brands as easily as fencing footwork, but I’ve never even heard of Altimor. That means the pocket watch is either so exclusive it’s out of reach for people like me, or it’s special. An heirloom, maybe.
After class, when Edmund cuts me loose for the day, I head straight to the study in my suite. My Pinkie sets a champagne cocktail on the desk beside me as I open the internet on my Bond and search “Altimor.”
The top result leads me to a trendy website filled with luxury watches,
many priced nearly as high as my hovercar. They look almost identical to Edmund’s pocket watch, each displaying the nine time zones of the Civilized World. As I study the fashion models—men and women dressed in bomber jackets, sheepskin-lined suits, and sunglasses that reflect airplane wings—I realize that Altimor is a precision toolmaker for pilots.
Suddenly, small details about Edmund start to make sense. His constant use of eye drops must be because pilots often get dry eyes at high altitudes, where the air is thin and humidity drops. His face and hands, which are a shade tanner than the rest of him, show the uneven exposure you’d get in a cockpit, with sunlight pouring through the glass.
A pilot. That’s what he is, or maybe what he’s training to be.
I lean back in my chair and sip my cocktail, smiling as I picture him soaring over campus in a flashy jet, the Prew name splashed across its side. I know exactly what to give him now. The trouble is, getting the gift will mean
striking a deal with Vivian.
And deals with her never come cheap.
I waste no time calling Vivian on video. The screen shows her perched at her bedroom vanity, as if posing for a magazine shoot. The light from the makeup mirror trails over her body, tracing the curves of her chest and the lines of her toned stomach. She’s only half-dressed, wearing a green lace bra and panties that stand out against her artificially tanned skin. The only thing she keeps on is her equestrian helmet, with her rich black hair neatly pinned beneath it. She must’ve recently returned from her weekly ride with Mom.
“Hey, Lore,” Vivian says, setting her phone at an angle to keep me in view. Her tone is casual, but her brow furrows slightly, and her lips press into a distracted line. “Just give me a second.”
I’m about to ask why she’s so tense when I notice a Pinkie approaching from behind, gripping a fine-gauge needle. Vivian’s breath catches as the Pinkie tilts her head, exposing the delicate stretch of muscle above her collarbone. The robot wipes the area with a sterilizing wipe, then slides the needle into the muscle above her clavicle.
It’s her Steriline shot, the yearly injection all women are legally forced to take from the day they start menstruating to prevent pregnancy. Vivian lets
out a soft groan as the Pinkie administers the shot, which contains nanoparticles engineered to circulate through her bloodstream and prevent ovulation.
Pregnancy is often dangerous, health experts say. It’s a risk to women’s health and bodies, which are too valuable to be damaged by hair loss, stretch marks, vaginal tearing, or abdominal muscle separation. So the government banned it years ago.
Now, couples enter a weekly lottery, and the winners are granted permission to have children. The winners send their sperm and eggs to the Offspring Institute, where embryos are engineered in sterile labs and grown in artificial wombs. That’s how all of us were born. Vivian. Hillaire. Me.
Everyone.
When the Pinkie finally withdraws the needle, Vivian exhales in relief.
Her shoulders relax, and her fingers brush the injection site absently. Then her eyes meet mine through the phone screen, and her lips curve into a faint smile. “Okay,” she says. “I can talk now.”
I nod, but my chest tightens. Being forced to get the Steriline shot is one thing; it’s painful, invasive, and, for someone like me who’s never even had a boyfriend, pointless. But watching the shot being administered is different, like stepping on a flower that’s trying to grow.
“How are the wedding plans coming along?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.
Vivian lights up instantly. She shrugs on a silk robe, sprawls on her bed, and launches into a full-on spill about her gown, the menu, the music, and the floral arrangements. I half listen, thinking instead about how close she is to becoming a Public Person, and how relieved I’ll be when she’s finally married.
Partly because she loves Harrison. Mostly because the system is built to reward married couples so aggressively that almost no low-citizens ever opt out. On their wedding day, Vivian and Harrison will each receive three thousand civil credits. Their accounts will merge, their housing rank will jump, and Harrison will finally be granted legal access to his inheritance. In some cases, marriage even commutes or delays a sentence to the guillotine if the couple has children. That fact alone is enough to make marriage and family feel less like a choice and more like a necessary commitment.
Vivian keeps talking, barely stopping to breathe. For once, I don’t mind.
It’s nice to listen to something that doesn’t involve thinly veiled power plays.
She’s so sure of what she wants and where she’s headed. My life, meanwhile, is a spilled bag of beads, rolling in a hundred directions. All I know is that I want to fence. All I can think about is that I can’t.
After ten minutes, Vivian finally pauses to take a sip of sparkling water.
Her gaze flicks back to me, and her eyes widen as she realizes how long she’s been talking.
“I’m sorry, Lore,” she says. “I haven’t even asked how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine,” I say, brushing it off. “Just called to make a trade.”
Vivian shifts up onto her knees, her eyes sparking with interest. The way she surveys the room behind me through the screen is telling, as if she’s already thinking about what she can squeeze out of me.
“What’s it going to cost me?” she asks.
“One of those.”
I point to the Vanguard badges hanging on the wall behind her, so shiny I’m sure she polished them recently.
High-citizen or low-citizen, it doesn’t matter—everyone loves the Vanguards. It’s one of the few topics that unites people across all blood colors. As a pilot, I’m sure Edmund would be especially eager to own a flight-suit badge from one of the elite fighters who once protected the Civilized World’s energy shield. Back then, their jets tore through the skies, engines roaring as they held the line against external threats. The Vanguards were legends. Ghosts in the clouds. The shield’s first and last line of defense.
But their glory days are long gone. With no attacks on the shield for seventy years, the Vanguard program was deemed outdated and replaced by AI patrols. Now the Vanguards are little more than a footnote in history, their flight suit badges reduced to collectibles people like Vivian hang on their walls.
Vivian’s eyes narrow. “Since when do you care about the Vanguards?”
“It’s not for me,” I say. “It’s a birthday gift.”
“For whom?”
“Someone who’d appreciate it.”
Vivian glides to the wall and traces the badges with her fingers, her eyes filling with quiet reverence. I think the real reason she loves them so much is that they prove our world is capable of producing heroes… or at least it used to be.
Over her shoulder, she studies me for a long moment. Then she turns back to her display with a sigh. “Which one do you want?”
This is the tricky part. If I want to pull this off, I need to give Edmund the right badge. He won’t be impressed by a generic Vanguard whose military record blends in with the rest. He’ll want something irreplaceable, which means it has to be personal.
My eyes settle on the name Ernest Prew. Edmund’s grandfather. The Hellion.
Even though Ernest is now dead, his legacy remains as alive as I am. He was a Vanguard who single-handedly defended a breach in the energy shield for three hours, long enough for reinforcements to arrive and keep the Civilized World intact. I have no idea how Harrison got his hands on Ernest’s badge, only that it probably cost enough to make a Blue sweat.
“The Hellion’s badge,” I say.
Vivian spins around, one hand pressed against the wall. A flash of surprise crosses her face, sharp as her painted nails, and for a moment, I think she’ll shut me down and call me crazy for even asking.
Instead, she strolls back toward her phone, hips swaying, and says coolly, “That’s an interesting choice. A lot of people think Ernest Prew died a coward.”
The claim hits me sideways. “What do you mean?”
“The Hellion saved many lives during the Shield War. Everyone agrees on that. But on the day he died, a shield breach left his unit caught in a ground assault. Some survivors say Ernest ran, abandoned his men, and was shot in the back while trying to escape. Others insist he died protecting them, taking the shot straight to the chest.”
“Well, which one was it? Wasn’t there an investigation?” I ask. A single forensic analysis of his flight jacket would end the argument instantly.
“No.” Vivian shrugs. “The Prew family refused to have Ernest’s uniform examined. I think they believe he was a hero, but they’re terrified of what might happen if the evidence says otherwise, so they leave it to rumor. Now half the Civilized World thinks the Hellion was a legend, and the other half thinks he wasn’t.” She looks at the badge and gives a faint smile. “But I think he was.”
I wonder if Edmund feels the same way. Could part of the reason he wants to be a pilot be to emulate his grandfather? Or is it the opposite, to restore honor to the Prew legacy? I can’t be sure. All I know is that giving Edmund a flight badge belonging to a man he might believe disgraced his family could backfire. The badge could be a priceless gift or a painful reminder.
Vivian brushes her fingers over the badge. “All right, Lore. We have a
deal.”
“W-Wait,” I stammer. “Really?”
“Yes, but in exchange, I want her.”
“Her?”
“That’s right. I want Coquette.”
I stare at Vivian, sure she can’t be serious. This has to be a joke, a cruel one. But then she lifts her phone, smiling hopefully at the screen, and I feel the curse slip out under my breath. I stagger from my desk, and in a single, blinding flash, my whole body floods with heat.
Vivian could’ve asked for anything, even my 18-carat emerald necklace, and I would’ve agreed. But Coquette is different. It’s the Lemon gown Mom gave me after my weapons restriction, handed to me like a whisper that said, I still believe in you.
The gown’s green shade is as deep as a forest at dusk. Ivy lace climbs the bodice in a tangle of embroidery, and the skirt flows in layers of delicate tulle that feel like mist against your skin. Diamonds are sewn by hand into the fabric, soft as dew before morning, in a one-of-a-kind pattern. Lemon never repeats a design. That’s part of the prestige and why their clothes cost more than Vivian’s prized thoroughbred.
But the bank-breaking price isn’t why the dress matters.
Coquette matters because when I opened that box, I made a promise to myself. I swore I wouldn’t wear it until the day I was finally allowed to hold a saber again.
Every time I felt like giving up, I’d picture myself in that dress, the blade flashing at my side. I’d picture how the layers of tulle would shift as I lunged and how the diamonds on the sleeves would sparkle as I lifted my arm in a high-line parry. I clung to that thought through every doubt, every secret training session in my room, every moment I had to stand on the sidelines and watch others live my dream.
Vivian doesn’t know this. She doesn’t realize that if she takes Coquette, she’ll take my hope with it. But she does know I haven’t worn the dress yet because I was saving it for something special. And she doesn’t seem to care.
“No,” I say, my voice hoarse. “No fucking way.”
“Please, Lore.” Vivian presses her hands together as if casting a spell to change my mind. “I don’t have a dress for the rehearsal dinner. It could be a wedding gift.”
“I’ll give you another one,” I say, hurrying into my bedroom and yanking open the wardrobe, where silk, chiffon, and velvet gleam under the lights.
“Any dress you want.”
“I don’t want another one.” Her gaze slides past me and lands on Coquette, hanging in a muslin garment bag. “What if I just wear it for the rehearsal dinner and then give it back?”
“No.”
Her jaw drops. “Seriously? Not even to borrow it?”
I shake my head. If she wears Coquette before I do, it’ll destroy the symbol.
Vivian’s expression ices over. Her top lip curls, the way it always does when she’s about to unload on Hillaire. “Then you’re not getting the Hellion.
In fact, none of the badges are up for trade.”
“What?” I whirl around. “Then what am I supposed to give Ed—”
I bite down on his name.
Vivian smirks, her eyes glinting. “Guess you’ll just have to go dumpster
diving.”
Then she hangs up.
