History is a sacred inheritance, passed down to remind us of the duty we
owe to the nation we love so dearly.
—PROFESSOR RUDOLPH YATES, GRANDMASTER UNIVERSITY FACULTY
CHAPTER 23
Guilt weighs on me like a heavy, damp towel until Friday. It’s the day before Edmund’s birthday, and Vivian is still ignoring my calls and leaving my texts unanswered. I feel bad for shutting her down, especially since she was willing to part with one of her Vanguard badges. To some people, the Hellion is worth at least three times what Coquette is.
Still… I can’t do it.
I can’t give up the dress.
At the first-year Lecture Hall, Charlotte, Jack, Dickie, and I head to Civilized World History on our own. Walking through the parking lot without Edmund feels strange. I’m surprised to realize I’m uncomfortable, even a little anxious, the way Charlotte must’ve felt the one time she tried to quit smoking. According to Dickie, Edmund is missing our first lecture because Irene’s lawyer arranged a visit. They usually meet twice a month in Edmund’s suite, with Coppers closely supervising their conversations.
Wind tugs at the fur collar of my coat as we climb the steps to the first- year Lecture Hall. The building looms ahead, its portico cleared of ice and snow. Students move through the corridors in waves, some lounging by columns and doorways, their laughter echoing off the marble. Someone calls my name, and a few students toss me practiced, shiny smiles that I return out of habit.
“You’ve almost got as many admirers as I do,” Dickie muses, nudging his Pinkie chaperone to keep up with us.
The robot stumbles forward, arms overloaded with Dickie’s daily excess:
a steaming hot chocolate, three snack boxes, and a backpack embroidered with his family crest.
“Perhaps,” I say. “I think I would rather have friends.”
Dickie shrugs. “Too many friends can cost you, broad. If not money, then time.” He rubs his Aegis like it’s a nervous habit or a victory lap. At this point, he lives to show it off. “Even as a man with many admirers, I don’t have many friends. Just Ed and Jack.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You do not consider me your friend?”
Dickie thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “Nah. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because friendship takes trust. And trust takes time, broad. No such thing as instant love.”
His tone is casual, but there’s an honesty to it that makes me pause. He’s not wrong. It took more than a year for Charlotte to become my best friend.
True love—true friendship—develops slowly over time, like sediment. And when it breaks, it shatters unevenly, in a jagged, splintered mess.
Charlotte and Jack are proof of that.
They walk a few paces ahead, their shoulders stiff with the awkward civility that settles in after a war. They’re talking about birthday gifts for Edmund, at least on the surface. Jack keeps his hands in his pockets, head down, barely looking at Charlotte. When he does, his glances are quick and involuntary, as if he’s trying to convince himself he’s over her and not quite succeeding.
Charlotte’s hair, thanks to regrowth cream, has grown into a soft pixie cut with curly layers framing her face. A silk scarf wraps around her head, and pearls drape from her ears and down her neck. Her lips are painted as brightly as an alarm. The look is new, bolder and more glamorous, but I’m getting used to it.
Even her new face doesn’t surprise me anymore. The sharp cheekbones, reshaped nose, and eerie symmetry all begin to fade into the version of her I once knew. It’s as if this polished, reconstructed version of her has been the real one all along.
“No. I still have not purchased Mr. Prew a gift,” Charlotte says to Jack, her words carefully formal as they weave through the corridor. “The issue is that I already spent my monthly student allowance from my father.”
Jack glances at her sidelong. “How’d you manage that?”
“Being a woman is expensive. Being a beautiful woman is priceless.”
Charlotte twirls a ringlet around her finger. “Might you consider… assisting
me?”
“How much?”
“Five.”
“Hundred?”
“Thousand.”
Jack whistles. “Steep ask, darling.”
“Indeed. There are several vital expenses I need to cover. I shall repay you, of course.”
Jack tips down his tortoiseshell sunglasses, peering at her over the top. A beat passes, then he sighs. “All right. Remind me after class.”
“I shall. Thank you, Mr. Carroway.”
Charlotte curtsies gracefully, then slips through the lecture room doors, leaving a faint trail of black orchid perfume.
Seeing Jack and Charlotte treat each other so politely is strange, especially since it’s clear neither is saying what they truly think. Their politeness feels like a thin strip of tape stretched over something broken.
I turn to Dickie, lowering my voice as we enter the lecture room. “Jack and Charlotte… you are not aware of what happened between them, are you?”
“Nah. I was at the Royce Club with them, but I missed the drama.” Dickie squints and strokes his chin, as if he’s as curious as I am. “Jack doesn’t talk about their breakup, not even when he’s a whiskey bottle deep. All I know is that before he and Lady Charlotte walked into the Royce Club, they were wrapped up in each other. And when they walked out, they weren’t.”
“And Edmund?”
Dickie puffs out his cheeks and sighs. “Same story. As soon as Lady Charlotte’s name comes up, he gets dark-eyed and changes the subject.”
“But they were friends?”
“Friends?” Dickie huffs a laugh. “They were way more than that, broad.
They were like stink on a skunk. Ed used to light up whenever Lady Charlotte walked into a room. He’s got three Aegises, you know—well, he had three. He gave one to his big brother for his entourage. But if Ed and Lady Charlotte hadn’t fallen out, I think he would’ve given it to her instead.”
I try to keep my expression neutral, but my thoughts are spiraling.
Charlotte tore into Edmund on Harrison’s jet and called all the Blues spiders.
The only time she admitted she and Edmund were friends was in the lavatory
on the Regal Express, and even then, it was an offhand comment.
I wonder if Charlotte is ashamed.
She told me it was her fault that things went sour between her, Edmund, and Jack. Maybe that’s why she’s rewriting history. If she admits they were truly close, the betrayal becomes uglier, the kind that haunts.
Now, I’m even more curious about what she did. What the hell could’ve happened during a single visit to a private resort that destroyed everything?
“May I ask you something else?” I ask Dickie as we step into an elevator and ride it to the fourth level of the lecture room.
“Depends on what it is,” Dickie says, polishing his Aegis on the embroidered cuff of his suit. “Depends on what it’s gonna cost me.”
“It concerns Mr. Prew’s grandfather. Does he share the opinion that his grandfather abandoned his unit before he was killed?”
Dickie scratches his nose, eyes narrowing. “Now why d’you wanna know that?”
“No particular reason. I only heard the story recently and wondered about Mr. Prew’s opinion on the matter.”
“’Course Ed doesn’t think his grandfather turned tail and ran.” Dickie snorts. “The Hellion was a hero. Only people who wanna trash his legacy say
otherwise.”
I nod and drop the subject.
Dickie and I exit the elevator on the fourth level, reserved for Blues and their entourages. At first, the luxury of the private booths overwhelmed me.
Now, the only thing that surprises me is the Blues themselves. They’re all irritatingly diligent, even though their paths are already paved in gold. Their blood color opens doors faster than any degree or qualification, and yet they still seem to care enough to work for it.
I don’t like it. And I’m not even sure why. Maybe because it’s easier to hate Blues if they have no redeeming qualities.
I keep my head down as I follow Jack and Charlotte toward Edmund’s private booth. At the entrance, Charlotte stops abruptly and lets out a half- strangled gasp. I pull up behind her and peer over her shoulder, seeing a Prew leaning against the balcony railing inside.
It’s not Edmund.
Rosamund pretends not to notice us at first. She slips off her T-strap heels, lifts her chin with the poise of a stage swan, and works through a series of pointe and flex exercises with her foot. Her dark perfumed hair bounces against the curve of her back, and her dress, made of satin-silk so delicate it’s nearly transparent, clings to her figure like sweat. A small brown monkey scampers along the railing of the private booth, pausing occasionally to take a drag from the cigarette between her fingers.
Rosamund sets her hands on the railing and, as she lowers into a deep plié, her eyes meet Jack’s. Her smile lights up her entire face.
“Good day, Mr. Carroway,” Rosamund says.
“Hey, darling.”
Jack’s lips brush her hand in a practiced motion, like a ritual he’s performed a hundred times. Dickie follows suit, while Charlotte offers only a brittle smile. Her eyes dart to me, dark and cautionary, as if reiterating her warning: Enjoy the time you’ve got without the spider. Once she shows up, you’re never getting this kind of peace back.
“Mr. Carroway,” Rosamund says. “Might you be so kind as to introduce me to Miss Waldsten?”
Jack glances at me for permission. I curl my fingers, bracing for what feels like a trap I can’t yet fully see, then give a quick nod.
Rosamund finishes her cigarette while Jack speaks, then hands the stub to her monkey, who promptly snuffs it out in an ashtray. She keeps her eyes on me, smiling with the tolerance of someone politely enduring an interruption.
When Jack mentions I’m the daughter of Bruce Waldsten, one of her eyebrows arches in quiet disdain, the same way it did when she greeted Irene in the dining hall.
For a moment, I’m sure that once the introduction ends, Rosamund will make her dislike of Charlotte and me known to everyone. But when Jack finishes, it’s as if we vanish. Rosamund turns to Jack and straightens his bowtie with a warm, loving smile, as if the rest of us are intruding on a private moment. Her cheeks flush softly as she sinks onto the couch beside him and rests a hand on his shoulder, her fingers curving around the shape of his muscles.
Charlotte’s face hardens into a blank, distant mask that looks habitual. But Jack doesn’t appear any more at ease. He offers Rosamund a tight-lipped smile, then edges away enough to break her touch. Rosamund leans toward him again, this time letting her arm drape over the headrest behind him.
That’s when I notice the four scratches on her inner bicep. They’re probably from her pet monkey, but the fact that they look so much like Edmund’s scratches sets off an alarm in my head.
Just then, the door swings open, and Professor Yates strides in, followed by two Pinkies carrying a locked, gold-trimmed box. The robots set the box on Yates’s desk, then retreat to the corner. Students lean forward in their seats with interest.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Professor Yates announces, shrugging off his fur-lined coat with dramatic flair. “Today is a very special day. A day of firsts, when you shall glimpse something few have had the privilege of seeing.”
The room buzzes with voices as students exchange excited glances. Yates strokes his waxed mustache, a sly grin forming on his lips, then steps onto the floating lecture platform and glides toward the cube of holographic screens in the room’s center.
“However,” Yates adds, raising a hand, “before you receive your reward, we must first determine your worthiness.”
He snaps his fingers, and the screens light up with a burst of footage. My breath catches as I realize the footage is from the day the energy shield was first activated. Millions pack the streets, their bodies pressed together for miles, eyes fixed skyward. They cheer and clap, waving flags, until a deep rumble shakes the ground. Sparks rain down on the crowd as the shield surges to life from the earth, a luminous yellow wall rising until it seems to swallow the sky. The shield vanishes into the clouds like a god ascending,
sealing us inside.
A protector.
And a prison.
Professor Yates steers his floating platform toward the Green level.
“William Lee.” He shakes his cane at Vincent’s younger brother. “How long ago was the Civilized World founded?”
“On May 13th, it will be exactly two hundred years,” William replies coolly.
“Correct.” Professor Yates moves on and selects a Purple with a shiny bob and a kiss curl pressed to her forehead. “And why was it founded?”
The Purple pauses, glancing around as if to make sure everyone is paying attention. “The Civilized World was established after an international dispute over technology,” she replies. “While we sought to push the boundaries of
scientific advancement, other nations feared such progress. They demanded we cease all experimentation in genetic engineering, AI expansion, and brain- computer interface implants, or face nuclear retaliation.” A small, knowing smile lifts her lips. “So, we chose survival. We built the shield. We preserved our future. And we lived in peace.”
The lecture room erupts in proud applause. I touch my daffodil brooch reflexively as I stare at the image of the shield on the screen: yellow, blinding, endless.
We lived in peace, yes. But it didn’t last.
Professor Yates switches to a new reel of footage, and the mood shifts instantly. Gone is the celebration, the hope for a better future. Now the shield is crowded with Vanguards, their dark shapes swarming like vultures in a feeding frenzy, relentless in their defense. Missiles tear through glowing cracks in the shield and plunge toward the city below. The screen erupts in explosions, waves of heat boiling upward. Smoke rises in thick columns that swallow the crumbling skyline. Bodies lie scattered in the streets, piled so high in some places that they block doors and windows.
The class watches with wide eyes, hands frozen above their digital tablets.
A few students cup their mouths, or flinch in discomfort. Dickie, the outlier, bounces in his seat, his arm raised, eager for the next question.
Instead, Professor Yates calls on Rosamund. “Miss Prew, how long did we live in peace?”
She props her chin on her hand, her gaze drifting in and out as if she’s lost in a haze. “Nearly a hundred years,” she says, drawing each word like silk through her teeth. “Then they struck. Unprovoked. And the Shield War began.”
“Correct.” Professor Yates’s eyes twinkle. “A most excellent response, Miss Prew.” Then his gaze settles on me, and the warmth vanishes. “And
who are they, Miss Waldsten?”
All eyes turn to me, thick with pity.
No one likes to talk about what lies beyond the shield. The truth lies in a chapter of our history we’ve tried to forget, buried so deep it surfaces only in classes like this one. We might’ve once belonged to that world, but it’s been lost to us for two centuries. Now the land beyond our borders is a shadowy wilderness, vast and unknown.
We call it the Open Range. And those who inhabit it… “The Rangers,” I say quietly.
The word feels like a threat when spoken aloud, even though I have no mental image to attach to it. During the Shield War, almost no one saw a Ranger up close. Dad says there’s footage, but only the top brass has access to it.
Maybe that’s why we fear the Rangers. Even after an extensive, bloody war, they’re still faceless monsters lurking in the dark.
“Correct, Miss Waldsten,” Professor Yates says with a brisk nod. Then he sails away and selects a hook-nosed Orange for the final question. “How long
did the Shield War last—”
“Thirty years,” Dickie blurts.
He’s out of his seat, breathing heavily, his eyes wild, desperate to finally answer a question. “No treaty was ever signed. No peace was ever declared.
But the Rangers stopped attacking once they realized they couldn’t bring down the shield.”
Professor Yates spins around, sucking his teeth. He starts to speak, ready to scold Dickie, until his gaze falls on the blue gleam of Dickie’s Aegis. He halts abruptly, a muscle twitching in his jaw, then turns away and drifts back to the center of the room.
“Well done, ladies and gentlemen,” Professor Yates announces. “Through your knowledge of our history—our sacred inheritance—you have proven your worth. Now, you shall receive your reward.”
He unlocks the box on his desk with a biometric scan. Students in the front rows lean forward, craning their necks, eager for a glimpse.
But for me, what’s inside is already clear.
A Ranger artifact, the only genuine one ever recovered. Dad told me the professors have been showing it to first-years at Grandmaster since the Shield War ended. Now, instead of imagining the artifact from Dad’s description, I’ll see it for myself.
The box creaks open, and a collective gasp rings out.
The artifact is smaller than I expected, a curved steel object resembling a hooked claw. At the tip is a rowel, a toothed wheel that spins with movement.
The steel is shiny but worn smooth from use. From war.
Professor Yates scans the room, clearly savoring the students’ fascination.
“Can anyone tell me what this is?”
“It’s a spur,” Jack calls out, his eyes sparking as he stares at it. “It attaches to the back of a boot and is used to control horses… and as a weapon.”
“Correct.” Professor Yates stomps his cane. Then, with a grin, he points
his cane at the spur. “Those who wish for a closer look may form an orderly line.”
The high-citizens go first, their eyes rife with curiosity, while low-citizens jostle for a place in line behind them.
I don’t join in. I’m already closer than I want to be.
That thing… that spur radiates nothing but dread. It’s a promise of the destruction that will follow if the Rangers ever breach our defenses.
Seventy years have passed since their last missile. Most believe the Rangers have abandoned the fight for good, content to live outside the Civilized World on their own land among their own people. Even if they decide to bomb us again, the Blues say it won’t matter. Our technology has advanced too much, and the shield is now too strong to breach.
But the Blues are overlooking one thing.
The Heretics. The thousands of traitors hidden among us, working desperately to organize an attack strong enough to bring down the shield.
And to let the Rangers in.
