The repentant soul bears a thirst that, if denied the waters of forgiveness,
will instead drink poison. —VINCENT LEE
CHAPTER 30
When Harrison stops at the base of the staircase, the only sound in the drinking hall is the faint rattling of his scabbard against his hip. Everyone is slack-jawed. Some fight back scowls, while others stiffen with envy. To my right, students drop their heads as their expectations collapse. To my left, a few grumble as they cough up money for their lost bets. Behind me, a couple of them offer tight, forced smiles, as if second-guessing their earlier dismissals of Harrison and wishing they’d been kinder, so they’d have an in with him now.
I know we’re all thinking the same thing. Harrison is only a third-year. A jump in rank like this shouldn’t be possible, even if he’s a skilled fencer and a top-scoring student. The Grandmaster title demands years of experience and, more importantly, support from the majority of other Grandmasters. I can’t help but wonder if Harrison’s Blue played a role. She’s the first-year Grandmaster of the Blue Fraternity, with fingers in every pie. If she wanted Harrison in this position, she could’ve easily persuaded the other Grandmasters to vote for him, no question.
And yet, he doesn’t carry the smug air of a backdoor hire. His posture is confident, his shoulders squared, his chin raised proudly. He absorbs the resentful whispers like a cool drag from a hot cigar.
The formalities proceed. A Pinkie steps in to oversee Harrison’s swearing- in, the recitation of our motto, and the toast to his good health. Applause fills the drinking hall after each part, but throughout it all, Harrison looks at me only once.
When our eyes meet, he shifts his weight anxiously from one foot to the
other. A flush rises in his neck, and his eyes dim with shame. He looks away.
I’m grateful when Charlotte squeezes my hand from behind. She knows Harrison was forced to cut me off and that his Blue, Lily, forbade him from speaking to me. But none of that prepares me for the weight of what I suddenly miss: slow mornings with Harrison and Vivian in the sunroom at Waldsten Mansion, our breakfasts stretching long past hot coffee and fresh croissants; afternoons riding through the forest, with the smell of dandelions in the air; starry nights in the garden, the three of us cramming onto the tree swing, laughing even as the ropes threatened to snap.
The memories pull me under so deeply that the meeting passes in fragments. I drift back only when Harrison announces a duel between the two top-ranked first-year fencers, Jack Carroway and William Lee. The winner, he tells them, will claim more than bragging rights; they’ll claim the honor of representing us in the Mensur, the formal duel between Fraternities. This year, we’re facing the Blues.
Charlotte and I join the students in forming a circle around the piste. As Jack and William draw their sabers and shift into en garde, Charlotte grips my wrist so tightly I’m sure the indentation of her fingers will still be there when I’m buried.
William fights well enough, but his swings are tainted by the same crippling anger I struggled with as a new fencer. He’s smug when he’s ahead, but as soon as Jack gains the upper hand, he starts to unravel. William’s feints grow sloppy, and his parries reckless, with frustration radiating off him like heat from a dying fire. He snarls through his teeth, pushing harder and striking more wildly. Throughout it all, Vincent watches from the sidelines, arms crossed, eyebrows angled down in disappointment.
Jack, meanwhile, moves with the same explosive speed of a perfect flèche. His footwork is razor-sharp, his advance and retreat flawlessly measured, and his point control so precise that the blade feels like an extension of his will. A long moment passes before I realize what’s different about him, why he looks like someone else entirely.
He’s sober.
For the first time, I see what Jack Carroway could be if he weren’t always as drunk as a fly in a moonshine still. And it’s astonishing. Every parry- riposte and lightning-fast lunge speaks to a natural talent most fencers spend their lives chasing. Watching him is like catching a glimpse of the man hidden behind the whiskey bottle. Charlotte told me Jack drank when they
were together, though never this heavily, and that the alcohol has dulled his personality so much she sometimes doesn’t recognize him. It makes me wonder when he started drinking and what wound was deep enough to make him want to drown himself in whiskey every day since.
Charlotte watches closely as Jack drives William to the edge of the piste, exploiting every inch that William surrenders to his emotion. Even from the side, I can see her eyes glistening, as if it’s taking everything in her not to cry. The way she looks at Jack is like seeing a ghost, a shadow of someone she thought had been lost to her. And the sight of it breaks my heart… for both of them.
Charlotte’s grip on my hand tightens as Jack executes a flawless feint, smooth disengage, and a thrust that slips straight through William’s guard.
Then she lets go, and blood rushes back into my wrist in sharp, needling bursts. The room erupts in cheers and applause, but now that I know what Jack is capable of, the moment feels more tragic than anything else.
William stumbles back, his saber trembling in his grip, his face mottled with exertion and fury. He turns, fueled by a surge of hot, aimless anger, and slams the saber against one of the marble columns, the blade gouging a jagged notch in the stone. Vincent winces as if his brother had struck him. A few people shake their heads; others mutter their disappointment under their breath. William grits his teeth and drags a hand across his forehead, smearing sweat into an even uglier shine.
Beside him, Jack lowers his weapon slowly, almost warily, as if his own arm were a stranger when sober. Still, he manages a smile, his eyes bright and clear as he waits for the official call.
“Victory to Mr. Carroway,” Harrison announces, nodding at William to leave the piste.
William obeys, his fists clenched and his shoulders drawn tight. As he brushes past Vincent, his shame hangs between them like a body left to rot.
Harrison turns to Jack, places a firm hand on his shoulder, and makes it official. “Mr. Carroway will duel in the Mensur.”
The Greens roar with applause. Fists pound tables, and voices burst into the old drinking songs from our Fraternity’s beer-stained songbook. Someone slams a glass down in time with the beat. We step together and drape our arms over each other’s shoulders as we belt out the words, half-drunk on the moment even before the real drinking begins.
The meeting concludes with our Fraternity’s anthem. Harrison delivers the
formal dismissal, and the students file out in a slow, satisfied exodus. I fall into line, hoping to slip away unnoticed, but Harrison stops me at the door.
“Miss Waldsten, a word.”
I glance over my shoulder, the question written on my face. I thought we weren’t supposed to talk. Lily made it clear that Harrison was to cut all ties.
If he wants to stay in her entourage, I can’t be part of his life at Grandmaster.
“Miss Waldsten, please,” he says again.
A few heads turn, curiosity glinting in the eyes of the last stragglers. No one is asked to stay unless they’re about to be reprimanded. And Harrison and I aren’t supposed to acknowledge each other at all.
Still, I double back.
Harrison stands tall, his hands neatly clasped at the small of his back. The brim of his cap casts a shadow over his face, making him look stern. But up close, the illusion falls apart. He’s thinner, with cheekbones that are too sharp and hollows that seem deeper than I remember. A slight twitch distorts his left eye, and his skin, once sun-warmed, now appears drained to a sallow pallor, as if he hasn’t eaten properly in weeks. What disturbs me most is the bruise on his wrist, the distinct imprint of four fingers pressed into the skin.
“Harry, are you okay?” I ask softly.
He clears his throat and pulls his sleeve down to cover the bruise. “I’m the
one who should be asking you that.”
“Yes, I’m fine. But you don’t look—”
“I’m sorry for leaving you,” Harrison cuts in, his voice heavy. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just want you to know I hate myself for it.”
Had he said those words a few months ago, I’m sure my heart would’ve been harder. Back then, I felt abandoned. But after everything—the low civil credit scares, the repeated narrow escapes from death, the ugly face of our world showing itself again and again—my anger has faded. I look at Harrison now and realize we don’t need words. It’s in his eyes and probably in mine, too. A single glance reveals the scars.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Harry,” I say quietly. “I get it now.”
“Then why don’t you look afraid?”
“I still am sometimes, but… well, Edmund’s good to me.” My eyes drop to Harrison’s bruised wrist, still hidden beneath his sleeve. “How does Lily treat you?”
Harrison’s fingers tighten behind his back. His posture is so stiff it looks like he’s balancing a knife between his shoulder blades, terrified of letting it
fall.
“As well as I can expect from a Blue,” he replies at last, unfastening his scabbard. The saber clinks against the bartop as he lays it down, the gesture slow, as if he’s setting aside something far heavier than graphene.
He lowers himself onto one of the brass stools, the seat still sticky with spilled beer. I slide onto the stool beside him and run a finger along the counter’s scarred wood. The Pinkies will come soon, mop up the mess, and make it seem like the night never happened.
“Why are you talking to me, Harry? Did Lily change her mind about you cutting ties with me?”
“No. But now that I’m your Grandmaster, the rules don’t apply during Fraternity meetings.”
I narrow my eyes at the empty room. “The meeting is over, though.”
“Yeah, but Lily won’t find out. Our entourage isn’t supposed to meet until tomorrow morning, and—” Harrison pauses, as if a thought just struck him.
“Are you logged out?”
I immediately realize he’s talking about the Grandmaster Map, the system we must log into from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., making our locations visible to everyone on campus. But it’s well after seven.
“Yeah,” I say. “You?”
Harrison nods, his mouth softening into the first smile I’ve seen from him all night. “Got time for a beer?”
“Sure, but…” My voice trails off as I gaze out the window at the Luminescent Lake. The water shimmers with scattered starlight, a rippling sheet of bioluminescence that casts an eerie glow across the beach. Beyond the shoreline, the ocean stretches into seemingly endless darkness, and above it, the energy shield rises into the night, its artificial light spilling in fractured
beams over the waves.
“I’ve got a better idea.”
My hoverboard sprays mist across the No Swimming sign as I cut over the vast, empty span of the Luminescent Lake. The water shines like the inside of a seashell, an endless tide of blues and purples pulsing with light beneath me.
The campus regulators keep the lake’s temperature steady, so the water stays
warm even in winter.
Harrison glides beside me, loose as a jazz riff. He throws himself into a tail drag, his board skimming so low it kicks up an arc of water, then flips the board cleanly beneath him before his feet find their place again.
“Show that trick to Viv, and she’ll marry you twice,” I call.
“Oh, she’s seen it.” He laughs. “Made sure to show it off right away.”
Grinning, I push my own limits, shifting my weight back until my board tilts onto a single edge. The antigravity tech hums beneath my feet as I ride the thin line between control and a headlong fall into the lake. Below, hundreds of colorful fish weave through the currents, their scales reflecting
the water’s glow like molten jewels.
Piranhas.
These aren’t the dull, bloated creatures of the wild but sleek, engineered predators, designed for speed and the kind of efficiency that leaves no bones behind. The piranhas’ teeth flash as they slice through the depths, mouths opening and closing, ready for something—or someone—to slip in with them.
Harrison catches me watching. “A second-year fell in last year. The Pinkies only found his Blood Ring.”
“What the hell?” I grimace. “Why do they keep piranhas in here at all?”
“The Blues insist on it. They say we don’t have to fear the piranhas because nature is a slave to us.”
Maybe nature is a slave to the Blues, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want to test my luck. I crouch lower on my board and watch the deadly fish swim beneath me, struck by how beautiful they are, like this world of ours, where everything dazzles until it doesn’t.
Harrison and I carve across the open water, side by side. Wind whips past, cool against my flushed skin, carrying the electric taste of storm-filtered ozone and distant sea salt. Ahead, the Sailing Strip rises from the center of the lake, a floating marble platform gleaming under the moonlight, like polished whale hide. The Sailing Strip is where the Mensur will take place at the end of the academic year, where Jack will face a first-year Blue in a duel broadcast live to the entire university.
I glide closer, and as I circle the platform from below, I can almost hear the echo of clashing blades on the piste above. I wish it could be me. I wish I at least had the chance to take up a saber and prove myself. I keep rising, lost in thought, when Harrison skids to a stop beside me, sending a spray of water
across my face. His skin has gone pale, and his hands tremble as though he’d nearly lost his balance and plunged into the lake.
“Everything okay, Harry?” I ask.
“No. I mean—yeah.” He pulls off his cap and twists it between his hands.
“But I’ve got to go.”
“I thought you didn’t have plans tonight?”
“I thought so, too.” Harrison shrugs, trying to play it off, though the cap keeps twisting anxiously in his fingers.
I know it’s his Blue. I can almost hear the rattle of the chain she’s fastened around his neck as he rockets back toward the shore. Harrison’s life here on campus isn’t much different from that of many others in entourages. Most Blues treat their low-citizens like pets in pearls, each bound to them by debt or a costly contract signed with something closer to a soul than a pen.
I realize then how rare my situation is… how rare Edmund is.
I can only hope Harrison finds a way out. I hope he leaves Lily’s entourage at the end of the year and learns to stand on his own. If he doesn’t, he’ll be caught between Lily’s demands and Vivian’s claim. He can hide an engagement, but not a marriage. And if I’ve learned anything about the Blues by now, it’s that they don’t like to share.
