There’s only one way to forgive. And when it’s done right, forgiveness is
mercy, looking down on misery. —BRUCE WALDSTEN
CHAPTER 38
Dad has called a few times, though he always carefully skirts the edges of his plans, never breaking the news that he’s planning to run for Governor of the Rainbow District. It makes me wonder if he’s holding off for a reason, if he’s worried about how I’ll take it, and if he thinks I can’t handle another shovel of shit after everything this year has already thrown at me.
So I let Dad stall. I wait until he’s ready. When he finally tells me about his plans, I’ll have something to tell him, too: that I’m part of Edmund Prew’s entourage, and that I’m happy here.
At last, nearly a month after Hillaire broke the news, Dad is ready to tell me himself. I’m in my suite, rushing to change for my Fraternity meeting, halfway into my uniform, when the text pings across my Bond screen: “Need to talk to you about something important, honey. Can we have a call? Saturday, maybe?”
Saturday? It’s only Monday. For a moment, I’m tempted to ask why not sooner, especially with Hillaire checking in every few days and her messages steadily growing more impatient, but I stop myself. Dad isn’t going to take the news about Edmund well. The more time I have before dropping that
bomb, the better.
“Saturday works,” I text back.
I tug on my flat-top cap and head out with Jack and Charlotte into the velvet dusk. The air is almost too warm for the hour as our hovercar powers down in the parking lot. Ahead, the Green Fraternity glows against the deepening sky, its windows spilling golden rectangles onto the stone path.
We slip out of the hovercar and join the tide of students already gathered
outside. Everyone is talking about the Mensur. It’s the only topic of Fraternity night now, looming just weeks away and set to unfold right before the academic year closes.
Jack, Charlotte, and I linger on the front step, with Jack and Charlotte passing a cigarette between them. Then, from the balustrade above, a brassy trumpet rings out, halting all conversation. We fall into rows, boots striking crisply on the stone, and march inside.
A boot knocks the back of my heel as I walk. I glance back and see William Lee behind me. I quicken my step, but he knocks me again. And again. The third time, I stop, ready to glare at him, but the look dies on my face when I see him clearly. His skin, usually bronzed from polo on the beach, is ghostly pale, with dark hollows under his eyes. His uniform hangs loosely, as if he’s shrunk inside it, and a handkerchief is crumpled in his fist.
“I apologize, Miss Waldsten,” William rasps, dabbing sweat from his brow.
I study him a moment longer, wondering if it’s the Mensur—if he’s bitter that Jack was chosen as our challenger instead of him—but the timing doesn’t track. That decision was made months ago.
“No harm, Mr. Lee,” I murmur, and fall back into line.
In the drinking hall, the piste has been replaced with rows of upholstered chairs. Harrison stands in the far corner by the podium, his red hair tumbling against his neck like flames. At first glance, he appears confident, every inch the Grandmaster. But I know him too well. I see the twitch in his eye, the rapid tap of his fingers against the brass cap of his scabbard. This is his first Mensur as our Grandmaster. How he handles the duel will be stamped into his record, remembered by every Green student, and replayed in whispers long after the sabers are sheathed.
I wave to Harrison as I take my seat beside Jack and Charlotte, hoping to catch his eye and offer a supportive smile, but he doesn’t notice me. Instead, he turns and walks toward Vincent Lee, who’s already broken into the beer and has nearly drained his first glass.
When Harrison reaches Vincent’s side, he removes his cap and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, still keyed up as he speaks. Vincent leans in and responds, then grins—a flash of white beneath his dark mustache— and offers Harrison the rest of the beer. Vincent bumps Harrison’s shoulder as he does, easy and familiar, like he’s reminding him of how they used to drag each other home drunk from the riverbanks. Harrison tips his head
forward with a laugh, eyes crinkling, and the tension in his body loosens.
What the fuck?
The breath inside me shrinks to a thread. I shift in my seat, chest roiling as I choke on the sight. After everything Vincent did, after he was ready to challenge Harrison to a death duel, how can Harrison even look at him?
The two men keep talking, heads bent close, until the horn sounds overhead, signaling the start of the Fraternity meeting. Only then do they part. Vincent bows, and Harrison claps him on the back in return, adding a touch of ceremony to the gesture. Then he strides to the front and begins outlining the rules of this year’s Mensur.
But I don’t hear a word. The moment replays louder than his voice: the laugh and the shoulder bump, with forgiveness passed as if it cost nothing at all.
I shift again in my seat, eyes darting between Harrison and Vincent.
Neither looks at me, but I can’t shake the feeling that they do. When my back is turned, I wonder if they trade glances, deciding I’m no longer the one who was wronged, just the one who refuses to let go.
I chew the inside of my cheek, bitterness crawling up my throat the way it always does when I see Vincent. I know I’m still holding on, nursing the memory like it’s a fresh wound, while keeping it alive by ripping the scab open so I can feel justified in staying angry. I blink stiffly and look down. My hands are knotted too tightly in my lap, the bones of my knuckles protruding
beneath my skin.
What am I doing?
I used to believe people could change. I used to want them to. So why is Harrison’s forgiveness so hard to watch? I don’t know the answer, only that something ugly is stirring inside me, a fear that my anger is more about pride than principle, and that I’m confusing justice with a refusal to let go.
The thought sits in my head like something left to rot, spreading its mold through the rest of me. I stay still, even as Harrison’s voice carries on in the background.
Because suddenly I don’t feel righteous.
I feel small.
“—begin with a traditional coin flip to determine the presiding Grandmaster,” Harrison’s voice cuts through at last, catching my ears mid- sentence. “Depending on the outcome, either Miss Lily Burton of the first- year Blue Fraternity or I shall serve as referee for the Mensur.”
Several students nod, their backs stiffening under Harrison’s gaze. In the front row, a few boys lean toward each other, whispering bets. One of them winks and jerks his head toward the Green Fraternity crest hanging on the wall, as if to say the outcome is already decided. We’ll win. We have to.
“It is not only the conduct of the duelists that will be judged,” Harrison goes on, “but that of the witnesses as well. The reputation of our Fraternity is not borne by blades alone. It is carried in your composure and your restraint.
Let your presence be worthy of your color.”
He squares his shoulders. “Now then. Who among you can remind us of the conduct expected of witnesses?”
A sturdy boy in the second row rises from his seat. “We, the witnesses, must keep our sabers sheathed from the moment we arrive at the Sailing Strip until we return to the Green Fraternity House,” he replies.
“Correct.” Harrison dips his chin. “And?”
He gestures to a short-haired girl in the third row.
“No disruptions are permitted during the duel, sir,” she says. “That includes clapping, cheering, or any audible display of support.”
“Indeed. But that is only half of it.”
Harrison scans the rows, then nods at Jack, who hands his cigarette to Charlotte and stands with sober confidence.
“No insults, sir. And not only the obvious ones.”
“Exactly,” Harrison says, beginning to pace, his boots striking the floor with a steady cadence. “What Mr. Carroway refers to is subtlety. The sort of comment that is harmless, even traditional, among your own Fraternity, but becomes offensive when directed toward an opponent. Language, tone, even a glance—these things matter.”
He turns and points toward the fourth row. “Mr. Lee. Can you provide us with an example?”
William doesn’t rise. His hands stay fixed on his knees, fingers trembling against the fabric of his trousers. He looks worse than he did on the way in, drawn and pale, sweat beading at his temples despite the cool air. A faint tremor runs through his shoulders, as if Harrison’s voice alone could break
him in two.
“I do not know, sir,” William rasps.
Murmurs ripple around the edges of the room. Vincent turns in his seat, concern crossing his face as he studies his brother.
Harrison frowns, as if weighing whether William’s state stems from
ignorance or something else, then turns and gestures toward the opposite row.
“Miss Deering.”
Charlotte tugs the hem of her trousers free from under Jack’s boot before rising. “An example, sir, might be the phrase ‘Good health.’ Among fellow Fraternity members, it is a gesture of goodwill. However, when addressed to an opponent, it becomes an insult, implying that they require luck—or worse, that they will not last long.”
“Precisely.” Harrison lifts a finger. “Context, delivery, intent. In the Mensur, everything is measured. Nothing is accidental.”
He pauses and frowns at William again. The boy’s breathing has turned shallow, his knees knocking together in a dance of dread. He looks halfway gone already, as if his body is still here but his mind has fled, trying to outrun the blow.
I turn to Vincent. He’s watching William, too, his eyes wide with fear, but I don’t think it’s for himself. The panic is fresh and still forming, as though a terrible realization has clicked into place. Vincent lurches to his feet a second too late. The knock has already hit the door, loud as a battering ram.
Harrison’s boots squeak loudly as he pivots toward the sound. Every head in the room turns. A Pinkie moves to open the door, but before it can, the click of the lock cuts through the silence, disengaged from the outside.
I know what’s coming. I realize it an instant before the door bursts open and slams into the robot so hard it flies back.
A squad of Coppers floods in, fully geared in riot armor, moving in a diamond formation that swiftly takes control of the drinking hall. Their silver-black uniforms gleam like a bullet’s husk, still hot from the chamber, and their eyes, visible through the T-visors, are flat and searching. Vincent rushes forward, knocking over chairs as he lunges for his brother, but two Coppers step in, batons raised, and block his path. A third Copper lifts a hand toward William. “Target acquired,” he says, his voice distorted through the helmet speaker.
Students scatter as the formation breaks apart, and the Coppers descend on William in a brutal advance. Chairs are kicked over, and sabers clatter from their racks. Jack pulls Charlotte clear of a baton swing and shields her with his body. I stumble up beside them, heart pounding, just as the first Copper reaches William.
William stands, defiant despite tears streaking his face. He starts to speak, but a dozen hands clamp onto his arms and shoulders before he can. One
Copper drives a baton into the back of his knee, buckling his legs. Another Copper punches William in the ribs, then drags him to the floor, forcing the breath from him in a single, gurgling grunt.
“Vince!” William chokes on the name.
Vincent keeps charging forward. The two Coppers blocking his path move to intercept, but he barrels into them like a furious bull, tearing through the gap with the unstoppable force of someone who no longer feels pain. Vincent grabs a Copper by the shoulder and yanks back, trying to pull him off William.
“What did you do, Will?” Vincent shouts, his face white with panic.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing!” William cries. “Just stupid things that added up. I swear—I didn’t—!”
Vincent whips around, eyes blazing. “What are the charges?” he asks the Coppers. “What laws has my brother broken?”
The sergeant responds with a fist to the side of Vincent’s face. Blood bursts from Vincent’s nose as he reels, but he doesn’t fall. He lunges again, fighting savagely as the Coppers close in. One blow slams into his throat, another into his knee. His legs buckle, and he crashes to the floor with a thud that echoes through the stunned silence.
William screams, breaking free long enough to lunge forward and grasp his brother’s hand. They barely touch before the Coppers wrench William back by the shoulders, striking as they drag him. His legs kick and flail, his body twisting under the assault of fists and batons pounding him into compliance. Blood spatters across the floorboards. One Copper seizes the back of William’s head and slams it against the frame of an overturned chair as they pass.
The sickening crack of the impact makes me recoil. All around me, students either freeze or retreat toward the walls, their faces contorted with terror. At the front of the hall, Harrison stands with one foot forward, his spine rigid and his fist clenched around his cap, trembling with the effort to stay still. For a brief, startling moment, he looks ready to act, to stop what’s happening.
But he doesn’t. He stays where he is, gripped by the same fear that holds the rest of us back.
The brothers continue reaching for each other even as they’re torn apart; Vincent is crumpled on the floor, dazed and bloodied, while William screams
as he’s dragged toward the door. His voice breaks on Vincent’s name.
Vincent claws at the floor, trying to crawl after William, but his hand slips in his own blood.
I’m frozen where I stand, my stomach turning to water, my hands shaking at my sides. Why the hell is no one helping? Why isn’t anyone doing anything?
Then, somewhere deep in the pit of my mind, I hear a voice I don’t recognize, not mine or anyone else’s, but it’s sharp, loud, and commanding: Do it yourself.
I move. The hall blurs around me as I run, chairs and bodies streaking past, my boots striking the floorboards. I slip once, nearly go down, and crash shoulder-first into Harrison.
“Harry,” I gasp, fumbling to open my Bond interface. “What’s William’s Bond number?”
“What?” Harrison reels back, still dazed.
“Give it to me. Now.”
Harrison straightens fast, his cap falling to the floor as he forwards the information. I pull up my civil credit panel. Two thousand gleam back at me, more than I ever asked for from Edmund, more than I ever needed.
I select two hundred civil credits and send them to William. Terms of service flood the screen, legal warnings and digital agreements flashing red, but I swipe past each one. My eyes are fixed on the corner of the hall, where the Coppers are almost through the door with William, still fighting and screaming. Vincent is trailing behind them, arms shaking as he drags himself
through the wreckage of broken chairs.
And then… The sergeant halts, dead still.
He checks his Bond screen, his breath rasping heavily through his helmet’s mouthpiece. Lifting his visor, he sweeps his cold, steely eyes across the hall and locks onto me. He must’ve seen my name on the civil credit transfer. He knows exactly what I’ve done.
The sergeant holds my stare—one second, two—as if etching my face into memory. Then he turns away. “Arrest warrant aborted.”
The words hit like a kill shot. The Coppers hesitate, momentarily thrown, staring at the sergeant for an explanation. William stops struggling. Vincent freezes mid-crawl. Even Harrison doesn’t breathe.
Then, slowly, the Coppers release their grip. One by one, they let go of
William and slide their batons back into place. At a nod from the sergeant, they retreat, swift as moving shadows.
The room hangs suspended, every student caught in shell-shocked silence.
William sways where they left him, blood pearling at the corner of his mouth as he checks the civil credit transfer on his Bond. Then he looks at me, and the disbelief on his face is painful, a gut-wrenching reminder of how rarely we Greens help our own.
William’s legs tremble as he staggers forward, one arm hanging wrong, as if torn from the socket. The students who are pressed against the walls stir uneasily, some reaching out as if to steady him, others shrinking back, unsure whether to touch him at all. Beside me, Harrison draws a sharp breath, only just realizing what I’ve done.
William stumbles once, then again. When he finally reaches me, he lowers his head in a half-bow, his mangled legs refusing to bend any further. He presses his forehead to my hand with a shuddering weight, smearing blood across my skin as he whispers his thanks. Once. Then again. And again, each word raspier and more desperate.
I try to shape a response, but the sound dies in my throat when I see Vincent approaching from behind.
He’s only a few paces away, but the effort it takes for him to reach me makes it seem as if he’s leaning on his own ghost. His face is wrecked, hardly recognizable beneath the swelling and bruises, yet he pushes on, one arm pressed against his ribs, where a large, bloated wound is visible through his torn jacket.
When Vincent reaches me, his lips part, struggling to speak through the blood misting around his teeth, but no words come. At last, with a hoarse, ragged breath, he holds out his hand. The movement is hesitant, as if he’s already braced for a refusal. Beside me, Harrison gives a faint shake of his head, but Vincent doesn’t stop. He extends his hand further, wavering on his injured leg, and in his red-rimmed, trembling eyes, I can see the moment is costing him the final scrap of his pride.
My gaze drops to his bloody hand, where his Blood Ring glints faintly, its green shade dulled by the sting rising in my eyes. The way his fingers hang there, shuddering in the empty air, is too hard to watch. I want to stop them, to steady them, even as every instinct I’ve trained myself to follow floods in at once, scrambling to rebuild the wall that’s kept me alive. My arm feels distant, no longer mine, as I lift it. But I reach out anyway, clawing through
the resistance, and close my fingers around Vincent’s shaking hand.
The moment our hands meet, something inside me dislodges. It isn’t painful, but it’s warm and deep and rushing, like the relief of a thaw, of stepping into sunlight after too many days in the cold. The feeling surges through me with a force that pulls me outward, toward Vincent. And with it, I taste tears.
They burn on my cheeks, spilling fast, but I don’t try to stop them. I nod, chin trembling, vision swimming, and hold Vincent’s gaze through the blur.
His jaw tightens as if he’s fighting to stay composed, but I can still see it: the weight lifting from his conscience, the breath he finally lets himself take,
the light rising behind his eyes.
It’s freedom.
The same freedom I finally feel.
The drinking hall is a chaotic scene, with distraught students stepping over bloodstains, broken chairs, and scattered sabers. Even so, the rules prohibit Harrison from ending the Fraternity meeting early. He orders Pinkies to clean up the mess, then picks up where he left off, his voice wavering slightly as a robot mops a streak of blood beside his boot. Vincent and William are gone, taken to the Belvoir Infirmary, but everyone else stays until the end.
The moment Harrison gives the word, I slip outside at the front of the crowd. Above, the sky is an endless black canvas, utterly starless, yet the night still shimmers. The Luminescent Lake lights up the shoreline, its glittering blue surface unnaturally still, as if it’s holding its breath with me.
Somewhere at the edge of my mind, the sergeant’s face lingers—the way his steely, violence-hardened eyes marked me after I sent William the civil credits—and yet, for now, the fear feels distant. What rises in its place is peaceful.
Dad never calls it forgiveness. He says the word is too small for the weight it carries. He calls it mercy instead… mercy looking down on misery.
And tonight, I hope he’d be proud of me.
I don’t realize how slowly I’m walking until I reach the hovercar and see Jack and Charlotte inside, the power core already running. Charlotte’s face is so tense it creases her forehead, while Jack gazes nervously out the window
as if he half-expects the Coppers to come charging back—this time, for me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I close the door. “You don’t think I should’ve done it?”
“No, Lore.” Charlotte reaches across the seat, her fingers curling around mine. “What you did was good. It’s just—” She winces and glances at Jack.
His eyes flick between us before he places a hand on my arm. “What you did was good, darling. We just want you to be careful. Sending civil credits to people under the arrest limit comes with debt… the kind that’s rigged never to clear. Most people end up wishing they hadn’t.”
The look on Jack’s face is torn, caught between concern and understanding. But what frightens me more is the realization that he’s not talking about high-citizens like Edmund, or low-citizens with Aegises like
himself and Dickie.
He’s talking about the rest of us.
Low-citizens like me.
