You can measure a person’s heart by their courage in the moment, and their soul by how they bear the cost of what follows. —BRUCE WALDSTEN
CHAPTER 55
The Green side of the Sailing Strip is as silent as a coin spinning on its edge.
We all watch Harrison and Lily from our seats, locked in an argument beside the piste. I know they’re fighting about William, about how swapping him in is a mockery of tradition, even if it’s not against the rules.
Behind Harrison and Lily, the Blues clomp around in a flurry of bodies, tankards raised high, with half already drinking their beer before the first blade is drawn. Rosamund stands among them, her monkey perched on her shoulder. She joins in as the Blues belt out an old Fraternity song, a victory anthem usually sung when the last point has already been scored.
William stands rigidly beside the piste, waiting for the signal to go inside.
Vincent places a hand on his shoulder and whispers final words of strategy.
William nods, though his eyes are glassy and unfocused, as if none of Vincent’s advice sinks in.
Across from William, on the Blue side, Edmund stands alone. His hands are clasped behind his back, and his head is tilted as if listening for the wind above the noise. The Blues keep roaring, stomping their feet and sloshing beer down their collars, but he seems outside it, as if running the bout edge to edge in his mind.
Near the piste, Lily jabs a finger at Harrison’s chest. He flinches, his teeth clenched as he nods, a gesture he clearly doesn’t mean. His left fist curls at his side as if to defy her, but I doubt he will. Not unless he wants to risk losing his membership in her entourage.
Above us, fifteen drones hover in a halo formation, their lenses focused on the piste. By morning, every swing of Edmund’s and William’s blades will
be broadcast to the entire university. Half the drones dip lower, capturing wide shots of the platform—when a sudden, deafening bang cracks through the air. Charlotte and I jolt from our seats as the drones scatter like startled flies, blinking red as they struggle for control.
What the hell was that?
A ripple of alarm passes through the Greens, and the Blues pause mid- verse, mugs half-raised, eyes squinting into the darkness. Thousands of heads snap toward the lake, then drift farther out to the black seam of the ocean, to the energy shield rising from the waves into the clouds. For a moment, no one seems to breathe. We watch and wait, and somewhere behind the shield, too far to see but close enough to feel, something watches back.
The barrier remains secure, glowing brightly against the salt spray, but the echo lingers too long, creeping into every ear before finally fading.
Lily, who’s turned as pale as bleached stone, swiftly regains control of herself. She glances back at Harrison, her tone commanding our attention.
“Proceed.”
Only then do I realize how tightly I’m holding onto Charlotte and how tightly she’s holding onto me. Around us, students struggle to regain their composure, remembering where they are and how important victory is.
Edmund is one of the few who haven’t looked away from the shield. He keeps staring until the Blues start singing again, louder and louder, as if to drown out doubt.
A Pinkie meets Lily and Harrison at the center of the piste, where it produces a bright coin—the same kind Hillaire carries—to decide who will referee the Mensur. The robot tosses the coin into the air, and it spins in a lively whirl of gold before hitting the marble with a clatter that silences the
front rows.
Green.
Lily folds her arms with irritation. Harrison exchanges a glance with Vincent, relief flashing between them. He crosses to the Bout Dial, a tall brass meter mounted on its own pedestal at the edge of the piste. The dial resembles an old ship’s speedometer, its face etched with three markers: Exhibition, Mensur, and Death Duel.
Harrison’s hand hovers over the lever for a moment, then flips the dial to Mensur. Above, the drones adjust their feed as Harrison moves to the center of the piste and acknowledges the witnesses. “Keep the field pure,” he calls.
“Hail,” the Greens reply in unison. The Blues, meanwhile, keep singing,
their tankards clashing.
Harrison’s nostrils flare. He wipes sweat from under his cap, plants his boots wide, and raises a fist high. “Willing?” His voice cuts through the noise, targeting Edmund and William directly.
“Willing.” Both give the two-finger salute, then step onto the piste.
Harrison drops his fist and steps away. “Commence.”
William draws quickly and jerkily, sweat streaking down his temple as the blade activates. Edmund straightens his posture, as if he’s finally surfaced from his thoughts, and studies William for a moment. The way he watches him—with a cold, unflinching fixation—sets my nerves on edge. Edmund doesn’t know William; he’s never even met him, as far as I know. The only motive I can imagine for his dislike of William is that William’s civil credits are linked to mine. But after the way Edmund acted the last time we spoke, I find that hard to believe.
Edmund draws in a quick, fluid burst of light that makes the Sailing Strip go still. He tests the grip, then switches the blade to his left hand as he advances on William, head tilted low.
I lean forward, my gut tight, because I know we’re not the only ones who want blood tonight.
Edmund lunges first with a quick disengage from the inside line, his blade grazing William’s parry before cutting back across the outside. The heat in his eyes is matched only by a piste-wide focus that makes him look like he’s counting beats in his head. He lands the first touch, a shallow cut on William’s forearm. William hisses through his teeth, his boots scraping the marble as he stumbles back into guard.
“Lick Prew’s boots already, Green!” a Blue shouts.
“Give us your teeth!” snarls another.
William’s eyes flash with the kind of fiery, reckless fury that never helps in a duel. His point droops for a moment before he rights it again, shoulders tense under the weight of every gaze on him. Around me, the Greens lean forward, their backs stiffening and their expressions curdling. Near the piste, Harrison and Vincent mutter curses into their palms. No one is supposed to speak, but Grandmaster Lily keeps her mouth pressed flat as the Blues keep
tearing holes in the rules.
“Halt,” Harrison calls.
Edmund lowers his blade, flicks blood from the edge, and accepts a tankard that one of the Blues pushes through the front row. Edmund lifts the
tankard high toward his side, his Blues.
“Good health.”
“Good health!” they roar back.
Then every Blue drinks.
Edmund drains his tankard halfway, then tosses it aside and returns to the piste.
The second touch comes quicker. William attempts to bait Edmund with a high feint, aiming to provoke a bind and counter-disengage, but Edmund avoids taking the bait. He closes the distance in two steps, disengages low, and slashes across William’s thigh. William gasps and nearly loses his footing. The Blues howl louder, their voices cracking from drink and delight.
The third touch hits William’s side, a shallow cut that draws a snarl from him and a fresh wave of jeers from the stands. One of the Blues throws a half-empty tankard at the Greens; it shatters just short of Harrison’s boots.
By the fourth touch, William is breathing heavily, dragging his feet on each retreat, his edge control sloppy. He tries to keep Edmund at a distance, but Edmund feints low, pulls his guard down, and flicks the tip across William’s left leg. That makes four touches, with one more to go, and Edmund hasn’t broken a sweat.
The Blues jump to their feet, cheering for the final touch like a pack of rabid dogs. The Greens lean out of their seats as if they’re one spark short of catching fire.
William forces himself back into guard. I watch him check his footing and adjust his lead hand, his blade trembling. He feints high, but Edmund doesn’t bite. He tries again, a desperate thrust to the inside line. Edmund knocks it away with a clean beat four, follows through, and then… misses for the first time tonight.
William’s blade glances off Edmund’s shoulder with a direct strike. His first touch.
The Blues’ howling dies at once. William lowers his blade, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his jaw, defiance sharp on his face. A Green in the front row holds a tankard out to him, and he accepts it without lowering his blade. He should turn to us, the Greens, but instead he faces Edmund, his eyes still blazing with fury. Then he swings toward the Blues, who bare their
teeth right back at him.
“Good health,” William spits.
Silence.
For a single, terrible moment, even the drones hang frozen, lenses fixed on William’s defiant sneer. Then the Blues burst forward, fists pounding marble, boots stomping, and tankards crashing. The noise is no longer a song but a roar, raw and rising.
I suck in a ragged breath. Oh, William. Oh, shit.
He knows what he’s done. He has to. We all know the phrase ‘Good Health’ is meant only for your own side. Said like this, it’s the worst insult a challenger can throw at another.
Edmund’s blade drops for half a second. Then, slowly, it rises again, and his eyes turn hard. Outside the piste, Harrison and Vincent stand bone-white, too stunned to move, even when Lily cuts across the piste.
“This dishonor shall not stand,” she thunders.
She pivots on her heel, moves to the Bout Dial, and flips it to Death Duel.
Harrison rips off his cap and throws it to the ground with a growl. Vincent staggers back, his face contorting in horror as tears stream down his cheeks.
And William—I can see the moment the fear hits him square in the stomach, when he realizes the weight of what he’s done. To his right, the Blues are still stomping on the marble, chanting and hungry for William’s blood.
In the center of it all, rooted deeply enough to seem part of the piste itself, stands Edmund. His gaze drifts past William’s trembling guard, as if he sees how quickly this will end, how easy it’ll be to cut him down and watch the marble turn green.
He looks toward the Greens and scans the tops of our caps. I don’t know who he’s searching for, but I still sink lower in my seat until his eyes pass me by. Finally, with a flash of frustration, he looks down at the saber in his hand.
If he tilts the blade vertically, it signifies acceptance of the death duel. If he tilts the blade horizontally, it means pardon, a chance to let the dishonor pass.
But even I know what’s at stake. There’s no room for mercy or compassion in situations like this, only honor. If Edmund pardons William, he’ll stain the name of every Blue in his Fraternity.
Edmund lifts his blade vertically.
Lily breaks into a smile that shows her clenched teeth. Behind her, the Blues erupt in applause as Edmund and William scan their Blood Rings to formalize the death duel. William is shaking so badly his saber tip rattles against the marble, yet he still performs the salute, clumsy and off-balance.
Then, just before he and Edmund advance, two voices cut through the silence: Harrison’s first, strained as he tries to hold Vincent back, and
Vincent’s next, as he tears free and vaults over the railing of the spectator stands, saber already drawn.
“I, Vincent Lee, stand as Second for William Lee,” he shouts. “I bind my life to his and claim his dishonor as my own. If I prevail, he walks free. If I fail, you, Edmund Prew, alone hold the right to decide his fate.”
Every Green around me leaps to their feet. I stand, too, but see nothing beyond the backs of their heads, all of them shouting, roaring, and cursing.
It’s a Bonded Duel. Vincent has every right to offer it, but if he fails, his sacrifice will be meaningless. The Blues will demand that Edmund kill both brothers to restore their Fraternity’s honor.
Vincent pulls William close, whispers into his ear, then pushes him back toward Harrison, who stands petrified with disbelief. His eyes are wet, and his arm is still half-raised, clutching the only piece of Vincent he managed to catch: Vincent’s Fraternity cap.
Charlotte and I lock hands, bracing each other because we know there’s no stopping what’s about to happen. Edmund and Vincent are already on the piste, circling each other while William sobs at the edge. Edmund lowers his saber and dips his chin to Vincent as they scan their Blood Rings to formalize the Bonded Duel. There’s a sudden sense of relief in the way Edmund sets his shoulders, as if this fight is fair enough to live or die by.
The Blues launch into The Last Walk, humming the mournful tune from deep in their throats. Fists pound the rails in time with Edmund’s footwork as he and Vincent exchange a salute.
Edmund opens with a simple glide step and a probing feint; Vincent counters point for point, parries six with clean blade contact, and drives Edmund back with a riposte along the inside line. I watch every angle, every advance and retreat, through unblinking eyes. For a moment, it feels as if there can’t possibly be a winner. Not when it means one of them has to die.
Edmund closes in again, deflects Vincent’s blade, and strikes low at the thigh. Vincent disengages and responds with a stop hit to Edmund’s shoulder, deep enough to draw a ripple of sharp breaths from the Greens.
Edmund glances at the bleeding slash with a grunt, sweat breaking at his hairline. I clench my fists until my nails bite into my skin.
The two men break apart and reset. Then, as Edmund launches a flèche that Vincent parries perfectly, everything blurs. Vincent ripostes, and Edmund dodges at the last instant with an inside step and a pivot, and in that perfect slip, he cuts deep beneath Vincent’s arm. Blood blooms dark against
his sleeve.
Vincent stumbles, and his blade drops as he attempts to recover. Edmund waits, chest heaving, giving him time to find his guard. Then they clash again, sabers cracking like thunder. Edmund catches Vincent’s blade midline, beats it aside, and drives his point clean through Vincent’s ribs. A single breath hisses from Vincent’s throat. His saber slips from his hand, and he sinks to his knees, tipping sideways onto the piste with a choking gasp.
William screams, and as he barrels toward Vincent, the Blues break into wild laughter. They pound the rails, drunk on death, tankards smashing as they bay for Edmund to move on to William next. And I stand there, fists slick with my own blood, rage crawling up my throat until it tastes like vomit. I hate them, every Blue howling for another kill. I hate this piste, this ceremony, this rotten world that eats the best of us alive.
Edmund backs away, swallowing hard as he watches William throw himself over Vincent, his knees slipping in the pool of blood. Then Edmund turns toward the Greens, saber still drawn and dripping, and his eyes darken, as if he knows what’s coming next.
The Greens are beyond fear now. Beyond grief. We stand from our seats as one, hell rising in our hands as we draw our sabers. The graphene hilt vibrates in my grip as my blade bursts to life with a flash. Across from us, the Blues jeer and spit and dare us to come.
We all turn to Harrison. He looks like a ghost, tears streaming down his face as he stares at Vincent’s body, his brother by every bond that counts.
Beside him, William chokes on sobs so loud that Grandmaster Lily bristles.
“Restore order to your Fraternity, Grandmaster Somerset,” she snaps, her voice like a lash.
Harrison turns, eyes sweeping over us—his Greens—all of us with blades drawn and no appetite for mercy. For an instant, I see him waver. I swear he’s about to break, drop his saber, and force down his rage.
Harrison holds out his hand, a signal for us to stand down. But instead of standing down himself, he turns and, in one violent flick of graphene, draws.
The sight of his saber leveled at the Blues detonates something on the Sailing Strip. Every Green surges forward as if pulled by the same current.
Stand-down order be damned. We’re done watching from the sidelines. We race across the platform as one, a wave of green crashing into blue, blades raised, voices hoarse with fury and the promise of blood.
On the piste, Edmund braces himself, the only calm left in a storm he
knows he helped create. His fingers tighten around his saber, though the blade stays tilted downward, as if he hasn’t decided where to point it yet. He bows his head, and his shoulders strain with the weight of resistance. Even he seems to realize there’s no avoiding it now. He has to make a choice.
With a flash of teeth, he lifts his saber, ready to choose, when another bang cuts across the platform. Around me, Greens keep charging, but half of them look toward the beach, sabers faltering.
BANG.
The sound comes again, louder and closer. There’s no mistaking it for an accident this time. Harrison jolts to a stop, his attention fixed on the yellow rim of the shield.
When the third bang hits, a blinding flood of light follows. Fire flares down the wall of the shield into the ocean, smoke and sparks rolling sideways before the water swallows them. We can’t tell how severe the breach is, but the fear hits anyway, the kind our grandparents only ever felt. In the silence of the aftermath, a low, bone-deep growl pushes through, growing louder, closing in fast.
I don’t know who says it, maybe me, maybe all of us at once, but that single word cuts deeper than any saber tonight.
“RANGERS.”
I see the glint of the jets’ underbellies first: matte black, battered at the seams, wing edges jagged from old repairs and sand scoring. Red stripes slash across their sides, leading up to the cockpit glass, which is smoked dark. There’s no elegance in how the two jets fly through the breach, only desert-hardened muscle and a promise to destroy whatever waits below. The jets bank lower until I see the symbol on their noses, a rattlesnake coiled around a bullet, half-buried in wind grit. We stand frozen on the Sailing Strip, sabers dropped, watching death come screaming in black and red.
Then ten of our AI patrol jets streak overhead. One dives so fast I lose sight of it until it collides broadside with a Ranger jet, ripping it open in a burst of flame. The Ranger spins out, belly ablaze, and vanishes into the ocean in a thunderclap of steam and smoke.
The second Ranger jet keeps coming toward us. It drops lower, guns blazing as tracer rounds rip across the Sailing Strip, tearing the marble apart.
A student in front of me collapses so fast it’s as if his legs turned to water, while another is hit by flying shrapnel and knocked sideways. The Blues scatter first, then the Greens. I lose sight of Edmund, Harrison, William, and
Vincent, all swallowed in an instant by a crush of terrified bodies. Sabers clatter onto the marble, abandoned in the rush toward the hoverboats waiting at the platform’s edge.
Charlotte and I run with the students at first, shoulder to shoulder, two more pairs of lungs in the stampede. Then my boot knocks against the body of a Green, trampled and bloody, his fingers clawing for a helping hand.
I push on, abandoning him, until I remember my promise, sworn to myself only days ago: Live for something, not just survive.
Grinding my teeth, I charge back into the chaos and grab the man by the arms, feeling engineered strength power through my muscles as I drag him clear of the stampede. I roll him into a hoverboat, then double back for more.
“Lore!” Charlotte shouts.
She points to an empty hoverboat drifting free, but I shake my head. She hesitates, going stiff with fear, then curses under her breath and runs toward me. Together, we lift a girl pinned against the railing, who looks too disoriented to remember where she is. We haul her up and push her into a hoverboat before it lifts off.
Behind us, the second Ranger jet roars overhead, its guns lighting up the platform. Sparks rain down as marble shatters beneath the students’ feet, sending them tumbling into the lake below. I catch a glimpse of our AI patrol jets regrouping, bracketing the last Ranger jet like a trap snapping shut. They strike the Ranger mid-turn, three clean plasma beams slicing through the fuselage. The jet slews sideways, flips, and crashes tail-first into the Luminescent Lake. Water erupts into a white pillar of steam and fire, engulfing the wreck halfway.
For a moment, the sky falls silent except for the cries of students crawling across the Sailing Strip toward the hoverboats. I turn to see more students helping one another amid the wreckage. Blues and Greens alike pull each other to their feet, steady the stumbling, and carry the wounded.
Near the piste, William is holding Vincent’s lifeless body, dragging him through smoking debris, his sobs tearing me apart from within.
“Charlotte—” I gasp.
Together, we run and grip Vincent by the shoulders. William clings so tightly to his brother that we have to pry his hands away to lift the body and carry it to a hoverboat. William scrambles in after Vincent, curling over what’s left of his brother like a child. Charlotte jumps in beside William and pulls him close.
I plant one boot on the gunwale, ready to climb in, when a familiar voice cuts across the piste. Through the crowd of students fleeing the platform, I see Edmund. He vaults the piste railing, eyes wild and desperate, scanning every face as if he’s drowning. He cuts toward Jack, who’s holding an injured student in his arms, her sobs shaking them both until Jack’s knuckles turn white from trying not to drop her.
“Loredana!” Edmund grabs Jack’s sleeve and shakes him. “Where’s Loredana?”
I leap into the hoverboat and look toward Edmund, uncertain of what I’m seeing. I don’t understand the fear on his face, the panic ripping through him as he tears the night apart searching for me. And right now, I don’t have time to understand. I sink low in the hoverboat as it lifts off the Sailing Strip and glides across the lake. Through a cloud of burning embers, I watch Edmund lift a massive slab of marble off three students and hurl it into the lake. He drops into a crouch, turning their limp bodies over with shaking hands, as if he expects one of them to be me.
Jack eases the injured girl into a hoverboat, then grabs Edmund and drags him away from the wreckage. They both leap aboard before the hoverboat lifts off, chasing the other evacuating vessels as it speeds toward the far shore.
The Sailing Strip recedes behind us. Smoke drifts over the water like a funeral shroud cast over the dead. My thoughts shrink, too small to hold the chaos of blood and bodies unfolding before my eyes.
Closer to shore, the emergency response rises to meet us. Helicopters roar overhead, their rotor blades shearing through the smoke, while armored hovercars speed over the waterfront walkways, their lights flashing red and yellow. More AI patrol jets circle the sky in tight loops, ready to shoot down any other Rangers that might slip through the breach before it’s sealed.
When our hoverboat bumps against the dock, the Coppers are already waiting, weapons drawn, radios crackling, waving us through lines as if we’re livestock. A few Coppers in protective suits wade waist-deep into the lake, hauling students from the water; some are responsive, while others show no sign of life. More Coppers double-back toward the Sailing Strip, with teams of Pinkie medics, stretchers unfolded and ready.
The Coppers herd us to shore in organized lines, where more Pinkies work, setting up medical stations near the Fraternity Houses. The Pinkies take Vincent first, though William clings so frantically to his brother that the
robots are forced to restrain him. William reaches for Vincent one last time as his body is carted away, sobbing so hard that my knees buckle and I sink into the sand.
I scan the dock around me, and for a moment I don’t register what I see, as if there’s a delay between my vision and my thoughts. Harrison sits slumped beside a Pinkie medic, Vincent’s fraternity cap clenched in one fist, his other arm bleeding through his jacket. His red-rimmed, hollow eyes seem to stare at nothing.
Then I look back over the water, past the pitted, charred remains of the Sailing Strip, toward the Ranger jet. Most of the wreckage now lies beneath the Luminescent Lake, but one wing breaks the surface, black and slashed with red.
From their hoverboats, a Copper squad rushes to encircle the Ranger jet with containment barriers to prevent us from filming.
Charlotte lowers herself onto the sand beside me, her trembling hands stained with ash and Vincent’s blood. She says something, but I don’t catch it.
I kneel there, staring at that Ranger wing jutting through the smoke, pointing skyward like a flag driven deep into the flesh of the earth—staking its claim over me, over us, over our Civilized World.
