The day a high-citizen publicly stands up in defense of a low-citizen is the day the world stops, flips us the bird, and starts spinning the other way.
HARVEY HOLT, THE DIRTY FLAPPER
CHAPTER 58
Charlotte never learned to fence. It’s one of the many skills she refused to acquire for the sake of fitting in. “Why bother with all that fluff?” she’d laugh, propping her stilettos on my vanity. “Why use a saber when I’m strong enough to snap a neck?”
Now, under this ashen sun and a circle of Blues licking their lips for blood, I see the cost of that stubbornness etched in every clumsy swing of her blade. She lunges wildly and desperately, her shoulders wide open, her footing sloppy in the sand. Rosamund remains patient, playing with Charlotte like a cat pawing at a wounded bird. She toys with distance, drifting in and out of reach before lashing in low and fast. A cut to the shin blooms green across the fabric of Charlotte’s Fraternity uniform. Another slice lands beneath the knee, deep enough to force a gasp from her.
“Kneel,” Rosamund calls, loud enough for every Blue to hear. Her saber drags through the sand before she snaps the blade up again and grazes Charlotte’s calf. “Kneel and beg for mercy.”
Around us, more Blues close in, an eager ring of spectators in ragged Fraternity uniforms, already betting how many swings it’ll take to finish Charlotte off. Laughter ripples across the sand each time she stumbles and steadies herself. Beyond the ring, William Lee watches too, his eyes vacant, his arms hanging limp at his sides. I don’t know why he’s here or why the hell he keeps following me, but I don’t have room in my head for him right now. My body locks up, every muscle straining with resistance as I force my hand away from my saber. Charlotte wouldn’t want me to step in. She might take it as an insult to her pride, or worse, her honor.
Don’t do it. Don’t interfere.
But my heart refuses to listen. Every sharp cry of pain, every new bloodstain on her uniform, tears another hole in my chest. I can’t lose her like this, crawling and bleeding out on the sand while I watch.
Rosamund slices again, the blade carving open the flesh below Charlotte’s right kneecap. Charlotte chokes out a hiss. Her left knee buckles, and she flops to the sand. I squeeze my eyes shut, choking back a sob and a scream all at once.
“There it is,” Rosamund says, towering over Charlotte. “Almost humble enough. One more knee, then you can crawl for the mercy you’ll never get.”
The muscles coil in Rosamund’s arm as she lifts the saber for another swing. Even from here, I can tell it won’t be just a cut this time. She means to follow through and cleave Charlotte’s leg clean off. I see the aftermath before it happens: Charlotte writhing in her own blood at the feet of a dozen jeering Blues because I chose not to be the protection she waited for from Jack, but never received.
The image detonates inside me, and with it, my leash snaps.
I remove the energy shield from my chest and pocket it. Sand scours beneath my boots as I move, drawing my saber with a screech of graphene.
Rosamund’s blade drops, and mine clashes with it midway, the sound cracking the air like thunder over the waves.
Exclamations of shock erupt from bystanders, but I barely hear. I only see Rosamund’s wide, confused eyes, fixed on me as if I’m a kill she confirmed too soon.
Charlotte trembles on her knees, blood seeping through the tears in her trousers. I plant my boots deeper in the sand, shielding her with my body, and shout, “I, Loredana Waldsten, stand as second for Charlotte Deering. I bind my life to hers and claim her debt as my own. If I prevail, she walks free. If I fail, you, Rosamund Prew, alone hold the right to determine her fate.”
Rosamund’s lip curls in irritation. “You can’t stand as second. I know you have a weapons restric—”
“Not anymore,” I say. “But you’re going to wish I still did.”
Rosamund regards me with renewed interest, her sneer faltering. I notice a slight spasm in her throat before she masks it. With expert aim, she lifts her saber, dripping with Charlotte’s blood, and flicks a drop onto my cheek.
“All right,” she says. “You can pick up screaming where Deering left off.”
Rosamund scans her Blood Ring with mine to formalize the Bonded Duel.
Murmurs of disbelief spread through the spectators. The Blues around us transform from an audience into a mob, their voices building into a furious roar. They shout obscenities, call me “Blue-killer,” and chant for blood.
Bonds activate, glowing blue, some of which I’m sure are livestreaming the fight on Quill. A few of the angriest Blues advance, their sabers half-drawn, threatening to challenge me themselves if I cut Rosamund down.
Rosamund lifts her chin as if feeding on the sound while I watch two Blues drag Charlotte from the circle, her saber slipping from her limp fingers.
She groans and tries to push herself back up, but her bleeding legs give out in the sand. I stare at her until our eyes meet, begging for her understanding, her permission.
She nods, a weak, shuddering dip of her chin, but it’s enough.
My resolve hardens as I take my mark in the sand. The ring of spectators presses in closer as Blues shout Rosamund’s name, and we drop into en garde. I lift my blade to my brow, then my shoulder, and extend it straight before me. As Rosamund returns the salute, every inch of my focus narrows to her face. For a moment, all the attacks she’s waged against Charlotte and me flood back, blunting the edges of my vision with rage.
But it’s the last thing I need. Leaning on anger will only drag my blade down. I draw a deep breath, using everything I learned from the Florence Engine to take my fury and grind it into a single word: Steady.
A steady pulse, a steady hand, a steady swing.
Then I advance.
Rosamund charges down my left side, aiming for my still-healing leg. I pivot, intercept her blade with mine, deflect it, and riposte, slashing her sleeve. She hisses, pulls back, and circles wide, her saber low and taunting.
The Blues keep roaring for her. “Rosamund! Rosamund!”
I try to fight as I once did, but the gap is wider than I expected. My body struggles to keep up with what my mind remembers. Two years off the piste show in every misstep and stiff recovery. Rosamund sees it. She’s more patient than I anticipated, testing me with quick feints and sharp taps to my guard, never giving me a clean opening. She may not have trained with Julian Lake, but I know she’s trained with Edmund.
Rosamund feints high, then nudges my boot to throw me off balance. I stumble a fraction, and she snaps her blade low to kick up a cloud of sand. I squeeze my eyes shut instinctively as I whirl back, barely dodging her next thrust. The circle of Blues presses closer, their bodies tightening around us
like a cinch cord.
Through the cloud of falling sand, I see Rosamund’s blade arc overhead, angling for a slash to break my guard. I duck under, parry hard, and drive my shoulder into her ribs. The impact rattles her, and she staggers back, coughing out a snarl as she wipes spittle from her mouth.
“You’re slower than you were,” Rosamund rasps. “Charles would’ve finished you today.”
“And if I kill you now? What will that say about you?”
She grunts and rushes again, crashing into me with the full weight of her momentum. I catch her in a bind, graphene shrieking as my arm jolts from the force. She tries to wrench my saber free by forcing it wide, but I rotate my wrist and drive her blade down, our hilts grinding together. Rosamund breaks contact and launches into a quick flèche, lunging hard for my inside line. I parry six and riposte low to her flank, only for her to beat it aside and cut at my shoulder. Sparks spit between us as I block, feet digging into the sand to hold my ground.
We move faster, wilder, as the fight dissolves into pure instinct.
Rosamund thrusts; I parry. I lunge; she counters. Our sabers clash in close quarters, blades snarling as we shove against each other with all our might, breath tearing out in ragged bursts. I circle her, attempt a beat attack, and drive in with a thrust that grazes her arm, but she recovers quickly, eyes blazing, and charges at me again.
The crowd roars all around us, but the sound is drowned out by the pounding of my blood. My lungs are burning, my legs are screaming, and for a moment, it feels like I’m fighting on willpower alone. All the times I stood helpless with an empty scabbard, all the times I wanted to defend my family’s name and couldn’t—every memory rushes back in a spike of adrenaline that breaks out of me in a raw, grating cry. I catch Rosamund in the instant she overreaches, her arm stretching past her guard. I hook her blade, twist, and drive her hilt downward. Her saber wrenches free, flips in the air, and buries itself in the sand at her feet.
A collective gasp erupts from the circle. Several Blues freeze mid-motion, gaping at the sight of Rosamund disarmed, while Charlotte lets out a choking, relieved breath.
Rosamund lunges for her saber, but I slam my boot down on the hilt and point my blade at her throat. She halts, trying to catch her breath, sweat streaming down her temple.
“Beg,” I shout, my chest heaving. “Beg Charlotte’s forgiveness. Beg mine.”
Rosamund’s mouth parts, but no words come out. Fear strains her face, making her look as powerless as I’ve felt until now. For a moment, I see the thought take root in her mind. She might actually beg. Then pride stills her tongue, breaking free as a sneer.
Her eyes dart frantically as she searches the ring of Blues for rescue. Then her gaze stretches beyond the circle, down the beach, and hope floods her features like a final gasp of air.
“Edmund,” she screams. “Help me, Edmund! Please!”
The circle goes quiet, so still that the only movement is the quivering shadow of my blade across the sand. My pulse races, out of sync with my slow turn.
Edmund stands on the shore beside Jack’s hoverbike, the power core still venting heat as if he gunned it the whole way from the Blue Dormitory. He’s in his full Fraternity uniform except for the cap, his saber already drawn but hanging low at his side. His eyes lock onto mine beneath the blazing sun, and for one staggering second, the world seems to stand still.
The Blues open the circle for him before he even lifts a foot. When Edmund finally moves, it’s with a slow, measured stride, the tip of his saber carving a winding trail through the sand. At the edge of the circle, he’s greeted with cheers from the Blues. Rosamund scrambles up from her crouched position, laughing and sobbing, still clinging to his name.
My grip tightens on my saber until the tremor subsides. I force myself to stand tall, chin up, the way Dad taught me. “You’ll challenge me, then?” I
ask.
Edmund doesn’t break stride. “Yes.”
My heart pounds fiercely behind my words. “Then draw.”
He stops within reach of my blade. His eyes flick to the saber in my hand, confusion darkening his face before he masks it. Slowly, his hand closes over mine and pushes my blade down toward the sand.
“I’ll challenge you, Loredana. But I won’t fight you.”
The words land so wrong they make the blades between us feel obscene.
“What? Don’t lie to me.” The shout rips out of me, half a choke, half a snarl.
I glance at his saber, mine, and the spectators chanting for blood.
“I lied to you on the tram,” Edmund says. “But I’m not lying now.”
I grit my teeth, unable to believe him after what he’s done. “I don’t trust
you anymore, Edmund. Not without proof.”
“All right.”
He lifts his saber, retracts the blade, and slides it into my scabbard himself, forcing it home with a sharp, final snap. Behind him, the Blues erupt in shouts of fury and disbelief. Rosamund screams his name, demanding to know how he could betray her.
Still, Edmund’s eyes never leave mine. There’s no anger or sadness like on the tram, only the man I knew before all this pain. I try to understand what he means about having lied, but I’m too wrung out to hold his gaze, too exhausted even to fight how close he’s standing.
Now that he’s weaponless, I could swing at him easily. I could split him open and let fate roar its approval. But I know it for sure now. Edmund didn’t sabotage my civil credits. If he had, he’d draw his saber and finish me here and now. Someone else tried to kill me, someone who wanted me dead without leaving a name behind. The truth makes my saber hand shake until the blade rattles against my leg.
Edmund leans in, his palm still resting over mine, and says quietly, “We’ll walk off this beach together, Loredana. Or you’ll walk off alone.”
The way he’s looking at me—like he might close that last inch, pull me in, wrap himself around me, and block out this whole shoreline of fury and blood—breaks me. I know Edmund didn’t come here to kill me. He came here to stand between me and death, one more time. Maybe that means nothing… or maybe it means everything.
My saber trembles, then slips from my hand and falls into the sand with a dull scrape. Tears come fast, hot and blinding, almost making me miss the indistinct shape moving at the edge of the circle, advancing toward us.
It’s William.
He looks half-mad, his face warped with rage as he runs, and when he draws his saber in a deadly arc of graphene, a sudden, terrifying realization dawns on me: William wasn’t tailing me to spy. He knows I was part of Edmund’s entourage, maybe thinks I still am, and he waited for me to lead
him here. To Edmund.
And now I have.
Fear reaches for me, but I react before it can take hold. I dig the energy shield from my pocket and slam it against my chest hard enough to bruise.
William’s saber swings high, aimed straight at Edmund, and I spring at Edmund, fisting his shirt and yanking him toward me as if I could absorb him
into my own body.
The blade cuts downward— And the beach bursts into a blinding flash of light.
William’s saber sparks as it scrapes futilely against the pulsing barrier.
Edmund jolts into me, his chest heaving, hands braced on my shoulders as the shield blazes between us and the strike. He looks down at me, his eyes reflecting the crackling light, and in that moment, I realize he understands
why I did it.
But William doesn’t.
The despair on his face is all-consuming, veins bulging in his neck as he shouts a single word: Traitor.
William wrenches his saber free and spins erratically. The Blues rush to stop him, but he’s too far gone. His blade tears through the ring of bodies like wildfire until it finds Rosamund. Her scream is shrill with pain as graphene rips open the soft flesh from her shoulder to her breast. She collapses in shock while a Blue slams into William from behind, driving him face-down into the sand. More Blues pile on in a blur of fists, blades, and boots. Blood sprays, and bones snap like dry branches. The sand drinks everything.
Edmund hurls himself against the shield, trying to break through the wall to Rosamund, but it holds, buzzing and blistering, until the last blade stills.
When the shield finally disables, he’s at my ear in an instant.
“Run, Loredana. I’ll find you.”
Then he’s gone, vaulting past Charlotte and running across the blood- soaked sand toward Rosamund. Sirens wail in the distance, a piercing chorus of Copper vehicles and ambulances. Charlotte limps toward me, the truth of what just happened ticking like a grenade between us. I grab her hand and pull her through the crowd, toward my hovercar waiting like an open grave.
Behind us, the beach tears itself wide open.
Charlotte protests going to the hospital even as her blood soaks into the passenger seat of the hovercar, dripping down her boots and pooling on the mats. She’s flushed and trembling but remains stubborn, shaking her head and insisting she’s fine.
I head to the hospital anyway. The drive field spikes, the stabilizers
screaming as I lift off the sand and vector toward Belvoir Infirmary. Sirens wail through the streets behind us. My hands shake on the control stick, my whole body thrumming with adrenaline and the echo of Edmund’s face, his voice, the shield still burning between us.
I land in a hospital docking bay, where Pinkie medics are waiting outside, already alerted to other injured students coming from the beach. One robot sprints to the passenger side, yanks open the door, and catches Charlotte as she slumps against the dashboard.
Her legs are shredded, torn in five places from thigh to shin, blood winding in oily ropes that are already beginning to congeal. Her shoes make a sick squelch as the Pinkies lie her on a gurney. A robot injects a sedative into her neck, and Charlotte goes limp immediately. I trail after them, feeling helpless as the Pinkies rush her into surgery.
I wait in the corridor, still numb, holding the wrong Fraternity cap. I thought it was mine when I grabbed it from the hovercar, but under the harsh hospital fluorescents, I see the small tear in the green band. It’s Vincent’s. I clutch the cap tighter than I mean to, knuckles whitening around the brim.
Two hours pass before the Pinkies wheel Charlotte into a recovery room.
Both legs are bound in layers of bio-bandage mesh. The surgeon says Rosamund’s saber missed the tendons, but a few inches in any direction, and Charlotte would be relearning how to walk like I did. A Pinkie administers another sedative, something strong enough to knock out a bull, and I keep waiting. One hour. Then another. The day fades away, and the outside light dies. The monitors beep softly, as if the machines are breathing for Charlotte, and she continues sleeping.
While I wait, I send her two hundred civil credits as a cushion for what’s coming. Jerome warned me against handing out civil credits, but when it comes to Charlotte, everyone knows she’s my best friend, so I’m sure the transfer won’t raise suspicion. She’ll need the boost after what she did, especially with all the eyes that saw her challenge a Prew. My civil credits aren’t permanently linked to hers since she was above the arrest threshold when I sent them, but even if they were, I wouldn’t care.
With William dead, my civil credits are no longer connected to him. I stare at the notification on my Bond, which confirms the penalty is lifted, and feel nothing at all.
Close to midnight, Charlotte’s fingers finally twitch against the blanket.
She opens her eyes, and when she sees me, she flinches with shame, as if no
time has passed since the death duel on the beach.
“I’m sorry, Lore,” she rasps. “I had to stand up to Rosamund.”
“I know.” I brush her damp curls behind her ear, afraid of my next words.
“But Char, why a saber duel? Did you… want to die?”
Charlotte nods stiffly, then forces the words out through clamped teeth.
“Yes. But only until I almost did.” Her lips tremble as she wipes away a tear.
“Thank you for helping me, Lore. And for—”
“You don’t have to thank me, Char. I did it for both of us.”
She tightens her grip on my hand, her fingers warm in mine, and we sit in silence as the visiting hour clock creeps toward its end.
After a long pause, Charlotte murmurs, “Rosamund sent a request to dissolve the death duel.”
I wonder if Rosamund did it because Edmund made her or because she’s afraid that I’ll come finish her off. “Did you accept it?” I ask.
“Yes.” Charlotte’s voice thins as she begins to doze. “Even if she beat me, at least she knows I’m not afraid of her anymore.”
I keep holding Charlotte’s hand until her eyes close. I stand to leave, but when I reach the door, she calls out to me, “Lore.”
I turn.
“You love him, don’t you? Edmund?”
There’s no point denying it. Charlotte isn’t the only one who witnessed
what happened on the beach.
“Yes. I love him.”
She exhales, and the sadness on her face folds inward. “I’m… so sorry.”
I’m sorry too, because Charlotte’s expression seems to convey the same anxious warning Mom gave me only days ago, that loving Edmund means suffering in pursuit of an ending that can never be bright.
