Istart losing battles.
It’s Tristas’s fault. He planted the seed of Helene being in love with me
in my head, and now it’s sprouted like a misbegotten weed from hell.
At scim training, Zak comes at me with unusual sloppiness, but instead
of obliterating him, I let him knock me on my ass because I’ve caught a
glimpse of blonde across the field. What does that lurch in my stomach
mean?
When the Hand - to - Hand Centurion screams at me for poor technique, I
barely hear him, instead considering what will happen to H el and me. Is our
friendship ruined? If I don’t love her back, will she hate me? How am I
supposed to get her on my side for the Trials if I can’t give her what she
wants? So many bleeding, stupid questions. Do girls think like this all the
time? No wonder they’re so confusing.
The Third Trial, the Trial of Strength, is in two days. I know I have to
focus, to ready my mind and my body. I must win.
But in addition to Helene, there’s someone else crowding my thoughts:
Laia.
I try for days not to think about h er. In the end, I stop resisting. Life is
hard enough without having to avoid entire rooms in my own head. I
imagine the fall of her hair and the glow of her skin. I smile at how she
laughed when we danced, with a freedom of spirit I found exhilarating in its
possibility. I remember how her eyes closed when I spoke to her in Sadhese.
But at night, when my fears crawl out of the dark places in my mind, I
think of the dread on her face when she realized who I was. I think of her
disgust when I tried to protect her from the Commandant. She must hate me
for subjecting her to something so demeaning. But it was the only way I
could think of to ke ep her safe.
So many times in the past week, I’ve nearly walked to her quarters to see
how she is. But showing kindness to a slave will only bring the Black
Guard down on me.
Laia and Helene: They’re so different. I like that Laia says things I don’t
expect, that she speaks almost formally, as if she’s telling a story. I like that
she defied my mother to go to the Moon Festival, whereas Helene always
obeys the Commandant. Laia is the wild dance of a Tribal campfire, while
Helene is the cold blue of an alchemist’s flame.
But why am I even comparing them? I’ve known Laia a few weeks and
Helene all my life. Helene’s no passing attraction. She’s family. More than
that. She’s part of me.
Yet she won’t speak to me, won’t look at me. The Third Trial is days
away, and all I’ve gotten from her are glares and muttered insults.
Which brings another worry to the forefront of my mind. I’d been
counting on Helene winning the Trials, naming me Blood Shrike, and then
releasing me from my duty. I can’t see her doing that if she loathes me.
Which means that if I win the next Trial and if she wins the final Trial, she
could force me to remain Blood Shrike against my will. And if that
happens, I’ll have to run, and then hono r will demand that she have me
hunted down and killed.
On top of that, I’ve heard students whispering that the Emperor is days
away from Serra and planning vengeance against the Aspirants and anyone
associated with them. The Cadets and Skulls pretend to shake off the
rumors, but the Yearlings aren’t so skilled at hiding their fear. You’d think
the Commandant would be taking precautionary measures against an attack
on Blackcliff, but she seems unconcerned. Probably because she wants us
all dead. Or me, anywa y.
You’re screwed, Elias, a wry voice tells me. Just acc ept it. Should have
run when you had the chance.
My spectacular losing streak doesn’t go unnoticed. My friends are
worried about me, and Marcus makes a point of challenging me on the
combat field every chance he gets. Grandfather sends a two - word note,
inked with such force that the parchment is torn. Always victorious.
All the while, Helene watches, growing more infuriated every time she
beats me in combat — or witnesses someone else beat me. She’s itch ing to
say something, but her stubbornness won’t let her.
Until, that is, she finds Dex and Tristas tailing her to the barracks two
nights before the Third Trial. After interrogating them, she finds me.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Veturius?” She grabs my arm outside
the Skulls’ barracks, where I was heading for a bit of rest before a
graveyard shift on the wall. “You think I can’t defend myself? You think I
need bodyguards?”
“No, I just — ”
“You’re the one who needs protection. You’re the one who’s been losing
every battle. Skies, a dead dog could best you in a fight. Why don’t you just
hand the Empire over to Marcus right now?”
A group of Yearlings watches us with interest, scurrying away only
when Helene snarls at them.
“I’ve been distracted,” I say. “Worrying about you.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. And I
don’t need your . . . your henchmen following me.”
“They’re your friends, Helene. They’re not going to stop being your
friends just because you’re mad at me.”
“I don’t need them. I don’t need any of you.”
“I didn’t want Marcus to — ”
“Screw Marcus. I could beat Marcus to a pulp with my eyes closed. And
I could beat you too. Tell them to leave me alone.”
“No.”
She gets in my face, anger radiating off her in waves. “Call them off.”
“Not gonna do it.”
She crosses her arms and stands inches from my face. “I ch allenge you.
Single combat, three battles. You win, I ke ep the bodyguards. You lose, you
call them off.”
“Fine,” I say, knowing I can beat her. I’ve done it a thousand times
before. “When?”
“Now. I want this done with.” She makes for the closest training
building, and I take my time following, watching the way she moves: angry,
favoring her right leg, must have bruised the left in practice, ke eps
clenching that right fist — probably because she wants to punch me with it.
Rage colors her every movement. Rage t hat has nothing to do with her
so - called bodyguards and everything to do with me and her and the
confusion rolling around inside both of us.
This should be interesting.
Helene heads for the largest of the empty training rooms, launching an
attack the second I’m through the door. As I expected, she comes at me
with a right hook, hissing when I duck it. She’s fast and vengeful, and for a
few minutes, I think my losing streak might continue. But an image of
Marcus gloating, of Marcus ambushing Helene, sets my blood boiling, and I
unleash a vicious offense.
I win the first battle, but Helene rebounds in the second, nearly taking
my head off with the swiftness of her attack. Twenty minutes later, when I
yield, she doesn’t bother to relish the victory.
“Again,” she says. “Try and show up this time.”
We circle each other like wary cats until I fly toward her, my scim high.
She is undaunted, and our weapons crash together in a starburst of sparks.
Battle rage takes me. There is perfection in a fight like this. My scim is
an extension of my body, moving so swiftly that it might be its own master.
The battle is a dance, one I know so well I barely have to think. And though
the sweat floods off me and my muscles burn, desperate for rest, I feel
alive, obscenely alive.
We match each other stroke for stroke until I get a hit on her right arm.
She tries to switch sword arms, but I jab my scim at her wrist faster than she
can parry. Her scim goes flying, and I tackle her. Her white - blonde hair
tumbles free of her bun.
“Surrender!” I pin her down at the wrists, but she thrashes and rips one
arm free, scrabbling for a dagger at her waist. Steel stabs at my ribs, and
seconds later, I am on my back with a blade at my throat.
“Ha!” She leans down, her hair falling around us like a shimmering
silver curtain. Her chest heaves, she’s covered in sweat, hurt darkens her
eyes — and she is still so beautiful that my throat tightens, and I want so
badly to kiss her.
She must see it in my eyes, because the hurt turns to confusion as we
gaze at each other. I know then that there is a choice to be made. A choice
that might change everything.
Kiss her and she’ll be yours. You can explain everything and she’ll
understand, because she’ll love you. She’ll win the Trials, you’ll be Blood
Shrike, and when you ask for freedom, she’ll give it to you.
But will she? If I’m entangled with her, won’t that make it worse? Do I
want to kiss her because I love her or because I need something from her?
Or both?
All this passes through my head in a second. Do it, my instincts scream.
Kiss her.
I wrap her silk - smooth hair around my hand. Her breath catches, and she
melts into me, her body suddenly, intoxicatingly pliant.
And then, as I pull her face toward me, as our eyes are closing, we hear
the scream.