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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
honor 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, anyway.
You’re screwed, Elias
,
a wry voice tells me.
Just accept 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 itching 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.
220
“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 challenge you.
Single combat, three battles. You win, I keep 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, keeps clenching that right fist—
probably because she wants to punch me with it.
Rage colors her every movement. Rage that 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.
221
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.
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