Page 106 of Because I Killed Him
“Correct, Miss Waldsten,” Professor Yates says with a brisk nod. Then he sails away and selects a hook-nosed Orange for the final question. “How long did the Shield War last—”
“Thirty years,” Dickie blurts.
He’s out of his seat, breathing heavily, his eyes wild, desperate to finally answer a question. “No treaty was ever signed. No peace was ever declared. But the Rangers stopped attacking once they realized they couldn’t bring down the shield.”
Professor Yates spins around, sucking his teeth. He starts to speak, ready to scold Dickie, until his gaze falls on the blue gleam of Dickie’s Aegis. He halts abruptly, a muscle twitching in his jaw, then turns away and drifts back to the center of the room.
“Well done, ladies and gentlemen,” Professor Yates announces. “Through your knowledge of our history—our sacred inheritance—you have proven your worth. Now, you shall receive your reward.”
He unlocks the box on his desk with a biometric scan. Students in the front rows lean forward, craning their necks, eager for a glimpse.
But for me, what’s inside is already clear.
A Ranger artifact, the only genuine one ever recovered. Dad told me the professors have been showing it to first-years at Grandmaster since the Shield War ended. Now, instead of imagining the artifact from Dad’s description, I’ll see it for myself.
The box creaks open, and a collective gasp rings out.
The artifact is smaller than I expected, a curved steel object resembling a hooked claw. At the tip is a rowel, a toothed wheel that spins with movement. The steel is shiny but worn smooth from use. From war.
Professor Yates scans the room, clearly savoring the students’ fascination. “Can anyone tell me what this is?”
“It’s a spur,” Jack calls out, his eyes sparking as he stares at it. “It attaches to the back of a boot and is used to control horses… and as a weapon.”
“Correct.” Professor Yates stomps his cane. Then, with a grin, he points his cane at the spur. “Those who wish for a closer look may form an orderly line.”
The high-citizens go first, their eyes rife with curiosity, while low-citizens jostle for a place in line behind them.
I don’t join in. I’m already closer than I want to be.
That thing… that spur radiates nothing but dread. It’s a promise of the destruction that will follow if the Rangers ever breach our defenses.
Seventy years have passed since their last missile. Most believe the Rangers have abandoned the fight for good, content to live outside the Civilized World on their own land among their own people. Even if they decide to bomb us again, the Blues say it won’t matter. Our technology has advanced too much, and the shield is now too strong to breach.
But the Blues are overlooking one thing.
The Heretics. The thousands of traitors hidden among us, working desperately to organize an attack strong enough to bring down the shield.
And to let the Rangers in.
The only sure way to stop a thief is to cut off their hands.
—ROSAMUND PREW
CHAPTER 24
Almost every student in the lecture room lines up to see the spur. They examine it inch by inch, as if staring long enough might reveal clues about our old enemies.
Aside from me, the only other student who stays behind is Rosamund. She’s draped across the couch of the private booth, her monkey in her lap, watching me through half-lidded eyes that never blink when I expect them to. Up close, her resemblance to Edmund is unsettling: the bone structure, the curve of her mouth, the slope of her nose. Still, the twins strike me as opposites. Where Edmund burns hot, Rosamund holds her fire. Edmund moves like a blade drawn without warning, while Rosamund moves like the shadow of that blade, biding her time until the strike will matter most.
“Miss Waldsten.” Rosamund pats the cushion beside her with the tips of her fingers. “Come join me.”
Part of me wants to slip away with the excuse that I’d like to see the spur. But another part knows I can’t avoid Rosamund forever. Whatever cards she’s holding, it’s better to get her to lay her hand on the table so I know what I’m up against.
“As you wish, Miss Prew,” I say.
When I sit beside her, she orders a Pinkie to pour her a glass of water. Her hand trembles as she drinks, droplets sliding down her neck and pooling in the hollow of her collarbone. She hands the empty glass to the robot, then turns to face me. I notice her pupils are so dilated that they nearly swallow all the color.
Is she high on Bliss?
