Page 227 of Because I Killed Him
I rub her back gently as we lift off from the dock and glide over the glowing waves of the Luminescent Lake. Beneath the hulls, schools of piranhas twist and scatter, their scales flashing in the shallow water. A shudder runs through me at the memory of their teeth in my flesh, but I remind myself they’re no threat tonight. Every student has a Rippletone strapped to their wrist.
I grip the gunwale as our hoverboat swings wide to join the growing line. Ahead, the Sailing Strip appears like a floating fortress: a vast platform dotted with ringed lamps, the piste shimmering under a grid of spotlights and broadcast drones. Thousands of velvet chairs circle the piste in perfect tiers, one side draped in the deep indigo banners of the Blues, the other in our vivid green.
From the far shore, the Blues arrive in force, their fleet of hoverboats arranged in a wedge formation, gliding forward with an arrogance worn like war paint. Even from here, I can hear their loud, invincible laughter, drunk on their certainty that no low-citizen could ever outdo one of their own.
Our side keeps quiet. We wait like a single pulse beneath the skin of the night, ready to watch William prove to all of us that we can beat the Blues at something they claim as their own. As we near the dock at the Sailing Strip, Charlotte’s and my hoverboat rises on its lift jets and joins the others’ steady ascent before landing on the platform. Charlotte and I disembark with the crowd, but I steer her toward the far back row on the Green side, away from the piste and Edmund’s line of sight.
“Back here?” Charlotte whispers as we settle into our velvet seats, each topped with a carved wooden tankard of beer on its armrest, ready to be raised at the right moment.
“Yes,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the piste where William will stand inJack’s place. “I can’t risk being seen by Edmund tonight.”
Charlotte squeezes my hand hard enough to pull my mind back to our side of the platform, then lets go and sinks into her seat.
The Blues arrive in a mass of stomping boots, caps tilted at carefree angles, their laughter brash and lively as they spill onto the platform. Grandmaster Lily Burton leads them, with Edmund by her side. Though he matches her step for step, shoulders squared in his blue-and-black uniform, his expression seems far-off, as if his body is trained to fight without his mind. Edmund halts at the piste, scanning the crowd for Jack, and when he spots William, a line of confusion cuts across his brow.
I lean forward in my chair, hating the part of myself that still believes the way Edmund kissed me was real, even after he tried to make me take Bliss. My heart feels like a traitor, a small, treacherous thing that still thinks the storm might turn back for me if I call it by name.
“Why did you do it, Edmund?” I whisper.
He doesn’t hear me, doesn’t seem to feel me here.
He stands where he always does, above, while I stand where I have to: below, wondering whether, when he lifted me as high as he did, he always meant to let me fall.
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.
