Page 99 of Because I Killed Him
The Blue’s mouth curves into a grin, his eyes bright with challenge, untouched by the fear twisting in my gut.
I think Jack is right. If all the Heretics wanted was to detonate bombs on street corners, we wouldn’t bother with public executions. Their attacks would just be another crime statistic. But that’s not the Heretics’ ultimate goal. Their true goal is to destroy the energy shield that protects the Civilized World.
“The Heretics’ revolution is one of weak men led by weaker ones,” the Blue says coldly. “They’ll never breach the shield.”
“Maybe not. But it’s a bet that pays out badly either way.”
The Blue’s gaze scrapes over Jack as if he’s prey unworthy of the hunt yet still tempting to strike down. “War is never clean, low-citizen. Losses must be accepted for the greater victory. The Heretics signed their death warrants the moment they spilled Blue blood.” His hand settles on the hilt of his saber. “Or do you suggest such a crime is forgivable?”
“Heretics might be enemies,” Jack says, squaring his shoulders despite being nearly a foot shorter than the Blue, “but they’re still ours. If the shield falls, we’ll face enemies who aren’t.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yeah, I did.” Jack leans in, chin high. “You just don’t like the answer.”
The apple hits the floor with a dull thud. The Blue’s saber slides halfway from its scabbard before Edmund steps in and shoves Jack out of reach. Jack stumbles into me, knocking us both down. Through the blur, I see Edmund’s hand clamp over the Blue’s saber hilt, halting the draw.
The Blue lowers his head and glares from under his brow. “There are moments that make our names, Mr. Prew. This is one of them. Will you let a low-citizen speak to a high-citizen as an equal?”
Students stop in their tracks and crowd around, wide-eyed, whispering about whether they’re about to witness a death duel. One student activates her Bond to film until Edmund turns his head and snaps his fingers. The glow in the student’s eye vanishes like an extinguished flame. Edmund tightens his grip on the Blue’s saber hilt, forcing the blade back into its scabbard, inch by inch.
“Yes, Mr. Stratton,” Edmund says. “I will.”
“Why?”
“Managing my own mouth is already a full-time job. I have no interest in managing another.”
Stratton lets out a short, humorless laugh. His gaze flicks to Edmund’s other hand, resting on the saber at his own hip. “Mr. Prew, I see I was mistaken. I hadn’t taken you for such a diplomatic man.”
“You weren’t mistaken, Mr. Stratton.” Edmund nudges the apple toward him with his shoe. “I’mnot.”
“Well then…” Stratton’s eyes narrow on Jack, who’s pulling me to my feet. “This has been most illuminating. Good day, gentlemen.”
Stratton stoops, retrieves the apple, and takes a large bite. The crunch echoes down the corridor as he disappears into the lecture room.
Jack moves to Edmund’s side, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry, Ed. Shouldn’t have run my mouth like that.”
Edmund shoots a look at the lingering students until they scatter, then nods toward the flask in Jack’s hand. “Bad things happen when you don’t drink the good stuff.”
“Right.” Jack clears his throat and forces a grin. “Next time, I’ll go for cast strength.”
Edmund grins back, bright enough to light up his face, but as soon as Jack moves ahead, it fades. I fall into step beside him, watching as he pulls sharply on his tie until it loosens. The skin around his eyes looks tight, like it does on someone torn in half, standing on a line they can’t bring themselves to cross.
It makes me wonder whether Edmund defended Jack because he cares about him or because he agrees with his views.
The Heretics aren’t wrong to feel that their lives began to rot the moment they were born. All low-citizens feel the same. What’s wrong is how the Heretics are choosing to revolt. Yet only a few low-citizens dare to say the obvious aloud. If the Blues were willing to cut us a better deal, low-citizens wouldn’t have a reason to become Heretics in the first place.
The fear and anger over the attack last only a day before the media shifts to its standard sermon: vows to hunt down every Heretic, promises to care for the victims’ families, and speeches about how we’ll emerge stronger and more united than ever.
Then, like clockwork, people begin to forget. The next distractionerases their memories of the horror, whether it’s a political scandal or a celebrity breakup.
Here at Grandmaster, that distraction is Edmund’s and Rosamund’s upcoming birthday party.
A Blue’s birthday is always a vanity parade, with them burning through money like it’s going out of style. But Edmund’s and Rosamund’s party on Saturday, planned down to the smallest detail by their mother, is more than that. Everyone’s still stewing over being stuck on campus for winter break, itching for a distraction that doesn’t involve Heretic attacks or guillotine executions.
And this party is it.
As the date draws closer and Tattletale starts dropping intel like honey, one anonymous tip at a time, the excitement turns electric. The party becomestheevent. Everywhere I go, people are gossiping about it, from the dormitories to the dining halls to the locker rooms in the training gym.
