Page 236 of Because I Killed Him
“Not anymore,” I say. “But you’re going to wish I still did.”
Rosamund regards me with renewed interest, her sneer faltering. I notice a slight spasm in her throat before she masks it. With expert aim, she lifts her saber, dripping with Charlotte’s blood, and flicks a drop onto my cheek.
“All right,” she says. “You can pick up screaming where Deering left off.”
Rosamund scans her Blood Ring with mine to formalize the Bonded Duel.
Murmurs of disbelief spread through the spectators. The Blues around us transform from an audience into a mob, their voices building into a furious roar. They shout obscenities, call me “Blue-killer,” and chant for blood. Bonds activate, glowing blue, some of which I’m sure are livestreaming the fight on Quill. A few of the angriest Blues advance, their sabers half-drawn, threatening to challenge me themselves if I cut Rosamund down.
Rosamund lifts her chin as if feeding on the sound while I watch two Blues drag Charlotte from the circle, her saber slipping from her limp fingers. She groans and tries to push herself back up, but her bleeding legs give out in the sand. I stare at her until our eyes meet, begging for her understanding, her permission.
She nods, a weak, shuddering dip of her chin, but it’s enough.
My resolve hardens as I take my mark in the sand. The ring of spectators presses in closer as Blues shout Rosamund’s name, and we drop into en garde. I lift my blade to my brow, then my shoulder, and extend it straight before me. As Rosamund returns the salute, every inch of my focus narrows to her face. For a moment, all the attacks she’s waged against Charlotte and me flood back, blunting the edges of my vision with rage.
But it’s the last thing I need. Leaning on anger will only drag my blade down. I draw a deep breath, using everything I learned from the Florence Engine to take my fury and grind it into a single word:Steady.
A steady pulse, a steady hand, a steady swing.
Then I advance.
Rosamund charges down my left side, aiming for my still-healing leg. I pivot, intercept her blade with mine, deflect it, and riposte, slashing hersleeve. She hisses, pulls back, and circles wide, her saber low and taunting.
The Blues keep roaring for her. “Rosamund! Rosamund!”
I try to fight as I once did, but the gap is wider than I expected. My body struggles to keep up with what my mind remembers. Two years off the piste show in every misstep and stiff recovery. Rosamund sees it. She’s more patient than I anticipated, testing me with quick feints and sharp taps to my guard, never giving me a clean opening. She may not have trained with Julian Lake, but I know she’s trained with Edmund.
Rosamund feints high, then nudges my boot to throw me off balance. I stumble a fraction, and she snaps her blade low to kick up a cloud of sand. I squeeze my eyes shut instinctively as I whirl back, barely dodging her next thrust. The circle of Blues presses closer, their bodies tightening around us like a cinch cord.
Through the cloud of falling sand, I see Rosamund’s blade arc overhead, angling for a slash to break my guard. I duck under, parry hard, and drive my shoulder into her ribs. The impact rattles her, and she staggers back, coughing out a snarl as she wipes spittle from her mouth.
“You’re slower than you were,” Rosamund rasps. “Charles would’ve finished you today.”
“And if I kill you now? What will that say about you?”
She grunts and rushes again, crashing into me with the full weight of her momentum. I catch her in a bind, graphene shrieking as my arm jolts from the force. She tries to wrench my saber free by forcing it wide, but I rotate my wrist and drive her blade down, our hilts grinding together. Rosamund breaks contact and launches into a quick flèche, lunging hard for my inside line. I parry six and riposte low to her flank, only for her to beat it aside and cut at my shoulder. Sparks spit between us as I block, feet digging into the sand to hold my ground.
We move faster, wilder, as the fight dissolves into pure instinct. Rosamund thrusts; I parry. I lunge; she counters. Our sabers clash in close quarters, blades snarling as we shove against each other with all our might, breath tearing out in ragged bursts. I circle her, attempt a beat attack, and drive in with a thrust that grazes her arm, but she recovers quickly, eyes blazing, and charges at me again.
The crowd roars all around us, but the sound is drowned out by thepounding of my blood. My lungs are burning, my legs are screaming, and for a moment, it feels like I’m fighting on willpower alone. All the times I stood helpless with an empty scabbard, all the times I wanted to defend my family’s name and couldn’t—every memory rushes back in a spike of adrenaline that breaks out of me in a raw, grating cry. I catch Rosamund in the instant she overreaches, her arm stretching past her guard. I hook her blade, twist, and drive her hilt downward. Her saber wrenches free, flips in the air, and buries itself in the sand at her feet.
A collective gasp erupts from the circle. Several Blues freeze mid-motion, gaping at the sight of Rosamund disarmed, while Charlotte lets out a choking, relieved breath.
Rosamund lunges for her saber, but I slam my boot down on the hilt and point my blade at her throat. She halts, trying to catch her breath, sweat streaming down her temple.
“Beg,” I shout, my chest heaving. “Beg Charlotte’s forgiveness. Beg mine.”
Rosamund’s mouth parts, but no words come out. Fear strains her face, making her look as powerless as I’ve felt until now. For a moment, I see the thought take root in her mind. She might actually beg. Then pride stills her tongue, breaking free as a sneer.
Her eyes dart frantically as she searches the ring of Blues for rescue. Then her gaze stretches beyond the circle, down the beach, and hope floods her features like a final gasp of air.
“Edmund,” she screams. “Help me, Edmund! Please!”
The circle goes quiet, so still that the only movement is the quivering shadow of my blade across the sand. My pulse races, out of sync with my slow turn.
Edmund stands on the shore beside Jack’s hoverbike, the power core still venting heat as if he gunned it the whole way from the Blue Dormitory. He’s in his full Fraternity uniform except for the cap, his saber already drawn but hanging low at his side. His eyes lock onto mine beneath the blazing sun, and for one staggering second, the world seems to stand still.
The Blues open the circle for him before he even lifts a foot. When Edmund finally moves, it’s with a slow, measured stride, the tip of his saber carving a winding trail through the sand. At the edge of the circle, he’sgreeted with cheers from the Blues. Rosamund scrambles up from her crouched position, laughing and sobbing, still clinging to his name.
