He was brave,
not because he wasn’t scared,
not despite the fear,
but because of it.
For courage is birthed
from terror’s parturition.
“Brave,” by Linden Rosepétale, 4-time champion in Bathune
203 GKE
Valentine and I shake hands. The stands roar. I glance at the top box and examine the staffmasters in their black-clad glory. Killián. Bardic. Linden. Segolé. Belén. Pierre-Marie. A few others who I don’t recognize. They’re all looking at me—I want to curl up in a ball on the dry, sunbaked sand.
The family members of the final ten are grouped in the front row of stands. I scan the masses of unfamiliar faces, searching for Akeeva. She’s front and center, blond hair flying in the breeze. To her left—my heart honest-to-Yosif stops—is Ruba, with Ila tangled beside her. Felicity—Lici!—is holding Ila’s other hand. I meet her piercing blue eyes for one second. Two. Three.
She raises a hand and wiggles her fingers.
I resist the urge to do something stupid and childish, like burst into tears. Or perhaps turn my back to Valentine, sprint toward the stadium wall, vault up twenty feet of vertical sandstone, and throw myself into her arms…
“BEGIN!”
The tester’s voice is loud enough to break across the raucous cheers pouring down from the mass of spectators. I tear my gaze away from Felicity, jump to attention, and cock my sword dramatically to disguise my fear. Valentine darts forward, his guarded bistaff heading straight for my chest. I dart back and parry with ease. I attack, twisting my sword beneath the dancing scythe. He blocks. I press forward.
Maybe I should withdraw. I do better on the defensive.
No. Not with Felicity watching. She’d never let me live that down. Hel, I’m tempted to switch the sword over to my left hand to give her a show. To remind her what she taught me. I’d probably go down in seconds instead of minutes…
I take another step forward and slash my blade downward in a rainbow arc. Lanista Quincey would be proud. I move without thinking, my gaze fixed on Valentine’s hands and hips. My fuller tangles in his scythe, and my body jerks forward. My left hand hits the sand, my body spasms, and suddenly I’m cartwheeling over my extended arm and landing back on my feet.
“Fertilize with corpses,” Valentine says, sweat streaming down his flushed cheeks.
He twists his bistaff toward my chest. I wrench my blade in an upward arc and keep his guarded blade from curving around my neck. That would be an automatic forfeit; anything that warrants death without a blade guard is an instant loss. I block with such vitriol that he takes a step back, and we reset.
I think he’s up two points. I’ve lost track. Pressure builds behind my temples. His bistaff arcs, one hit after another. A perfect extending step thrust—I counter with a hand parry. An impeccably executed straight attack—I do my best to avoid a bind, but my deceptive motion falls short, and he swings straight into a camineering movement. His scythe ends up behind my knees. An obvious maneuver—one Lanista Quincey taught me how to counter—but I hesitate a second too long. He yanks my legs out from under me. My back hits the sand, and the breath is torn from my lungs.
I’ve never played chess, but I feel like this is what Pierre-Marie would call the endgame. There’s nothing I can do but deflect—no time to stand up. The spear-end of his bistaff comes closer and closer with every strike, and my blade is tied up deflecting the assaults.
He pauses for the briefest of seconds—an opportunity I desperately need. I throw myself into a backward roll, pop to my feet, and retreat.
I risk a quick glance at the stands, but the only person I see is Felicity. She leans over the guard rail, waves of dark hair spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes are cold, and her expression is impassive.
And then, in the split second we make eye contact, for whatever reason, she grins.
It’s a true, genuine smile, one that shows off the gap between her front teeth. Her cheeks are damp, her posture is rigid, but she’s smiling. She mouths something. I don’t have time to read her lips. I don’t have to. I know what she’s saying.
Tough up.
Valentine’s spear tip plunges toward my heart…
I exhale—long and slow, despite the circumstances. One more step back, and I’ll be pressed against the sandstone wall, spectators looking down on me in droves. I can’t let him pin me. I’m not play-fighting with Felicity in the scrapyard. I’m not on Leisure Street, and if I have anything to say about it, I’m never going back there again. It’s just me, in the pit, with a legacy staffmaster drawing near…
Twist. Slash. Withdraw. Parry. Step forward—not too far. Wouldn’t want to open my defenses. Arc the blade. Keep my grip loose. Not too loose. Throw a kick at his shins. Block. Parry again. Press forward. Another twist.
Valentine stumbles.
I press.
My training is limited, but I know how to seize an advantage. I trip him with my leg, wrestle him to the ground, kick his bistaff to the side, and grab a wrist when he reaches for my face.
I press my blade to his throat.
His eyes are wide and panicked, a bluedeer caught in a hunter’s trap.
The crowd explodes.
###
Killián performs the initiation ceremony.
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Dune and Osyrus won their bouts. I guess it’s not just me Lady Luck is pashing on. Two lowly swordsmen—plus myself—tested out of our caste. We’re going to L-DAW. It’s us and the legacy staffmasters—Rowan and Sabilli.
I don’t have time to wonder if Rowan resents me for besting his brother. We’re shuffled to the center of the pit. General Killián is in front of us, along with Staffmaster Belén, who’s keeping her gaze on Rowan. I’m placed second-to-top in the pack—Sabilli scored more points than me overall, but still. Second isn’t too shabby.
Killián moves down the line, pinning laurels to the victors’ chests. He says things to each of them in turn, but I can’t hear his voice over the screaming crowd. It’s only when he gets to me that he leans close enough to make himself heard.
“That was an intriguing bout.” He offers me a smile. “You can learn a lot about a man by the way he fights.”
He sounds like Pierre-Marie.
I say something. I think it’s thank you, general.
He starts in on my initiation, beginning with the first of the five directives.
“Will you devote your life to serving the God King and His interpreters, and will you defend His name and agenda until your final breath?” he asks.
“Aye, sir,” I say.
“Will you honor the Lord of Love above His other lords, for only the king can speak with His voice?” he asks. “Will you serve in His kingdom however you are told without question, for the God King knows how to best make use of you? For both the humblest farmer and the lords almighty are servants to the God King…”
Egad. Egad. I’m going to the First Circuit, and this’ll be my second title. If I don’t wash out of L-DAW, I’ll earn my third when I graduate. I could apply for elite status by the time I’m seventeen…
I’m fifteen, I realize. My birthday was a few days ago. I completely forgot about it.
On Leisure Street, I’d be considered an adult.
Why am I thinking about that right now?
I’m old enough to work at the cathouse.
No. Never. Because I just tested into L-DAW.
My breaths come in raspy gasps. Killián’s waiting for me to speak. Everyone is waiting.
“Aye, sir,” I say quickly.
Killián’s fierce features don’t shift. “Please recite the Fifth Directive.”
I went over this with Pierre-Marie. Two nights ago, I think. I was going through the motions, but she drilled it into me until I could parrot the words on my deathbed. I never thought I’d actually be saying them.
“I will serve my empire, and so shall my posterity.” I keep my gaze fixed on the Colosseum sand. “Dying for the Ladies is an honor unlike any other.”
“Congratulations, Kolton Diable,” Killián says. “I bequeath to you your second bravery laurel. I promote you from a one-titled recruité to a two-titled deuxcruité.”
He attaches the pin to the front of my gray leathers.
“I expect great things from you, son,” he murmurs, drawing closer. “You’ve earned this. Our Father, the God King, eternal light in the darkness, commends you for the courage you showed in battle and extols you with His hallowed name…”
###
They tell us to collect our things. My family waits for me by the Second Terminal, in front of the stronghorse train that will take me to the First Circuit. The first thing I do is hug Ila. I scoop her away from Ruba, whisk her into my arms, and twirl around a few times. She squeals a harsh, cackling laugh that makes my chest ache—if she was still sick, she’d never be able to make that sound. I set her back down and pepper kisses on her face until she swats me away.
“Ko,” she protests. “I’m not a child.”
She’s right. I’m the fittest I’ve ever been and picking her up was a struggle. My back aches. I tell myself it’s from the fight.
“Ko,” Osyrus calls from beside his mother—a stern-looking woman with a wicked cutlass strapped to her back. “The train’s about to leave.”
I turn back to my sisters.
“That was amazing!” Ila bobs on her toes, her dark eyes wide. “You were so fast! Felicity kept telling me to be quiet. You looked like a cow!”
“Ouch,” I say.
“That’s the highest compliment I can give you,” she assures me. “There’re bulls in the corrals next to Nova’s obelisk, and Madame Ruba takes me there on weekends. Man, can they fight!”
“We need to keep this quick, honey,” Akeeva reminds Ila, her smile gentle. “Ko has places to be.”
Felicity sniffs and turns away.
“I’m going to enlist the day I come of age,” Ila says brightly.
“No,” I say.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Akeeva says at the same time.
“I think the Hel not.” Felicity’s voice is cold.
“Why would you?” Ruba looks genuinely baffled. “You have such fabulous hands, ma crevette.”
I glance behind me. Hussars are grooming the stronghorses that pull the train, and Osyrus, Dune, and Rowan have already entered the caravan. I press one last kiss to Ila’s cheek, promise to stop by Lord Lefe’s forge the second I have a free moment, and let Ruba pull her away. Akeeva squeezes my hand, murmurs an expression of love into my ear, and withdraws. Only Felicity remains.
“So,” she says. “You’re doing this, huh?”
“That decision was made a month ago.” My voice is quiet.
She tugs our mother’s battlechains from around her neck. The long, silver gyves are fettered with two pennants: an engraved stone depicting Vandame’s clover for health, and a metallic pin shaped like a set of deadcrow wings. Marix’s symbol also hangs from the shackle—our mother’s commanding officer added the link before he gave it to us. An anatomical heart, the emblem of a fallen soldier.
“Happy yearday,” she says.
My heart flutters in my chest. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll get it back when you get yourself offed in combat.” She doesn’t look at me. “If they find your body, of course.”
I drape the chain around my neck and tuck the pennants beneath my leathers.
“I love you,” I say.
“No you don’t,” she says. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
I try to grab her hands. She pulls away.
“Lici.” My voice is desperate. “I don’t want to leave things like this. You smiled at me—”
She laughs a wicked, wild laugh.
“Akeeva made me come, and you were getting your ass kicked,” she says. “You left me, Ko.”
“I found a way to get us off Leisure Street,” I say. “I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.”
“My clients are soldiers.” She glares at the ground. “There’s no coming back from the frontline, and I warned you not to enlist. By the time you figure out I’m right, it’ll be too late. For someone so smart, you’re so damn stupid.”
Her voice cracks at the last word. I stare down at the metallite laurels pinned to my chest. We stand in silence, breathing heavily, unable to look at each other.
“Just go,” she says.
“I chose this,” I murmur. “I hope you forgive me someday.”
I lunge forward, press a kiss to her cheek, and dart onto the train.