Chapter 122

The endless drone of the crowd was still present, subdued somewhat by the blaring klaxon horns, but not diminished entirely. The bishop had begun to speak, though to me, his words were as meaningless and monotonous as the crowd's din. Even though I was in the suit, with senses heightened beyond description, the sounds around me seemed to fade. I narrowed my eyes, peering through my visor toward the figure opposite me.

He was my mirror image. We both stood, clad in our half-suits, swords hanging at our sides. We both faced each other with a similar intensity, a similar focus, an identical goal. I thought about what the voice had just said—that something was different about him. It echoed what I had felt earlier. He seemed troubled—not with fear, as I had hoped, but with indecision. His face wasn’t that of a man afraid, but of one contemplating a choice. What choice could that be, I wondered, as I stared past the gesticulating bishop toward Lance.

What do you mean, different? I asked the voice.

The voice replied, Different… I don’t know. I can just feel a change in him… around him.

The concern in the voice sharpened my focus. I often struggled to trust the voice’s honesty, but there was nothing it could gain by inventing this. The natural worry in its words felt beyond an act.

I asked, If you’re part of the Oracle, then you’re connected to him too. Can’t you tell what’s different?

The voice groaned, frustrated. It’s not that simple. I can see inside your head, but only a little. And I see well because of the way your brain aligns with mine. Lance’s connection... well, he connects to me, but his weaker connection to the suit, to the Griid—that’s what will doom him against you today—it also makes it harder for me to discern his thoughts. He’s troubled, but I can’t tell why. And… it’s not him that’s different. It’s something else.

I didn’t like this. I didn’t need any wild cards in a game I thought I had already won. I exhaled deeply and looked away. Whatever was happening, I was itching for this thing to start. The tension of waiting was more exhausting than the fight itself might be.

As I looked up, the sharpened vision of the suit swept across the sea of faces. And, of course, my gaze settled on them. On a balcony, reserved for the nobles, two figures stood, looking down at me—Katya and Lauren. They stood side by side, their gazes mostly fixed on me, their heads tilted together in private conversation. A pang shot through my heart as I watched them. Fantasies of being part of that intimacy, of those secret conversations, had crept into my mind during the competition. By now, I had been foolish enough to believe they were mine to choose between.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

But I had been blind not to see it—the way Katya held Lauren’s hand as she mounted the carriage, the way she sacrificed herself in the tower to save Lauren. The way neither of them had cared about winning the Flow during the contest with the orbs, as long as one of them did. Their house would receive its reward. Their house.

I forced my gaze away, looking down at the floor beneath me. My fist clenched and unclenched. I wanted the sword in my hand. I wanted to be done with this. I craved a little violence. Anxiety, fear, grief, and hope swirled together in me, creating a molten-hot cocktail of emotion. I needed to be in motion. I needed that little bit of violence.

But despite it all, as I clenched my fist, I could feel the incredible power in that grip. The bishop stood, waving his arms, boring the crowd to death. They wanted to get to the action as badly as I did. It was why they had come—why we had all come. None of us were here to let that pompous fool put us to sleep. I stared daggers at him through the visor. I hated him. He thought himself far above us all, but standing in the suit, feeling the power in my hands, coursing through my bones, I felt a thousand feet above him.

Reality snapped back, and the sounds regained their hold on my attention. I could hear again. The crowd was mostly hushed as the bishop droned on, his words echoing from hidden speakers. But among the low murmur of thousands, there were jeers and shouts from those who were especially drunk or especially fed up, calling for him to shut up and let us get on with it. The bishop, however, was a seasoned tower dweller, living far longer than his face might suggest. He steered himself past the heckles with ease, though I knew inside, he would be seething.

His voice boomed, and I realized he was nearing what I hoped was the end of his speech. He said, "...from the dawn of our time, the Choosing has been a corporeal representation of forces beyond our ken. It is not these young men who choose the suit, who elect one another, who deign to effect this outcome. All that has passed and all that will come to pass is but the physical manifestation of the judgment, the desires of our Oracle. Our truest path to happiness, to salvation, to the brightest of all possible futures, lies in surrendering to the will of the Oracle. We only need to be worthy—that is the only thought, the only desire, the only goal that need occupy our pathetic human minds. And as these two young men step forward, they too know that their actions are merely the notes of a song written long ago..."

I spoke in my mind to the voice, Is that so?

The voice, part amused and part bitter, replied, If only it were that simple.

I chuckled slightly. I could make friends with this thing, if I treated it with enough caution.

Then I noticed the crowd noise reaching a low, the jeers fading into silence. Anticipation filled the arena. The bishop’s voice had reached a higher pitch, more excited. I glanced at him and saw the flag held high in his hand. My heart surged, my hand twitched, aching to feel the hilt of my sword. It was about to happen.

I let the old cleric’s voice reach my ears once more as I watched the platform beneath him begin to descend.

“And let the final round of the Choosing begin.”

The flag fluttered free from his hand, caught by the air thick with tension, before it flapped and curled its way to the floor.