Konstantin counted his steps towards the place he had chosen to die. 

He counted three hundred and six paces across the grounds of the Academy, the architecture taunting him with its decaying magnificence. Towers and halls of pale white stone glowed in the predawn light, displaying arched windows in graceful quadratic curves, fluted pillars, swooping buttresses asymptotically approaching slate-tiled roofs. Every building was centuries old, and most were now occupied only by cobwebs and memories. A young architect in this city was more likely to grow wings than to see a new design built in his own lifetime.

He counted one hundred and forty-seven steps along the windowless wall of the Cloister, which ignored his passing entirely. Behind the wall, the few precious and powerful women of the Empire went about their business: the Order Solas managing the daily demands of the city,  the Order Lunas nurturing the all-important Lineage. By twenty-four years of age, every young man knew whether he had earned a place in the breeding tables. Or out of them, as was more often the case.

He counted five hundred and thirty-nine steps across the glorious Seventh Bridge to the gates of the Imperial park. Immaculately fitted paving blocks mocked him with their consistency. Generations of Guildsmen, themselves the product of bloodlines carefully managed and pruned over a millennium, had crafted this city. Devoted to the refinement of their traditions, the labor Guilds provided a welcoming brotherhood for many. But they had no use for a young man’s experiments and “innovations.”

Leaving the city behind for the last time, he entered the park proper through an arch of white stone overgrown with last season’s climbing ivy. Cold stiffened his wrists and clouded his breath. The shadowless blue of the Miracle’s Veil lighted his way, blurring the pinpoint stars overhead. The prickle of Sixt at the back of his neck was quieter now, away from the city’s engines, with the Dragon not yet risen in the eastern sky.

All around him, massive oaks stood in precisely metered ranks, withered leaves clinging forlornly to the gnarled branches or surrendering to gravity and descending in chaotic swirls and helices to the ground. Parallax provided new diagonal sight-lines between the trees with each stride, a vast grid broken only by the blade-straight boulevard leading to the dueling grounds. Despite the geometric rigor imposed by the park’s planners, even a passing inspection showed each tree to be unique: no bole or limb exactly the same, variation down to the individual leaves. 

A student of the Discipline might find a lesson here, humanity striving to maintain order against the infinite complexity of nature. He could probably use it as the subject of an essay at the Academy tomorrow.

Ah. Tomorrow.

A Nadhist lesson, on the other hand, might suggest that such a “tomorrow” was no more or less hypothetical than before. Less relevant, certainly, for Konstantin – but that was merely a problem of viewpoint. A new reference plane to define a familiar problem. 

After thirty-two more paces he halted. Easiest to stop on an exact power of two. 

One thousand twenty-four steps, then, across the flagstones and through the archways of this city. His seconds shuffled up behind him, exhaling clouds of frost from the effort of keeping up with his long-legged gait.

Across the clearing stood another trio of figures. The further two were cloaked and muffled, stamping their feet impatiently, while the foremost was clad in lighter garb despite the cold. Sleeves of brilliant silk under dark patterned tunic, high collar in the week’s latest fashion…but the man’s left-hand glove was snug and faded, its mate on the right heavier, the sword hilt on his right hip burnished and unadorned. This was no mere court dandy.

Konstantin startled at a hand on his shoulder. Tovar was a fellow student at the Academy, the one friendly face he had found in the city. The young man’s voice was kind yet urgent. “It’s not too late. Tell him you were drunk or something. Make an apology and beg forgiveness, I bet he’ll let you off. Vladimir’s the best swordsman in the city, and a Consort. Dueling a student wouldn’t gain him any prestige anyway.”

Even from this distance Konstantin could see the mocking expression in the duelist’s eyes. The same look he’d worn the night before, at the Midwinter Ball. The same look Laura had worn, she of the golden hair and golden voice. Asking her to dance had been one last, absurd try at reaching something beautiful. But why would she favor a nobody from the Academy when she could dance with a Consort? 

Of course last night was a failure. Like everything else in my life. 

He’d challenged Vladimir on the spot.

“Apologize, and then what?” he asked bitterly. “Go back and wait to be washed out of the Academy? Back to the Guilds, or to the wheat fields of Pelm?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve tried them all. There’s no place for me in the whole Empire. If I can’t belong somewhere, or build anything new and beautiful, at least my death can make a good story.”

Tovar’s eyes were sad, but he said nothing further. He took Konstantin’s cloak and stepped back.

Vladimir strode forward, his posture coiled and eager, balanced on the balls of his feet. His tone was both amused and scornful. “Journeyman Konstantin, I accept your challenge. I choose duel by blade, by right as the challenged.” 

He giggled unexpectedly, the sound oddly high and disturbing. “I see you’ve managed to borrow one for the occasion? State your terms for the duel.”

Konstantin swallowed hard, working his suddenly dry throat. He found his voice enough to say, “I choose...to the death.”

The Consort facing him seemed taken aback for a moment, then the sneer returned. “Very well. On your guard, and may the Dragon spare you.” 

For I shall not, was unspoken but plain in the brightness of his eyes. He drew his blade into his left hand and moved forward without further ceremony.

After the dreamlike walk to the dueling grounds, and the awkward ceremony beforehand, the duel itself came upon Konstantin in a rush. Heart pounding and eyes wide open, he felt the first light contact of their blades as a galvanic shock -- from his finger and thumb at the hand-guard, up the length of his arm to the shoulder. He staggered backward a step, then another, even the basics of fencing and footwork forgotten. The blood roaring in his ears reached a crescendo, and then…

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

…oddly…

…All is quiet and still. He feels as if he himself is poised on the edge of the blade, the moment frozen in time. The swirling leaves hang motionless in midair, his opponent’s advance paused in midstep, frozen clouds of breath halted in their rise from the observers’ mouths. The entire scene seems transformed to a painting in shades of grey, illuminated with the first glow of clear morning light through the trees.

After nine years of enforced Nadhist contemplation lessons in the guild, nine years without ever reaching a state of “pure focus,” Konstantin is suddenly, painfully present. For the first time. In the last moments of his life.

His attention is drawn to the point of Vladimir’s blade a meter away, the pure linear geometry of the sword forming a vector directly for Konstantin’s heart. He takes in further details of the duelist’s stance, the angle of his grip on the blade, the flex of his forward foot and bend in his rear leg. His free hand is poised by the shoulder, ready to counterbalance a lunge, his entire body a mechanism for channeling force through the tip of the sword. The expression on the man’s face has changed from the manufactured sneer to his own pure intensity of focus, something predatory and joyful at once...

…beat…

 …The rushing in Konstantin’s ears rises once more, before falling back to silence and stillness. He realizes the blade is twenty centimeters closer to his heart: the duelist has completed his advance and begun to straighten his leg for the killing lunge forward. 

A second layer of revelation now washes over the scene, as if a further curtain was drawn from the world. And he sees the blade no longer as a single vector, but as a cloud of possibilities, a frustrum of potential paths driven and constrained by the mechanism behind. The entire tableau becomes a stark greyscale problem of geometry and probability. The swords are merely levers, the duelists themselves only parameters, defining and framing the problem.

Konstantin revels in this newfound mathematical clarity for what seems like a perfect eternity. But as the crescendo of his heartbeat gathers once again, he belatedly realizes: all the most likely outcomes of the current situation result in a blade piercing some vital portion of his anatomy.

And with this insight comes an even stronger realization, surprising yet undeniable: I don’t actually want to die today. Certainly not at this man’s hands.

With the blood rising in his ears he commits to an inelegant solution - a parry in prime to form a defensive plane, and a ragged, unorthodox stumble to his right. He dodges away from the sudden rush of the threatening blade, before retreating again in a long step. His half-meter advantage in height enables him to just escape the duelist’s disengage and renewed attack.

Now immersed in this surreal layered vision of the world, Konstantin experiences the next half-dozen passes as further iterations of this theme. Everything flashes from greyscale diagrams to blurred, noisy bursts and back with each heartbeat. Stillness and frantic action, analysis and solution, parry and riposte. He grows more confident with each exchange as he closes off likely angles of attack and begins to threaten the higher lines in return. 

Then there is a longer pause as the duelists draw apart, breathing heavily but still unmarked.

Vladimir’s expression is no less intense but has lost its earlier condescension. He waves his sword dramatically in figure-eights before him, but remains silent. The observers start to mutter worriedly.

Is this how the great masters and artists have always seen the world?, Konstantin wonders. I could draw birds in flight! I could trace the patterns of wind! I need to tell someone at the Academy…

Stop that! He shakes his head to dispel the distracting thoughts. Stay focused. You’re not out of this yet.

He belatedly realizes that several heartbeats have passed without any stop-time experience at all.

Maybe it only happens when I’m in danger? Or something?

All I’ve done is react to him so far. Let’s see what happens if he has to react to me.

He puts this plan into action immediately, advancing forward with a flourish. He threatens a direct thrust to the shoulder, intending a disengage to avoid the expected parry. But Vladimir is too canny a duelist for this simple move, instead binding the younger man’s blade with his guard and forte. Without the advantage of the stop-time vision, Konstantin doesn’t even see his opponent’s blade sliding along his own, until it pierces his upper arm.

There is a flash of pain and his shoulder is suddenly numb. Panicking, he tries to retreat ...

...beat...

The curtain is raised again, giving him a chance to inspect the new tableau. 

Well, that didn’t work at all.

He takes in the line of the blade just touching his shoulder. But there is something off about his opponent’s posture. Instead of driving the blade forward, he seems to be drawing back. And his grip is unusual, forefinger and thumb pinching together at the guard. Konstantin has yet another realization:

That shock as the swords first contact --

The numbness in his arm after the touch --

Some mechanism in the sword grip --

He’s using a Solar blade! Trying to disable my arm! He’s just...just...cheating!

He doesn’t have time to savor this revelation either. Back into real time, stumbling backwards, his next flash of vision finds their blades forced together at close range, legs braced as his leaden arm tries to find leverage to keep the courtier at bay, deadly edge of the sword mere inches from his eyes.

More details: the now-familiar sneer has returned to his opponent’s face. The press of the rapier hilt against his own hand. The complex carbon weave in the blade edging towards him, the resin edge sharp as a razor.

Ah. That’s right. Carbon weaves are very strong -- except against shear loads.

On the next heartbeat, he shifts his weight unexpectedly to the left. With the blades still locked together, he brings his free hand around in a slap to the flat of his opponents blade, half a meter from the guard. The edge digs effortlessly into the meat of his thumb, but then — bringing his weight and momentum to bear — the carbon breaks cleanly at the guard with a loud crack. The blade spins away into the dust. And Konstantin’s own blade slices raggedly across his opponent’s torso.

Abandoning all technique, he kicks the legs out from beneath the shocked duelist. Raising his blade for a final killing thrust, his senses drink in the tableau with crystalline intensity.

His opponent lies crumpled before him, arms covering his chest and blood beginning to darken the rents in his fine tunic. Eyes wide open in shock and pain.

Blood flowing freely from his own left hand, pain in the hand and shoulder. 

Legs and lungs burning with exertion.

His own blade positioned for the final blow, a vector pointed at the man’s heart. A reversal of the duel’s beginning.

Vladimir’s seconds have started to rush forward, disbelieving. But they are too far away to intervene.

I don’t want to die. But I didn’t come here to kill him either.

He thrusts downwards. There is a choked cry from Tovar behind him as the blade descends -- to graze the man’s ribs and pin his tunic to the frozen ground.

Konstantin released his grip on the blade and turned his back on the scene. The blood pounding in his ears gradually slowed its cadence, and the sharpness of the world began to recede. By the time he reached his seconds, Tovar had gathered his cloak and rushed to cover his shoulders against the cold.

“Come on, we’d best get out of here. Here, bind that hand in this as we walk.” He handed Konstantin an Academy scarf that swiftly became darkened with blood.

The third, younger student was silent until they reached the bridge. Then he burst forth with a stream of questions.

“That was amazing! Where did you learn fencing? Can you recommend me as a student? I’ve never seen anybody break a blade before! Do you think he will survive? Will he tell anyone—?”

“Enough!” Tovar broke in. “You will need to leave the city for awhile, my friend. The Sisters will want to have a word with you for wounding a Consort.”

“The Sisters…he was using a Solar blade. How would he get one?” Konstantin replied.

“He had a — oh, sweet Miracle. You don’t know how the city works at all, do you? I’m sure they didn’t want to take the chance of losing a Consort. Only the Order Solas could have provided that blade. Regardless, we have to get you out of sight. I’m going to put you in my apartment, they will be searching yours. Don’t let anyone in unless it’s me. Whoa, are you alright?”

Konstantin staggered and slumped against the railing of the bridge. The full color and sound of the world were suddenly overwhelming. Head pounding and legs wooden, he rested a moment before letting his companions lead him away. 

He didn’t bother counting the steps.