by Sara Wolf
“I’m entering,” I say suddenly. Lucien and Malachite both gape at me.
“What?” Lucien hisses. “You aren’t serious?”
I pat Father’s sword at my side. “As serious as the grave. I could use the exercise.”
“What about your wrist?” he snaps. “If you reopen the injury—”
“Y’shennria’s polymath said it was fine,” I lie. “She’s more concerned about me submerging it in water than exercising it.”
“You’re certain?” Lucien’s voice gets hard, and I sigh.
“Yes, and nothing you say will change my mind.”
“Dark Below.” Malachite chuckles. “And here I thought I was the one worried about your well-being—” Malachite squawks incredulously as Lucien’s bright red coat is thrown into his arms. The prince stands there in his loose white undershirt, swinging his sister’s sword this way and that in a warm-up motion. White mercury melded into the blade, Fione said. I have to do everything in my power not to be cut by that sword. He looks me up and down, clearly unimpressed.
“Surely you won’t be fighting in a dress like that,” he insists.
“I will be winning in a dress like this,” I correct. Malachite cackles a bit until Lucien throws him a glare. I look to the dueling field—the servants have set up a traditional Cavanos square. I prefer an Endless Bog round arena myself, but monsters can’t be choosers.
“Do you need me to explain how this works, Lady Zera?” Prince Lucien asks. “Or did they teach you with the pig sticks on your farm?”
There it is—the barbed half insults I’m used to from him, even if they are a little icier than normal. I know him well enough by now; he was inquiring if I knew the rules, ready to explain them should I need it. How twistedly helpful.
“Save your breath for your duels, Your Highness.” I smile at him. “You’ll need it.”
Crav taught me all I know about dueling traditions on the Mist Continent, and I silently thank him for it now. Cavanos rules are simple; if you force your opponent to step out of the square, you win. Though, unlike most countries, there are strict bloodrules in a traditional Cavanos duel—no injuries. If you inflict one on your opponent, you’re considered unskilled—unable to control your blade, and you lose. And that rule alone is the reason I agreed to this duel, even knowing Lucien’s sword is white mercury. If he does cut me, he loses, no matter how much pain I’m in, or how long it takes for Nightsinger to heal me.
If the Prince loses, surely Gavik will come running to gloat.
The girls gather the stems of nearby moonflower plants and have us all draw one to determine the seed. The first match begins between Lord Grat and Prince Lucien. Grat looks utterly panicked. If he loses, he’ll be seen as weak. If he wins, perhaps the prince will hate him. An unfair outcome, either way.
Crav used to tell me you could discern everything about a person from the way they fight, but I only half believed it until now. I see exactly why the prince is called the Black Eagle—he fights like a bird of prey, and it takes the breath from me. His blows are sharp and quick, and though he lingers over his next move like a tensed raptor, he spares not a single shred of mercy when striking. It’s terrifying and awe-inducing all at once. This is what I love most about swordplay—watching each person fight differently, their very souls manifesting through every strike and parry. Grat moves powerfully, like a bear in battle armor, but the prince waits patiently for him to make a mistake. And he does—too long a lapse in a swing and Lucien jumps on it, knocking Grat’s sword clean from his hand. Grat has to bend to pick it back up, eyeing the prince warily; will he knock him over while he’s doing it? But Lucien merely holds a hand out for him to go ahead. My chest swells with pride—it’s a small move, but it’s something a dishonorable duelist would delightedly take advantage of. But the prince is nothing if not honorable.
Grat, getting desperate, swings wildly at the prince, locking their blades together. Grat says something to him, and Lucien’s eyes flicker to me briefly. He pushes against Grat with a sudden burst of wild strength so different from his careful blows earlier, the two parting. The ladies cheer for the prince, the boys cheer for Grat—Lucien evidently not very popular among the boys. I wonder what Grat said to elicit such a forward response from a patient duelist like Lucien?
The duel continues, the heat of the day reaching its peak, and I sneak looks at Gavik’s window every so often. He doesn’t show his face yet, though that’s to be expected—he’s probably seen the prince duel with every noble his age. Prince Lucien and Lord Grat back off from each other after a failed riposte, Lucien letting out a frustrated breath and pulling his shirt off in one swift movement. The girls at the sideline shriek madly, and even I have to admit the sight of his sweat-sheened back, ribbed with faint but very real lines of muscle, catches my eye.
A blush floods me instantly. I’ve never seen a boy without his shirt, and it’s stupid, gods, it’s so stupid how warm my face is. I’m better than this—Y’shennria taught me to have a better lady’s mask than this. The hunger grows loud, slavering for the flesh, his flesh, but I focus on the long, strong line of his spine, his shoulder blades like the wings of a bird. I squint—there, dark against his golden skin is a tattoo of an actual black bird, its talons outstretched around his biceps, the wings extending to the edge of his left shoulder. An eagle.
“I told him it was tacky,” Malachite sighs. “But he just wouldn’t listen.”
“He— When did he get that?”
“He went to the Wildwatch one year, like nobles used to before the war. It was the king’s idea—meant to help him after Varia’s death, I guess. The Wildwatch all get tattoos of their first kill. His was a giant—”
“Black eagle,” I breathe. “That’s why they call him that?”
Malachite nods, grinning. “What, you thought it was because he looks like a bird?”
My nod is embarrassed, and Malachite cackles. The duel doesn’t slow, Lucien lunging in again. Malachite’s smile fades as he resumes watching the match with an intense focus.
“Who do you think will win?” I ask. He shakes his gray-haired head.
“Dunno. Grat is nowhere near as good as Luc. But Luc is…distracted.”
“By what?”
He snorts. “For all your smart quips, you’re awfully slow on the uptake.” He looks at me meaningfully.
Me? That beautiful, severe, lonely creature, distracted by me?
That doomed creature, the hunger snarls. Distracted by his predator?
The crowd lets out a gasp, and we rivet our eyes back to the fight. Grat is on the ground, his body just over the line. Lucien holds his blade pointed at Grat, eyes narrowed and chest heaving. A girl waves her arms madly, calling the match in the prince’s favor. The ladies cheer, the boys help Grat up from his place on the ground. Lucien strides toward Malachite and me, adrenaline and anger carving his face as he draws close.
“Grat is an opportunist,” Lucien murmurs just above my shoulder, breathing ragged. He smells of an intoxicating mix of sweat and fresh grass. “Don’t waste your time on him.”
“Is that a concerned warning or a princely command?” I ask, willing the heat in my face to die down, willing the hunger to stop screaming for him. Is this about what Grat shouted to me? Why is he so worked up about it? When he doesn’t say anything, I start: “Unfortunately, Your Highness, you don’t get to tell me who I can and can’t waste my time on.”
I draw my blade and step up to the dueling ring. I smile when I realize I’m against one of the Priseless twins. Revenge will be sweeter than summer honey.
“I’m not used to dueling girls, milady,” the twin sneers.
“I assure you, it’s no different than fighting a man,” I say, and launch an immediate strike to his left flank. He parries it just in time, staggering back with wide eyes. “Allow me to impart a bit of wisdom from my teacher; a blade is a blade—no matter who wields it, it can still cut.”
I knock him down with a feint to his knees
, and his shock begins to melt into irritation.
I should rip you to bits for thinking you could ever hurt me, the hunger snarls. I tame it, tame my growing teeth, and settle for the human emotion of utter satisfaction. The twin jumps to his feet and strikes at me—overhead, obvious. I keep my distance—a sword might equal a playing field, but if I engage him close, he could easily overwhelm me with strength. I have to zone him away from my body, keep him at maximum distance. That’s where I’m strongest. That’s where I have to fight, or I risk being cut—and healing rapidly in front of this audience.
There are two things men will always believe about a woman: that she’s stupid, and that she’s weak. Today, as every day, I am neither of these things. But I pretend to get tired quickly, anyway. I pant and droop my sword minutely. Priseless takes it as a sign to lunge for me, overextending. I deflect his blow and step aside, the redirected momentum carrying him past the line. A girl announces my win with a squealing flourish, the ladies going wild. It takes a moment for the twin to stand, never bothering to bow to me before stomping off to his brother to nurse his wounded pride. I glance around at the crowd for Fione and find her in the very back. We lock eyes, hers kept light and amused, though I know she must be nervous inside. Or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s truly that confident. Maybe five years of gathering information in the most illicit ways makes something like this seem like child’s play.
“Where do you think you’re going, Lord Priseless?” Lucien’s deadly cool voice cuts across the grass. The twin’s blond head shoots up, fear creeping into his gaze. “You will bow to Lady Zera as the winner. Unless you wish to shirk tradition.”
Surely Malachite told Lucien about the Priseless twins’ thwarted attack on me. His eyes are sharper than the blade hanging at his side, as if he’s trying to cut the twin in half with his gaze alone. This is more than a decorum demand. This holds weight. He’s asking the boy to apologize to me, using his royalty as a weapon infinitely more deadly than Varia’s sword. Priseless walks back over to me and bows stiffly, and I bow back. Our eyes meet on the way up, his narrowed and clearly furious. He storms away, the nobles speculating over the exchange in whispers, though it doesn’t last long. Several ladies glom onto me as I move out of the arena and to the sidelines.
“That was amazing, Lady Zera!”
“I’ve never seen a woman duel before! You must teach me your style of the blade!”
Their touches to my arm, their smiles—all I can think is how quickly they’d turn to screams of horror if they knew the real me. The hunger hisses at them all, flashing images of their broken bodies before me. I force my grin and say little, lest the shadows eke from between my sharpening teeth. A crowd has gathered—nearly twice the size since we started, mostly comprised of interested nobles and passerby lawguards. But still no Gavik. Fione waits patiently. I manage to peel the girls off and return to Lucien and Malachite.
“So?” I ask cheerfully. “What did we think?”
“I think Luc has some competition in marrying you.” Malachite smirks. “From Lord Grat, and now from several very infatuated ladies.”
Lucien snorts. “Let them have her. She’s nothing but a font of trouble and irritation.”
I swallow my laugh. He uses his position as prince to force Priseless to apologize to me one moment, and then he turns around and insults me the next. Fione was right—he does like to play tough.
“You forgot ‘beauty,’” I correct him sternly. “And ‘elegance.’”
“I’ll be sure to add those to the list when you attain them.”
“Okay! That’s it!” I throw my hands up. “I’ve decided you have exactly three seconds to start being nice to me.”
“Three whole seconds.” Malachite whistles. “You’d better get on it quick, Lucien.”
Lucien rolls his eyes. “Shall I have her hanged for daring to tell me what to do?”
“You’d better bury me deep,” I threaten playfully. “Or I’ll haunt you for the rest of my life.”
“Tempting,” Lucien drawls. “But I’ll pass. I can barely stand the way you haunt me now.”
“Romantically haunt, like in a bard’s tale,” I ascertain.
“No.”
“Yes,” I correct.
“No.”
“Yes!”
“Please, infants,” Malachite groans. “Enough—Mother needs peace and quiet.”
“So you can watch these lords duel sloppily?” Lucien scoffs. “And here I thought you enjoyed quality entertainment.”
“They are fairly bad,” I muse in agreement, watching two lords whiff each other’s parries. “You don’t teach the girls to think, and you don’t teach the boys to duel. What does Vetris teach its children?”
“Sucking up,” Malachite answers. “With a dash of binge drinking and a sprinkle of fashion sense.”
Lucien and I laugh in tandem, our eyes catching and disengaging all in the same moment. No matter how I might’ve slighted his advances yesterday, it still feels good to laugh together like this.
Finally, after watching clumsy noble after clumsy noble strike each other down, the only two duelists left are Lucien and me. It’s then I see a familiar face in the noble crowd, toward the very back. White hair and eyes like water. The archduke is here. I did it. I look around for Fione, but she’s nowhere to be seen. She must be making her move.
A girl steps forward, waving her kerchief and announcing with a loud voice: “Esteemed guests, this is our final match! In the challenger’s ring, we have our surprise contestant, Lady Zera Y’shennria!”
Applause rings out. The girl motions to the prince, still shirtless, his tattoo stark.
“And on the opposite side we have your future king, the Black Eagle of the West, Prince Lucien Drevenis d’Malvane!”
Amid the cheering, the prince and I face each other. We raise our swords and bow. I force myself to keep my eyes on his face, not his body. I won’t let something as shallow as his skin distract me, no matter how loud the hunger keens.
“You fight well,” he says softly. His gaze flickers to my wrist. The wound on the back of his hand is all but healed, only a scab left. “But I’m not going to hold back.”
“What a relief. I was about to tell you the same thing.”
He lashes out with a blow so quick I barely see it, but I raise my sword and parry with a half second to spare. Our blades grind against each other’s, our steel screeching in tandem.
Slide your blade between his ribs, now, the hunger snarls. Taste him, feel his blood on your hands.
I slip beneath his guard and put distance between us before I lunge in again. My strikes aim true and fast, never letting him catch his breath. He refuses to strike out at me. No matter how hard I go for him, he hesitates. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was hesitating because I’m a girl in some misguided attempt at treating me “well.” But then I lunge too far, my foot catching itself, and he jolts forward with a response. I reposition myself quickly, and he backs off.
“You won’t win waiting for me to make a mistake like the others,” I lilt.
“We all make mistakes,” he insists.
“I’ve made only one in my life,” I murmur under my breath. “And that was meeting you.”
Just when I think he’s going into defensive mode again, he thrusts in to me. The force behind his blow is enough to make my arms go numb, my father’s sword crying out in pain as Varia’s sword bites into it. He’s good. Old God’s eye—he’s much better than I thought. I can’t move an inch; I can’t give him an inch.
“I will never consider meeting you a mistake,” Lucien says, his midnight eyes flashing.
My heart locket seizes—he heard that? The pain in my locket is a burning inferno—no. I can’t let him distract me. Not now, not ever. I lunge in once more. He meets me with a slick parry with his blade behind his back. My stomach dances, and even though his sword point is inches from my face, molten euphoria seeps through my veins. It’s the same feeling I got when I
chased him through the streets, when we danced together in the parade. There is no future right now, no taking his heart, no nobles and what they think of me, no Y’shennria or Fione or Crav or Peligli depending on me, no hole in my chest, no Cavanos gone to war—there is only him, and me.
This moment is what it feels like to be human. This is…happiness.
I’m so enamored by the moment I feel the sword edge digging into me too late—warm blood seeps down my slit forearm. Lucien’s eyes widen, and his pressure against me goes slack. Panic lodges in my throat, bracing me for the instant agony. We separate.
“Lady Zera wins by blood-rule!” the girl announces. The nobles go wild, cheering and throwing handkerchiefs into the arena. Even Gavik begrudgingly applauds. Lucien is much less joyful.
“You’re injured,” he starts. I grit my teeth against the white-hot mercury burning in my body. I have to get away as soon as possible and heal where no one can see me.
“I hate to break it to you, Your Highness, but these things occasionally happen in a fight.”
“Your arm—” Lucien cuts off my thought and slides gentle fingers beneath my forearm, lifting it to show the angry red wound there. “This is my fault.”
I remain silent, watching his long, graceful fingers on my skin. It feels good to have someone touch me like this—gently. But it can’t last. I pull my arm from his.
“You choose now to be nice to me? I see how it is—bleed a little and suddenly you’re all kindness.”
His midnight eyes don’t once waver from mine, and something deep inside me begins to crumble—a feeling I detest and relish all at once.
“Well, Lucien?” Malachite’s voice resounds as he walks up to us. “Are we going to treat her wound or not?”
Lucien tears his gaze from mine. “Yes. Of course.”
“That really isn’t necessary,” I say. “I can do it myself—”
“It could get infected,” he interrupts me. “Come. I have a wound kit.”
He reaches out for my uninjured hand, his fingers rough yet warm. The nobles whisper and watch with intent, Gavik’s gaze narrowed. I can hear the rumors already. I need his heart, not his genuine affection. I pull my hand away.
