I’m isolated in the gilded cage of the Halo Palace—cut off. Everything could use a restart. Especially Grisholm. I glance at the twenty-two-year-old Firstborn Commander. He’s above us on the observation balcony, overlooking our sparring circle. A shaft of sunlight kisses his skin. His elbow leans on the arm of a throne of gold, and he rests his chin on his fist, his halo-shaped moniker projecting a glow onto his sultry smile, as if to encircle and highlight it.
A steep flight of gleaming gold steps separates him from us. Golden Gothic pillars support the balcony, fanning out at the high ceiling like ribs. Near each pillar, a hovering stinger drone buzzes. The automated, black-armored assault guards resemble wasps that emit a hum as they ping the monikers in the room, ensuring that no unauthorized person gets too close to the heir to the Fates Republic.
Grisholm lifts his head from his hand and swipes the holographic screen of his moniker. The glass wall behind him opens, allowing a soft breeze from the roiling sea to tussle his hair. The long golden curtains decorating the royal sparring circle flap and billow in the wind. At Grisholm’s back, over two thousand stone steps descend to the ocean. I run them a few times a day.
“Here’s some sea air for you, Malcolm,” Grisholm calls from above. “You’re looking a little overheated.”
“I’m just getting”—Malcolm pants—“warmed up.” He tries to avoid my fusionblade, but he’s too slow. I dial down the weapon so that I only burn him with the searing tip across his thigh. He winces and lurches away. I let him put some space between us while I glance up at Grisholm again.
Grisholm should be training, not lazing around watching us. He’s weak with Malcolm as a mentor and military attaché. Privilege, not merit, must have played a part in the decision to employ Malcolm in that role. Or caution. Fear of Grisholm being hurt has risen to a level I haven’t encountered before—not even my brother, Gabriel, has been this sheltered from pain.
At the other end of the gallery, Clarity Bowie observes the sparring match. He summoned me today to Grisholm’s training facility, sending his personal valet with a handwritten note. In it, The Virtue hinted that I might be an improvement in the role of Grisholm’s mentor. I peer up. The leader leans against the railing, his elbows resting on the marble. He’s well built for a middle-aged man. The strength of his stare bores into us. I wonder if he knows I’m only playing with Firstborn Malcolm—prolonging this battle—hoping his son’s mentor will do something amazing so he can keep his job.
Beside Clarity Bowie, Dune watches me silently. My heartbeat drums harder. I haven’t had a private moment with my former mentor since coming here. He greeted me when I arrived two nights ago, and we walked together from the airship across the butterfly sanctuary in the south lawn. We talked only of trivialities because The Virtue had been present. Dune’s look, at the time, demanded discretion, but I already knew this lavish fortress would be infested with hidden-camera drones and listening devices, just like the Sword Palace. I’d hoped that we’d be able to meet alone at some point, but Dune’s duties with the demanding ruler of Virtue are such that it hasn’t been possible.
Malcolm trips when I sidestep his advance. He tries to right himself. I give him a shove in the back with my foot to send him farther from me. He huffs and puffs, winded by the exertion. I haven’t broken a sweat.
Dune’s appearance hasn’t changed. Even standing a few steps behind his sovereign at the railing, he’s the taller, more powerful-looking figure. His long dark hair is swept from his face in a knot at the back of his head. The length of his hair hangs to his shoulders, not a bit of gray in it or in his beard. The intensity of his sand-colored eyes weighs on me. He stares, unblinking.
Malcolm barrels at me with his sword aloft, exposing every inch of himself for me to carve up. I duck under his downward swing, raising my fusionblade and angling it just short of the firstborn’s ear. Several locks of his stylish hair float to the floor. His cheeks burn with fury. Guffaws from Grisholm fill the air. The firstborn claps and shouts, “I was just saying how your hair needed a new style, ol’ boy!” Grisholm’s voice booms through the automated voice amplification in the room, making him sound like a god on high.
Malcolm says nothing. He grits his teeth and lowers his head, careening toward me again, overwrought-gorilla style. Wrapping the fabric of the banner hanging from the ceiling around my wrist, I clutch it in my fist and swing away. My feet touch down in the center of the sparring circle. I release the drape. It floats backward, covering Malcolm’s face in a swath of gold. He snarls, snatching it away from his eyes.
“Roselle!” Dune barks. I flinch.
Immediately, I attack Malcolm, swinging my fusionblade with blurring speed. It whirls, making shadows bleed with golden light. Malcolm lurches back until he stumbles and falls at the edge of the circle. His sword tumbles out of reach. Chin pointing at the ceiling, he cowers at my feet. The deadly point of my sword singes the hairs on his throat. Sweat slides down his cheeks, and his Adam’s apple bobs in silent agony.
We wait, neither of us moving. Cold fear whistles through me. Malcolm feels it, too, if his shudder is any indication. Will The Virtue order Malcolm’s death? My stomach curls and knots, but my hands stay steady. Patience is power in its truest form.
If I must kill him, his pain ends. Mine lives on.
Malcolm’s eyes stare up—the color of November moons.
“Roselle, you may”—The Virtue pauses; Malcolm holds his breath—“execute him.”
Malcolm emits a strangled sob.
Grisholm jumps to his feet. “Wait! Hold, Roselle! Father!”
I remain still, awaiting confirmation of the kill order.
“He’s Edmund Burton’s firstborn!” Grisholm pleads. “Burton Weapons Manufacturing supplies all of the munitions to our military.”
The Virtue glowers at his son from across the open air of the balcony level. “Not anymore. We have new contracts. Salloway Munitions will supply our weapons, as well as new armor for our Sword soldiers. Clifton has developed secret military vehicles—ones that won’t drop out of the sky if fusion power is disrupted.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Grisholm replies with a note of desperation, “but why kill Malcolm? He has nothing to do with the military contracts. He has been my loyal friend for years.”
Gripping the marble railing, The Virtue’s knuckles turn bloodless. “Edmund Burton is Othala’s man.”
Grisholm raises his shoulders in confusion. “So?”
“So, he’d be the one to supply The Sword with the kind of support she’d need for a military coup.”
Grisholm chuckles in derision. “That’s absurd. Othala St. Sismode can barely look you in the eyes, let alone overthrow you.”
“You’re blind,” The Virtue snarls. “I’ve raised a fool!”
“Then enlighten me.”
“Othala will do anything to protect her firstborn.”
“Protect Gabriel from whom?”
“From us,” Grisholm’s father replies.
“Because of her!” Grisholm points to me. “Because you brought her here!”
“Roselle’s a much better choice to stand by your side and defend you from our enemies than Gabriel. He’s weak. Your enemies will destroy you with him running the Fate of Swords. Roselle will make them cower at your feet.” The Virtue tips his head in my direction. Malcolm trembles in fear.
“Malcolm isn’t my enemy!” Grisholm retorts.
“He has taught you nothing!” his father says scornfully. “You can barely hold a sword!”
“No one’s allowed to hurt me!” Exasperation drips from Grisholm’s tone.
“That changes today!” The Virtue replies.
“You cannot kill Malcolm for following the rules you yourself set forth!” A part of me feels a grudging respect for Grisholm as he points out his father’s hypocrisy. He knows loyalty.
“I can do whatever I like. I’m The Virtue.”
“She’s not firstborn. This goes against everything we believe in!”
“Exceptions have to be made from time to time to maintain power,” The Virtue replies.