Everyone wants greatness until they realize it requires

  sacrificing what they love for what they believe in.

  —HARRISON SOMERSET

  CHAPTER 13

  My second day at Grandmaster is an ugly twin of the first. The lectures blur by in an erratic stream of complicated discussions I only half-focus on because I’m too busy watching my back. I know I can’t keep living like this, day after day, week after week, constantly scanning for the glint of a saber. I need to find a way to move around campus safely. But first, I need to figure out what Irene Hussey’s gesture meant: an outstretched hand with five fingers raised. On the way to my last lecture, I text Dickie, hoping he’ll know.

  “It means you need more bodyguards, broad,” he replies.

  “I already have six,” I text him. “That’s the max.”

  “Then find a way to talk to Irene. Call a truce.”

  “You think that’ll work?”

  “Can’t say. But unless you wanna be worm food, don’t wait for her to make the first move.”

  “Can you ask her if she’s willing to meet?”

  A moment passes. Then Dickie replies:

  “I guess so… seeing as you’re a fellow Orange and all.”

  “I’m a Green.”

  “Well, that explains why you need my brains.”

  I scoff at the message, even though Dickie has given me a spark of hope. Dad says the Hussey family is always quick to get blood on their blades, but maybe Irene is more reasonable. If she agrees to meet, I might be able to defuse the situation. Or at the very least, buy enough time to get ahead of whatever she’s planning.

  It’s nearly 7:00 p.m. when I finally return to my suite. I’m in my salon, halfway through a plate of lobster and rice, when Dad adds me to our family group call. Everyone is on the line except for Mom, who’s giving a statement on Dad’s behalf to The Civilized Voice.

  Vivian is at her bedroom vanity, polishing a set of bronze flight badges that once belonged to the Vanguards, the elite pilots who guarded the Civilized World’s energy shield when it still needed protection. All of the Vanguards are dead now, their legacies reduced to these small, shining reminders. Vivian calls it collecting heroes.

  Her hands move methodically, almost like a ritual. The Pinkies should be handling the polishing, but she insists on doing it herself. She smiles serenely as she works, her eyes gleaming like warm pools of honey, probably because Harrison told her he’s not breaking off their engagement. Vivian pulls back from the badges, blows lightly on the polish, then looks up at her phone screen.

  “I take back what I said to you yesterday,” she tells Dad. “I shouldn’t have lashed out, and I’m sorry.”

  Dad’s smile is faint but genuine. “I appreciate that, Viv. Tensions are high right now. Let’s not make them worse by turning on each other.”

  “I know. You’re right.” She says the words without a hint of shame. Vivian never gets embarrassed.

  Hillaire, by contrast, clings to her fury more tightly than her ribbed nanosuit clings to her body. She doesn’t speak as she trains at the shooting range in our compound, her energy-based sniper rifle pulsing with each shot. The echoing blasts force Dad to raise his voice to be heard over the noise.

  “Anything new to report?” he asks me.

  I hesitate, thinking it’s better not to mention Irene’s threat. He’s already fighting opponents of the Bliss ban on too many fronts, and adding the Husseys to the mix would only stretch him thinner.

  “Nothing new,” I say. “The Pinkies are keeping me safe.”

  Dad’s shoulders ease, though the tension never entirely leaves his face. “Good. You should track down the other students whose parents voted to ban Bliss. They’re your best shot at making allies.”

  I nod along, pretending to consider his advice, but the truth is, grouping us all together feels like a bad idea. One well-placed strike, and we’d all go down at once.

  After the call, I curl up on the sofa and log in to Quill. My Pinkie hands me my vitamin supplements, and I toss them back while checking the trending topics. My name has dropped to ninth place, only two spots away from disappearing entirely. The top trend now belongs to the Jazz & Juleps party, which is still raging on the beach.

  As I scroll through the posts, I feel a cold sense of isolation. Endless photos and videos show students mingling on the sand, their seersucker suits and tank-style bathing suits fading into soft pastels under the string lights. They’re laughing over cocktails, playing lazy hands of poker, and tap dancing on a parquet floor that the Pinkies set up on the beach.

  I open one of the video clips, and right away, the music hits me with a bitter wave of nostalgia. It’s a saxophone-heavy jazz tune that Charlotte and I used to tap dance to at the Midnight Martini club. During those wild, carefree nights, she laughed more than she talked and moved across the dance floor as if the whole world were still hers to win. Now I can’t stop comparing that girl to the one with the hollowed-out face and the sad, empty eyes.

  After what happened in the blue first-year carriage, it’s clear something terrible went down between Charlotte, Edmund, and Jack. If she needs space, I’ll give it to her, but if she’s planning to cut me off again, I’d rather know now. It’ll hurt less to sever the tie early. Living without her over the past two years wasn’t easy, and letting her go again won’t be either. But torn scabs heal faster than fresh wounds. I’ve lost her before, and if I have to, I can do it again.

  I just don’t want to.

  The clock ticks late into the night, and I keep scrolling through the feed, partly out of curiosity and partly because I want to live vicariously through the footage. Down, down, down I go until a blurry photograph of Edmund and Irene at the Jazz & Juleps party catches my eye. The couple stands on a winding stretch of beach as fireworks burst overhead. Irene’s eyes are narrowed in anger, and her hand is pressed against Edmund’s chest. Edmund, a head taller than she is, stares down at her with his hands clasped behind his back. His chin is raised, his mouth set in a hard, unyielding line, and his eyes burn hotter than when he challenged Charlotte to the shot duel.

  Aside from the photo, the post contains only a link. When I tap the link, I’m directed to a website styled like an old black-and-white newspaper, complete with ink portraits above each post. Across the top, in bold, dramatic lettering, the title reads, TATTLETALE: THE MOST RELIABLE SOURCE FOR GRANDMASTER UNIVERSITY NEWS.

  A Pinkie serves me a glass of red Imperial as I scroll through the stories, my curiosity mounting with every sip. Despite calling itself news, Tattletale reads more like a gossip rag covering university scandals. One story claims the campus Coppers have requested backup to investigate a potential Heretic network at Grandmaster. Another says the Blue Representatives are digging into President Reeve’s past, desperate to find dirt to blackmail him into changing his stance on the Bliss Prohibition Act. Given the nature of the claims, I’m not surprised the publisher stays anonymous—and I’m almost positive it’s a Blue. A low-citizen could never get away with publishing this.

  Scrolling further down, I find the story about Edmund and Irene titled, SNOW ON THE BEACH?

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  High-citizen society collectively swooned upon first hearing of the romance between golden boy Edmund Prew and the dazzling big-game huntress Irene Hussey: two impossibly glamorous young Blues from families steeped in influence, power, and pedigree. Why, it seemed as if fate itself had conspired to entwine their hearts. But oh, how swiftly the shine has dulled.

  A mere four months after their engagement was announced, the gilded couple was spotted—brace yourselves—quarreling at none other than the Jazz & Juleps bash. The cause of the spat remains shrouded in mystery, though my most trusted sources say all is not well behind the couple’s diamond-studded doors. Some insist Mr. Prew and Miss Hussey harbor a deliciously poisonous disdain for one another, while others claim their romance has always been more tempest than tranquility.

  If such rumors prove true, one cannot help but ask: What still binds Mr. Prew and Miss Hussey together? Love? Pride? Or something infinitely more scandalous? Rest assured, my dear readers, the Tattler shall not relent until the final veil is drawn back… and when it is, you shall know every glittering, sordid detail.

  I set down my wine glass, with the distinct impression that Tattletale might not be cheap gossip after all. If Edmund and Irene’s relationship truly is circling the drain, it would explain why he didn’t throw me out of the blue first-year carriage to be slaughtered by the Copper.

  The thought makes me realize I’ve broken one of Dad’s cardinal rules: Never assume someone’s motives, no matter how straightforward they might seem.

  “Your mom and I have been married for twenty years, and I’m still running blind about her motives half the time,” Dad told me.

  When the clock strikes midnight, I roll off the sofa and drag myself to bed. My head barely hits the feather pillow before I slip into a shallow, restless sleep, and I dream once again of the attack in the locker room.

  This time, Charles kills me.

  ***

  During a tap dancing class, Charlotte and I knew a girl named Lucy Willoughby, whose mother had been executed for being a Heretic. When the news spread, no one wanted to be her friend. For months, I walked past her during breaks, always feeling I should sit with her, but I never did. I followed my peers’ example and shunned Lucy until the course ended. Then she quit tap, and I never saw her again.

  In some ways, this feels like my punishment for that. The dining hall bustles with life, a tide of motion and noise, yet I sit apart, sealed off behind my wall of Pinkies. Usually, I don’t mind being alone, but being forced into it makes me hate it.

  The first-year dining hall curves in a wide circle beneath a high-domed ceiling with stained-glass cupola windows. Holographic menus float above each table, glowing with options that vanish the instant a student places an order. At the center, a black-and-white kitchen runs like clockwork, with Pinkies in pleated hats preparing food while others glide between tables, carrying trays of artistically arranged drinks.

  I slump back in my chair, wondering where Charlotte is and whether she feels as boxed out as I do. My Bond drones softly as I log in to the Grandmaster University map, and a 3D, real-time rendering of the campus appears. Between 7:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m. on weekdays, all professors and students must log their locations. Despite the campus’s vast size, the system ensures we can always find each other. Names and avatars shift across the map, color-coded by blood type, and I scan for Charlotte.

  Her avatar flickers on the far side of the dining hall. I glance over and spot her in person, sitting across from a handsome Green. He leans in, smiling charmingly as he lights her cigarette, but she barely reacts. She sits angled away from him, nodding absently as she smokes, her plate of white truffle pasta untouched.

  I push halfway out of my seat, ready to approach her, when a text from Dickie lights up my Bond.

  “It’s a bust, broad,” he writes.

  I know he’s talking about Irene. “She turned down the meeting?”

  “Worse. She left me on read.”

  “How’s that worse?”

  “She knows Ed threw you a bone on the train. Now, because I asked her to meet with you, she thinks Ed, Jack, and I are siding against her.”

  I recall the photo from the Jazz & Juleps party, where Edmund and Irene looked ready to throw hands. Were they fighting about me?

  “Why did Edmund cut us a deal in the first place?” I ask. “Why didn’t he just kick us out?”

  “Can’t say,” Dickie replies. “Ed’s been tight-lipped lately. But forget about meeting with Irene. And while you’re at it, lose my number. If she wasn’t out for blood before, she is now, and I’m done sticking my neck out.”

  A Pinkie waiter arrives with my lunch and hands the tray to my Pinkie bodyguards. As I watch the robots test the food for poison, heat flashes across my face. This can’t go on. I can’t sit here day after day, counting down the seconds of my life, waiting for someone to slip past my defenses. I have to fight back. Maybe I can petition Judge Bradford to temporarily lift my weapons restriction. Officially, he has to consider a “clear and immediate danger” exception. He lost his daughter over the Bliss ban, so he can’t possibly be on the high-citizens’ side.

  A swell of voices draws my attention to the dining hall entrance, where Edmund, Jack, and Dickie stroll in. Edmund pauses to greet a few Blues in his path, then veers toward a young woman near the kitchen, who is balancing a bottle of champagne on her hip. Edmund whistles at her as he approaches, but she doesn’t turn. A small brown monkey is perched on her shoulder, its tail looping around her neck like a furry scarf. A tiny straw boater sits on the monkey’s head, and a lit cigarette dangles from its mouth.

  “Rosie,” Edmund calls.

  The young woman turns at last, revealing sharp, arched eyebrows and wavy, dark brown hair that falls to her waist. Statuesque and sultry, with velvet-petal lips, she wears a blue bias-cut satin gown that hugs her curves and dips just enough to hint at her breasts. Her sun-tanned skin and diamond-cut features are similar enough to Edmund’s that I realize she’s his twin sister.

  Rosamund tilts her head at Edmund, smiling slyly as she lifts the champagne bottle and smacks the base with her palm. The cork pops free and flies toward him. He fumbles, then catches the cork with his other hand.

  “That counts as a drop,” Rosamund says, her laugh as lively as the stream of champagne spilling onto the floor. Passing the bottle to a Pinkie, she sweeps toward her twin brother and throws her arms around his waist. Edmund lifts her, kisses her cheek, and sets her down.

  Dickie bows, but Rosamund barely spares him a glance. Instead, she turns to Jack and plants a kiss on each cheek, her red lipstick smudging his skin like a mark of ownership. Jack rubs the lipstick away, stiffening as she threads herself between him and Edmund. She grips their hands as they cross the dining hall, her eyes on Edmund as if he’s the moon and on Jack as if he’s the stars.

  Halfway across the hall, Edmund breaks away to take the cigarette from the monkey’s mouth and flick it to the floor. The monkey shrieks, clawing at Rosamund until she slips it another cigarette and lights the tip. Then she seizes Edmund’s hand again, lacing her fingers through his with a broad, satisfied smile.

  Rosamund guides the boys toward the Blue dining area, a private enclave sealed by gold-leaf butterfly doors. Her grip on them is firm and unyielding, making it clear they’re hers and that she doesn’t want to share.

  But Irene Hussey doesn’t strike me as the type to share, either. Irene waits at the entrance with six other high-citizen women, all dressed for a hunt. A cloche cap slants stylishly over her black bob, and a rifle case rests casually across her back.

  The moment Rosamund sees Irene, she drops Edmund’s hand as if it burned her. Rosamund’s curtsy is deep enough to pass for polite, but the slight arch of one eyebrow says otherwise.

  Edmund’s greeting isn’t much warmer. He bows with the eagerness of a man checking a box, brushes his lips against Irene’s gloved hand in the briefest kiss imaginable, then straightens and strides through the doors without another glance.

  The rest of the group follows… everyone except Irene. She remains motionless in the doorway until, suddenly, like a hunter in a forest hearing a twig snap behind her, she turns her head toward me.

  There’s no smile this time. Slowly, she raises three fingers, holding them steady so I can see. Then she walks away, her rifle case swaying as she disappears through the doors.

  First, five fingers. Now, two days later, three fingers.

  I get it now.

  It’s a countdown.

  ***

  When class ends for the day, I head straight to my hovercar and activate the self-driving mode. The control stick engages as my Pinkies and I lift off and speed toward the Green Dormitory. I barely notice the campus streaking by as I activate my Bond and skim my social calendar—a neglected list of parties I hadn’t even glanced at, thanks to Dad’s strict orders to leave my suite only for class. Most of the events are optional, organized by recreation coordinators to distract students struggling with Bliss withdrawal. But one event catches my eye: the Stag Leap Gala, only three days away. It’s a mandatory event welcoming first-years to Grandmaster University, held at the campus’s extravagant lodge, the Speakeasy.

  I remember the Speakeasy from Harrison’s tip list. He warned me to avoid it, if possible, because it’s the only public place on campus where the formal behavior laws don’t apply. There are no rules for posture, speech, or introductions. The Speakeasy hosts a collection of wild, roaring parties he described as pure chaos.

  The temperature suddenly feels too warm in the hovercar, so I lower my window and breathe in the cool, pine-scented air. Is the Speakeasy where Irene plans to make good on her threat? But why there, of all places? Sure, the Speakeasy might be rowdy, but it’s not a surveillance-free zone. There are cameras, security drones, Coppers, and Pinkies. How could she bypass all that? And why give me a warning beforehand?

  On the Office of Student Affairs website, I draft an email requesting permission to skip the gala. With five other students targeted over the Bliss ban, I bet mine won’t be the first they receive. By the time I hit “send,” the hovercar glides into the Green Dormitory parking garage.

  I jump out and take the elevator, my thoughts racing too fast to notice the world around me. But when I round the corner to my suite and see Charlotte standing outside my door, every worry in my head goes still.

  She’s leaning against the frame, taking quick, shallow drags on a cigarette as she surveys the hallway like she’s on watch. When her eyes meet mine, her forehead lifts wistfully, as if she’s as relieved to see me as I am to see her. She pulls the cigarette from her lips, exhales with determination, and says, “I’m ready to talk.”