He couldn't let Balfour escape, but nor could he deny that if he stayed, his own chances faded.
Adele lifted her chin stubbornly, her cheeks stained with soot and her eyes red-rimmed from the smoke. Dark bruises circled beneath her eyes, as if she'd taken a blow to the face. She'd never looked more beautiful. "I understand perfectly. Not. Without. You."
Malloryn pressed his forehead to hers. To grant her this meant making a huge concession. But he had to accept, just this once, that he couldn't sway her. "Then stay out of this."
"Go and kill him."
Years of hate and fury turned into a cold, hard lump in his throat as Malloryn stood and faced his enemy. Endless games stretched out in the past, battles over the council table when the prince consort held power. Secrets. Lies. Espionage.
And revenge.
He'd thought once that seeing Balfour dead would finally ease the burden of debt from his shoulders, but it hadn't. There'd been a cold, hollow nothingness within him the day he helped cast the prince consort down and slit Balfour's throat. An emptiness he couldn't seem to slake in the years that followed.
And then Balfour returned, and Malloryn had realized he'd spent so long striving to destroy this man that he was still trapped in that vicious spiral. It was almost a relief to start the game afresh. To know there was something to tilt his lance at.
This man had ruined his life.
But Malloryn had allowed it to happen.
And worse, he'd allowed it to consume him.
Until Adele had finally shown him a path clear of this bloody spiral. He didn't want to die here, with the promise of their relationship so newly unfurled before him. He wanted time, damn it. Time to explore it.
Time to learn how to be Auvry again.
"And so it ends," Balfour told him.
"And so it ends," he replied, sliding the rapier at his side free of its sheath with a steely rasp.
"You have been a thorn in my side for far too many years." Balfour drew his sword also. "I should have ended you the day I shot Catherine."
"Then why didn't you?" He circled Balfour, knees flexing as he watched for the first sign of a lunge.
"Because you were a pup. You'd been beaten, you just didn't know it. Power isn't about those you crush beneath your heel. It's about those you didn't crush when you could have."
"A mistake on your behalf," he said coldly. "I am very, very good at surviving. You underestimated me then, and you underestimate me now."
"I'll grant you this," Balfour conceded, "I did not expect the ruse with the queen. I didn't realize you'd be cold enough to set your own wife as bait in a trap for me."
Malloryn breathed a laugh. "Then you don't know Adele. It wasn't my plan."
"Ah."
"You know me too well. As I know you. But you didn't account for her."
"I didn't think you'd ever be able to cede control to those who surrounded you. I wouldn't have."
"But I'm not you."
Another smile. "You're more like me than you care to think. Even if you survive—even if you beat me here—you'll never escape me. I molded you into the man you are. In a way, you're the heir I never had."
The words tasted like bile in Malloryn's mouth. "I am nothing like you. Maybe I could have been, but I have something you've never had. I have people that love me and keep me human. And Christ"—he shook his head with a breathless laugh—"they're infuriating and drive me insane, and disobey me, and...." He stared at Balfour as he realized the truth. "And yet, they risked their lives to come rescue me in Russia. They've risked their lives to help bring you down. And they're the reason I will win.
"I'm nothing like you, Balfour. You've never seen the value in the people who serve you. You've never put their lives first, you've never cared. They've always been tools for you to use." He stepped forward, the tip of the sword in his hand rising. "All I ever wanted was to protect those I loved from you and your machinations."
Balfour stepped back into a duelist's stance.
"And so it comes to this, after all these years...." Balfour gestured with his sword, a faint smile on his thin lips. "Why don't we finish it?"
Smoke clung to the ceiling, pouring through the open hole where the glass ceiling had been. "Neither of us is getting out of here."
"Then we die together."
Balfour suddenly lunged forward.
Steel clashed on steel.
They'd only ever dueled twice.
The first had been a foolish clash when he'd been barely a man and Balfour had years of experience with a sword. All he'd wanted to do was avenge Catherine's death, but Balfour hadn't even had the decency to kill him. No. He'd earned a thrashing then—an abject exercise in humility—but he wasn't that young man anymore.
He'd hired the finest sword masters. Spent hours perfecting his form.
Learned hand-to-hand combat. Pugilism. Batitsu.
Every hour he'd ever spent in the ring had been aimed at this moment.
The second time had been a brief skirmish as the revolution raged against him and he'd cut Balfour's throat in a moment of distraction.
Once again Balfour had the advantage, now that he'd metamorphosed into a dhampir. But Malloryn had spent months testing his reflexes against both Obsidian and Byrnes. He was as prepared as he was ever going to be.
They drove together, steel ringing on steel. Firelight flashed off both blades like whips of lightning as they riposted and lunged, working through each other's defenses.
Balfour's face showed strain when they broke apart.
"You've spent too many years pulling puppet strings," Malloryn warned him. Whipping past Balfour in a lunge that caught the other off guard, he slashed his knife across the bastard's ribs and spun to face him.
Balfour winced, pressing his fingers to his bloodied side. He looked up with a smile. "Your form's improved."
"Thank you. Nothing like a good motivator to really inspire."
"A pity it won't be enough."