I try for days not to think about her. In the end, I stop resisting. Life is hard enough without having to avoid entire rooms in my own head. I imagine the fall of her hair and the glow of her skin. I smile at how she laughed when we danced, with a freedom of spirit I found exhilarating in its possibility. I remember how her eyes closed when I spoke to her in Sadhese.
But at night, when my fears crawl out of the dark places in my mind, I think of the dread on her face when she realized who I was. I think of her disgust when I tried to protect her from the Commandant. She must hate me for subjecting her to something so demeaning. But it was the only way I could think of to keep her safe.
So many times in the past week, I’ve nearly walked to her quarters to see how she is. But showing kindness to a slave will only bring the Black Guard down on me.
Laia and Helene: They’re so different. I like that Laia says things I don’t expect, that she speaks almost formally, as if she’s telling a story. I like that she defied my mother to go the Moon Festival, whereas Helene always obeys the Commandant. Laia is the wild dance of a Tribal campfire, while Helene is the cold blue of an alchemist’s flame.
But why am I even comparing them? I’ve known Laia a few days and Helene all my life. Helene’s no passing attraction. She’s family. More than that. She’s part of me.
Yet she won’t speak to me, won’t look at me. The Third Trial is days away, and all I’ve gotten from her are glares and muttered insults.
Which brings another worry to the forefront of my mind. I’d been counting on Helene winning the Trials, naming me Blood Shrike and then releasing me from my duty. I can’t see her doing that if she loathes me. Which means that if I win the next Trial and if she wins the final Trial, she could force me to remain Blood Shrike against my will. And if that happens, I’ll have to run, and then honor will demand that she have me hunted down and killed.
On top of that, I’ve heard students whispering that the Emperor is days away from Serra and planning vengeance against the Aspirants and any associated with them. The Cadets and Skulls pretend to shake off the rumors, but the Yearlings aren’t so skilled at hiding their fear. You’d think the Commandant would be taking precautionary measures against an attack on Blackcliff, but she seems unconcerned. Probably because she wants us all dead. Or me, anyway.
You’re screwed, Elias, a wry voice tells me. Just accept it. Should have run when you had the chance.
My spectacular losing streak doesn’t go unnoticed. My friends are worried about me, and Marcus makes a point of challenging me on the combat field every chance he gets. Grandfather sends a two-word note, inked with such force that the parchment is torn. Always victorious.
All the while, Helene watches, growing more infuriated every time she beats me in combat—or witnesses someone else beat me. She’s itching to say something, but her stubbornness won’t let her.
Until, that is, she finds Dex and Tristas tailing her to the barracks two nights before the Third Trial. After interrogating them, she finds me.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Veturius?” She grabs my arm outside Skulls’ barracks, where I was heading for a bit of rest before a graveyard shift on the wall. “You think I can’t defend myself? You think I need bodyguards?”
“No, I just—”
“You’re the one who needs protection. You’re the one who’s been losing every battle. Skies, a dead dog could best you in a fight. Why don’t you just hand the Empire over to Marcus right now?”
A group of Yearlings watches us with interest, scurrying away only when Helene snarls at them.
“I’ve been distracted,” I say. “Worrying about you.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. And I don’t need your...your henchmen following me.”
“They’re your friends, Helene. They’re not going to stop being your friends just because you’re mad at me.”
“I don’t need them. I don’t need any of you.”
“I didn’t want Marcus to—”
“Screw Marcus. I could beat Marcus to a pulp with my eyes closed. And I could beat you too. Tell them to leave me alone.”
“No.”
She gets in my face, anger radiating off her in waves. “Call them off.”
“Not gonna do it.”
She crosses her arms and stands inches from my face. “I challenge you. Single combat, three battles. You win, I keep the bodyguards. You lose, you call them off.”
“Fine,” I say, knowing I can beat her. I’ve done it a thousand times before.
“When?”
“Now. I want this done with.” She makes for the closest training building, and I take my time following, watching the way she moves: angry, favoring her right leg, must have bruised the left in practice, keeps clenching that right fist—probably because she wants to punch me with it.
Rage colors her every movement. Rage that has nothing to do with her so-called bodyguards and everything to do with me and her and the confusion rolling around inside the both of us.