“Malcolm is more valuable to you alive,” Dune interjects, the low resonance of his voice bolstered by the amplifiers. “Burton won’t help Othala if you hold his firstborn and secondborn sons. Keeping Malcolm close and detaining his secondborn brother, Kendrick, would serve to collar Edmund’s ambitions, instead of giving him a reason to strike.”
“You really expect a coup?” Grisholm asks. The Firstborn Commander’s arrogant smirk is absent now.
“I expect nothing less.” The Virtue’s attention drifts to me. He waves two fingers in dismissal. “Malcolm lives . . . for now.”
I withdraw my fusionblade from Malcolm’s throat. With a flick of my wrist, the surging energy of my sword dies. The firstborn Exo slumps in a serpentine sprawl, panting on the floor, hissing curses under his breath.
I move to the center of the circle and face The Virtue. Malcolm stays where he is, staring at the mat. Our ruthless leader calls in Exo soldiers to take Malcolm away, and the thick, muscular men in the ebony uniforms and capes of the royal guard approach. Malcolm gets to his feet, and they drag him away by his arms. His black boots skate along the cold floor before disappearing behind golden doors.
“Well done, Dune.” The Virtue beams. “She’s everything I’d hoped for when I sent you to be her mentor.” I suppress a gasp. I had no idea that Clarity Bowie had played a part in selecting my mentor.
Both The Virtue and Grisholm stare at me with such intensity that they miss the cold-blooded hatred in the shifting sand of Dune’s gaze. They misread my mentor—I don’t even think they can see the dark rage dawning behind the gates of his exquisite control.
I shiver.
“Roselle”—The Virtue gestures to his son—“you will immediately begin instructing Grisholm in the art of combat and strategy.” I knew this was coming the moment they told me I had to fight Grisholm’s mentor, but even so, an uneasiness creeps through me.
“Father, please!” Grisholm snarls. “She’s secondborn.”
“A secondborn with uncanny skill.”
“She’s a woman!”
“Then you should have no problem besting her,” his father taunts.
“She’s strange and unpredictable.”
“Exactly what you need. Roselle, you have my permission to use your own discretion in training my son.”
I nod, hiding my supreme irritation with this turn of events. The Virtue turns to leave. “My moniker’s communications have been blocked,” I call to him. “My access to messaging has been restricted.”
The Virtue pauses, facing me once more. “I’m aware of that.”
“I want full access restored.”
“Why? Whom do you wish to contact?”
Hawthorne, I think, but his question feels dangerous. Instead, I reply, “Commander Salloway.”
“Ah. Clifton.” He smirks. “He’s insisted upon seeing you, Roselle. He’s adamant that we discuss your work schedule at Salloway Munitions.”
“Grant me access to my moniker’s communicator, and I’ll arrange everything now.”
“I’m sorry. That’s just not possible.”
“Why not?” I frown.
“It’s for your own protection.”
“I can protect myself.”
His bottom lip pushes out in a dubious look. “I’m sure it’s no secret to you that your mother and your brother want you dead. They have ways of getting to you.”
“It’s a family matter.”
“Your welfare concerns me, Roselle. Your moniker could be tracked through those you contact. I’ve restricted access to your locator. You may thank me now for protecting you.”
I want to argue with him, but the stern set of his jaw tells me that now is not the time. “Thank you,” I mutter. The Virtue dismisses me, turns, and leaves. An almost-imperceptible lowering of Dune’s chin is enough of an acknowledgment to say, “You did well.” He follows The Virtue out.
Moving to the golden stairs, I slowly climb to where Grisholm stands with his hands on his hips, glaring at me. His nostrils flare in anger. I stop beside him. The view of the sea beyond the cliff at his back is breathtaking. The salty breeze stirs my brown hair, blowing unsecured wisps that have slipped from my ponytail to batter my cheeks.
Grisholm’s hot breath assaults my earlobe. “Let me make something very clear, Roselle. You are nothing. The moment I’m The Virtue, you’ll be dealt with.” My eyes don’t stray from the sea. It takes all my strength not to cut him down with my fusionblade. He leaves through the private doors to his personal wing of the Halo Palace, followed closely by a swarm of hovering stingers. I stand motionless, contemplating the precariousness of my new position as hated mentor to the future ruler of the world.
Chapter 2
Domestic Bliss
I return to my apartment inside the Halo Palace. My private quarters are on a corridor near Grisholm’s sparring circle. The rooms are posh by the standards of my former capsule in the air-barracks, but they fall short of the elegance of my penthouse apartment at the top of Clifton’s sword-shaped skyscraper in the Fate of Swords. What I love most about this apartment is that it overlooks a formal rose and topiary garden and the sea beneath the jagged cliff beyond it.
Blue lights flash over my silver sword-shaped moniker when I place it beneath the scanner on the panel next to the door. The golden door slides open, and the heavy clicking and shuffling of metal footsteps on marble floor greet me.
No one attends to me here. The secondborns who work in The Virtue’s Halo Palace find it beneath their stations to assist a secondborn Sword. To compensate for this, a “mechadome,” a domestic robot with artificial intelligence, was assigned to me. They’re usually humanoid in appearance with sophisticated communication and domestic skills. Mine is not.
My newly commissioned mechadome waddles over from the drawing room.
My lips twitch into a smile. It’s clear this domestic servant has been resurrected from a scrap pile. Its two round, lens-like eyes, located in the center of its nearly neckless head, glow red. It uses infrared to find me in the wide foyer. The dented iron veneer of the three-foot-tall, hydrogen-powered domestic assistant doesn’t have a bit of shine to it. Lines of rusted round-headed fasteners run down either side of its plump torso.
Out of curiosity, I researched my new mechadome. In its former life, this little bot was a sewer worker with few artificial intelligence capabilities. It had no domestic skills whatsoever until it was assigned to me. Only the bare minimum of upgrades have been applied to its operating system, according to the rudimentary diagnostic I ran. The potbellied robot strikes me as someone’s idea of a supremely funny prank meant to make me feel less than welcome here. I suspect Grisholm had something to do with it. The Firstborn Commander’s joke couldn’t have backfired worse, though, because I find this squat, burly brute endearing.
“How has your day been, Phoenix?” I ask.
The mechadome shifts its weight from wide metal foot to wide metal foot and back—clang, clang, clang—and its glowing red eyes stare up at me.
I unfasten the armor clasps of my heat resistant hauberk and pull it over my head. Holding out the metallic mesh garment, I let go. As it falls, Phoenix lifts its short, cannon-barrel-shaped arm. The hollow appendage whines, and a powerful vacuum sucks the armor to it, catching it before it hits the floor.
Straightening my black tank top back into place over my abdomen, I realize that this little unit probably used to suck up sewage—a thought I don’t want to dwell on when it brings me my dinner later this evening.
Phoenix uses its other longer arm with the clawlike hand to secure the armor. The mechadome makes an awkward turn because its hover mode no longer works. With more clanging noises, it crosses the foyer at a toddling pace, depositing my hauberk into a transparent case. The thickset bot programs the storage unit to sanitize the armor. I pat its iron head on my way by to check the parcel chute.