This mezzanine is reserved for Clarities and their guests. Nine distinct balconies circle the Silver Halo, each named for one of the Fates and comprising an open-air balcony, supported by Gothic pillars, for the exclusive use of a Clarity and his or her entourage. Three extravagantly large thrones stand prominently at the fore of The Virtue’s balcony, one each for Fabian, Adora, and Grisholm.
Directly across is the Sword balcony. Blue banners with golden swords hang behind it. Normally it’s reserved for Othala, Kennet, Gabriel, and their guests, but two of my family are dead, and one is glaringly absent. But that’s not to say that the balcony is empty. Today it’s occupied by Census agents dressed in formal evening attire. They’re my mother’s guests, which isn’t going unnoticed by the masses as they find their places in the arena. People point to the Sword balcony and look to each other, wondering about the unique spectacle of Census agents in such a place of honor at the Secondborn Trials. The agents toast each other and sip from tall, fluted glasses as last-minute preparations are made on the field below.
Streams of firstborns fill the arena until nearly every seat is taken. I remain at the back of the balcony, near the rustling silken white banners adorned with enormous golden halos. I’m hoping to avoid Adora. She hasn’t noticed me, but then again, she might not notice much of anyone or anything. Her expression is dopey. She’s not entirely present, as if she has been given something to subdue her.
Clifton doesn’t let me far from his side. I’m not sure if he’s guarding me or if he just likes being near me. He wastes no time introducing me to The Virtue’s guests as his fiancée. He knows everyone. Everyone wants to be his friend. Every woman who gets near him wants to rub against him. Delicate fingertips touch his sleeve. Smiles grow broader. More teeth. Louder giggles when he smiles. I’m not sure he even notices.
A Diamond-Fated production assistant interrupts a rather pointless story that the saintly bank chairman is telling us about his excursion in the secondborn training camps. “Excuse us, Firstborn Salloway, Firstborn St. Sismode,” the assistant says, “it’s almost time for Roselle’s presentation.” He scrutinizes me. “We should get you closer to the front of the balcony. Is Firstborn Winterstrom here as well?” The man scans his moniker, going over a holographic checklist.
“I am,” Reykin says from over my shoulder. Attired in an all-black sparring outfit, he’s lethal-looking, his dark hair tied back in a knot, his fusionblade—the one with his family crest on it, the one that burned me on the battlefield—in its sheath at his side. My finger grazes the small star scar on my palm.
“Do you have a St. Sismode sword?” the attendant asks me. He eyes my white sparring outfit, settling on the hilt of the fusionblade sheathed on my thigh.
“I prefer a Salloway blade,” I reply.
The woman next to me murmurs, “Wouldn’t we all.”
Reykin’s jaw ticks tensely.
The production assistant gestures to the front of the balcony, motioning us forward. “If you two would just come this way. We’re going to start soon.”
“Go easy on the poor Star,” Clifton says, leaning down and giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek. Those around us laugh, except for Reykin. Clifton’s lips linger a bit longer than is exactly polite. “Show him what a Sword can do,” he whispers. “I’ll wait for you down by the field.”
I nod. “Please excuse me,” I say to those gathered around us. “It was lovely to meet all of you.”
As we walk toward the railing, the Diamond-Fated attendant gives me and Reykin last-minute instructions. “The sparring diamond will elevate from the field. It will latch on to the side of the balcony, and you will both enter the diamond. Begin your demonstration as the hovering platform makes a circuit around the arena. It will land in the center of the field at the conclusion of the demonstration. Do you have any questions?”
“No,” we both say.
Dune joins us. He hugs me. “I’m proud of you,” he says. “I know this is difficult, but you’re strong. You’ll get through it.”
Some of the devastation I feel is assuaged by his words. “I know this is the beginning of a new world,” I say, my voice hitching, “but it feels like the end.”
Dune’s arms tighten around me. “That’s grief you’re feeling,” he says, “but there’s joy ahead for you. You’ve taught me what happiness is, Roselle. Not the distorted version of it that the world would have us believe—but true joy. Having you as a daughter is the greatest gift my life has brought me. You taught me what love is.”
I choke back tears. I love you, too . . . Father.
“We have a purpose now,” he says. “No matter what happens, we endure. And we never stop striving for what we believe in.”
Suddenly trumpets blare. It’s time.
Dune squeezes me a final time, then lets me go.
Spotlights illuminate the field, and the ceremony begins. Competitors parade through the arena to a heroes’ welcome. The applause is deafening. Clad in all-black fighting gear, the secondborn men and women slowly make their way around the field. Some smile and wave, but most appear as though reality is setting in. Tears stream. Trembling hands wring in terror. A few pause along the route to vomit.
The Diamond-Fated firstborn popstar Sarday, attired in a glittering evening gown, sings a heartfelt rendition of “Stay Alive for Me,” which her grandmother, also named Sarday, made famous decades ago. Firstborns sing along to the melodramatic song with tearful voices. A colossal holographic projection emerges in the air above the Silver Halo like a domed roof of light, footage of past seasons’ Trials, highlights of the more gruesome deaths.
A silver platform shaped like a diamond rises from the field, hovering up to The Virtue’s balcony. Reykin and I step onto it. Our images splash across the holographic dome. The crowd roars, but I don’t react. I already despise my part in this.
I vow to make this the last Secondborn Trials ever.
We face The Virtue, Grisholm, and Adora, seated on their garish golden thrones. Reykin and I sink to one knee. When we rise, The Virtue gives us a limp wave. We face each other on the hovering diamond, and the platform begins its slow lap around the arena, hemorrhaging rose petals in its wake. I draw my sword and ignite it, choosing the lowest setting. Reykin does the same. From the first thrust, it’s clear that my Star-Fated adversary intends to give these firstborns an exciting show.
In long, elegant maneuvers that play to the crowd, Reykin wields his energy blade, and I am coerced to retreat using a series of high-powered back handsprings. As I come out of my tumble, he catches me near the edge of the platform. I ward off his attack and counter with one of my own. “When were you going to tell me,” Reykin growls as our swords lock and our foreheads nearly meet, “that you agreed to marry Salloway?”
I let him lean into me, and then I pivot to the side, using his momentum against him. He stumbles past me. “What did you think would happen when my brother died?” I shout back. Our swords whine and blur, coming together in epic clashes of molten energy. We stalk each other in a circle, looking for an opening. “The Virtue wants powerful allies.”
We turn in spirals. Our swords fly together in sizzling swipes. Reykin breaks from me, steels himself, and then swings his sword at me in a two-handed arc. I crouch, barely keeping my head. Bits of my hair shrivel, burned by his fusionblade. I tumble back.
“It’ll never happen!” Reykin pants with a murderous glare.
We fight on, ever conscious of the platform’s edge. I find an opening and take it, making Reykin pay for his crooked left elbow with a thrust that burns his upper arm. The fabric of his uniform singes. The crowd erupts in adulation.