WHY? Rhiannon tried to scream as Veyron tightened his grasp around her throat. But no sound came out. She could no longer move her legs. She would join the rest of her family—just as it should’ve been, all along. But the thought of it made her struggle harder, even as she caught sight of Josselyn’s holo portrait in her blurring vision. Joss had been younger than she was now when she was killed. Rhee could let herself slip away and finally see her, and their parents, again. But she was a coward. She wanted to live.
Focus. She tried to still herself; she willed her mind that was desperate for air to calm. Veyron always said to play to her strengths, which were speed—and surprise.
With the last of her energy, she released a hard kick to Veyron’s groin. He dropped her, and she collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. She could feel oxygen flood the ends of her fingers and tips of her toes. Her ears were ringing. Her neck burned with pain.
When Veyron looked up, she saw him withdraw a switchblade. He’d used it for everything—to cut his meals, to trim his garden, and now to end her life.
“Please,” she croaked out. “Stop.” Her throat felt as if someone had taken a grater to it. Veyron—the man who had taught her everything she knew about combat—had turned against her. Veyron. Her Veyron.
“I told you,” he said. “I have no choice.” He lunged for her.
She jumped backward, away from the slicing arc of the knife. Her heart thundered. They both ducked low, circling each other like the scorpions in the ring—just as they had hundreds of times before.
Of course, this was different. This wasn’t training. He was trying to kill her. He would kill her. Her head throbbed. She wouldn’t make it out alive. But she wouldn’t lie down and die either.
Veyron lunged with the knife once more. She sidestepped him, but just barely. When he was off balance, she rushed him, just like he’d always taught her: Catch your enemies off guard. Planting her left foot on his thigh, she launched herself into the air. She grabbed his extended arm and slammed it down across her right knee. The knife went clanging to the floor, and Veyron cried out. But with his other hand he grabbed her by her braid and flung her to the ground.
“How many times have I told you? You need to be three steps ahead of your opponent,” he said, panting. Even as he was trying to kill her, he still could not forget that he’d been her teacher all these years. It was true; she was cornered now. “You never think before you move.”
Coming toward her now, he had no knife, but he seemed even more terrifying with his uneven gait and his arm bent at an impossible angle. She couldn’t think—the anger was a vise, clamping down, cold and hard.
She crawled backward, slipping on the yards of fabric that pooled under her from her elaborate red dress. Veyron found the knife and retrieved it. His face was freckled and leathered by the sun. He’d fought and lived through a war. She saw in that instant how pathetic she was, how weak, despite all her years of training. She’d never face Seotra; she would never have a chance to avenge her family.
Finally, the wall was at her back. She had nowhere left to go. But Rhee struggled to get to her feet. She was the last Ta’an—twelve generations of emperors and empresses, all warriors in their own right. She wouldn’t die sitting down. Her ancestors were watching—their faces hovered in holo on the walls this very moment.
“Why?” she panted out.
“For my family,” Veyron said.
Silently, a ceiling hatch opened just behind him, and a boy descended from it, like some kind of upside-down bird. Tattoos all along his neck. Skin so fair it was translucent. His pointed ears poked through his light hair. A Fontisian. He caught Rhee’s eye and held a finger to his lips. She froze, paralyzed by the sight of him.
“Veyron, don’t.”
But her trainer raised the knife. She thought of Julian. She could still feel the small silver telescope tucked into her robes, lying against her heart. “Honor, bravery, loyalty,” she whispered.
But a second later, the Fontisian tackled, taking her trainer by surprise. The boy flipped Veyron over and hit him in the face, splattering the curious ring he wore with blood. Veyron didn’t wince, but the thud of bone was proof enough of pain. Still, he was a skilled fighter and soon managed to throw off the Fontisian. They rolled together, like a single body with two heads, until the Fontisian reared back, kicked a leg under Veyron’s chest, and heaved. He launched him over and backward. Rhee had to scramble out of the way as Veyron hit the window and collapsed on the floor, groaning. Instinctively, Rhee swooped down and snatched his abandoned switchblade.
The Fontisian stood, his chest heaving. He was probably only a few years older than Rhee, but easily a head taller than Veyron.
“Who are you?” she demanded. She brandished the knife, willing herself not to shake. The bones of his face were sharp in a way that couldn’t ever appear friendly.
“Not even a thank-you, then?” he asked in accented Kalu.