13. Oceanus

ōceanus ~ī, m.

1. (Medieval) any large body of water,

including a channel or river

I wake once I’m being carried back into Moonlight’s End, Dravik’s arms beneath me and his steps uneven without the cane. We pass a portrait I’ve never seen before—a beautiful woman with pale cornsilk hair and gray eyes, just like Dravik’s. Her dress is silver and light blue, and the smile on her lips is measured. Patient.

Just like Dravik’s.

I hear him grunt just before I slip into darkness again. “She weighs far too little still. Is she even eating?”

When I wake the second time, Dravik is not pleased. He keeps his face tranquil as he sits in the chair at my bedside, but the too-quick way his thumb moves over the head of his cane says everything, like a pissed cat lashing its tail.

“It was just a little extra practice,” I insist groggily.

He clips his words short. “I’m more concerned with the fact you rode yourself to the point of fainting. Worse yet, you conducted all this in front of Sir Istra-Velrayd.”

I try to sit up on the pillows, my right arm shrieking pain at the shoulder joint. “I learned from him.”

“He learned from you, too,” Dravik says sternly. “We cannot have that. You are my secret weapon.”

“Then you should’ve locked down the practice arena better.”

“I made it as quiet as possible. When you saw him, you should’ve left.”

I glower at my bedsheets. He purses his thin lips.

“Sir Istra-Velrayd is not just your enemy, Synali—he is the enemy. He will be your greatest challenge in the Supernova Cup bar none.”

“I’ve realized that.”

“Yes, I suppose you have.” He sighs. “Now, your painkillers will wear off in an hour. Until then, you will eat and take things slow. Your body needs to recover; your mind, perhaps more so.”

I scoff. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Dravik—talking fatherly to the patricidal.”

Dravik stares, and I glare back. The tension in the air is cut by a clattering sound—Quilliam wheeling in a meal cart. He sniffs and smiles faintly at me.

“It’s so good to see you awake, miss.”

The robot-dog follows him, and after a moment of sapphire-eyed deliberation, it leaps onto the bed and curls up by my feet. I watch Quilliam’s bandaged hand as it scoops porridge and berries into a silver bowl. Hurting a helpless old man—I’m no better than Father.

Rax goaded me into action. I told Dravik I can control myself, but… Shame curls up my cheeks. My eyes blearily catch on things in the room—a dresser, the dog, the faint outline of a woman hovering behind the curtains of the window in the corner. I blink. Not a woman—just a curtain waving in the simulated breeze.

I look to Dravik. “Why does my arm still hurt so much?”

He stands and comes closer to my bedside. “You dislocated it.”

I watch as he leans his cane against the marble wall and reaches his hand for mine. “I told you not to touch me.”

“I have to, Synali.”

“To fix it?”

He looks at Quilliam, and the manservant wordlessly takes a step back. Dravik grips my hand, and as dosed as I am, I can’t fight it, the feeling of skin on skin like a thousand tingling needles.

“No,” he says simply and braces his other hand against my shoulder. I see white. He does something, and the pain pierces through even the tranq, a hot line of agony slicing across my forearm. I look down and gape silently—a massive red-blue bruise bulging under my skin, something hard sticking up the wrong way beneath it. Dravik’s gaze is lifeless and lukewarm as he speaks.

“To break it.”

For a week afterward, I think Dravik broke my arm as punishment: punishment for losing control, for not resting, for engaging Rax when I shouldn’t have. My right hand is my dominant hand—everything I could do before crumbles in the after. Going to the toilet becomes more complicated. Bathing myself becomes harder. I spill and drop and break so many cups and plates. The simple act of eating with a spoon is mind-numbingly frustrating with my left hand, and Dravik watching me expectantly only makes it worse. He’s just like the nobles in the brothel, like Father—breaking things because they displeased him. Just because he can.

“What, not neat enough for you?” I bite out at his glances over breakfast, every inch of my skin hot and my heart beating a furious rhythm in my chest. “You fucking did this to me.”

Dravik focuses back on his newspaper. “Have you looked over the schedule for today?”

I slam my good hand on the table and stand. “You’re a sadistic little prick just like the rest of them! I never should have trusted you!”

“If I were you, I’d be more careful with that,” he says lightly and nods at my hand. “Considering it’s the last one you have.”

I grip my fork so hard, it grinds against finger bones, but somewhere between white-hot rage and embarrassment, I catch myself. That wasn’t concern, it was a threat; he could break my other arm just as easily if I displease him again.

I feel like a child; out of control, unsafe. I made the mistake of trusting him even once. He’s not my friend—he’s my business partner. We’re using each other. He’s my best chance at destroying House Hauteclare. He’s put-together at all times, patient, calculating, and I’m…unraveling.

Where is the cold girl who did whatever it took?

With my injured arm, the only cleaning I can do around the manor is dusting, and I’m not as fast at hiding when someone approaches. Quilliam catches me for the first time in the east wing’s library—filled with real paper books and the scent of time. I ferret the duster away behind my back, but too late—his smile wrinkles even his bushy white brows.

“You are not required by the contract to aid me in chores, miss.”

I scoff. “I know.”

Quilliam smiles brighter, then silently toddles off.

Bit by bit, my sloppy eating becomes neater. I develop ways around my own left-hand inexperience, fingers in strange places, different muscles clenching. Riding is miserable—without being able to move one arm, my balance in the saddle is completely thrown off. The silver spirals congregate around my cast as if they’re curious about my injury.

“I’m fine,” I snap at them. “Little pests.”

Like the sadistic noble he is, Dravik makes me practice the lance for the first time with my left hand—the weapon materializing as one silver length out of Heavenbreaker’s palm when I think weapon. The knife in Father’s back, in my collarbone. The knife across Mother’s throat.

“You will attempt to strike the stationary dummy at the opposite end of the tilt,” Dravik says through my intercom.

I close comms and snark to myself, “Will I?” Talking back to him doesn’t feel safe anymore.

I glare at the fresh new dummy in the distance, its blank face cold and its stiff arms holding a massive flashing hard-light target against its chest. I grip the lance, my left fingers feeling thick and awkward. I lean against the tilt, the magnetics holding Heavenbreaker and me in place. The cockpit walls catch my eye—it’s cleaner. The pit crew I’ve never met must’ve gotten paid last night.

“On my signal,” Dravik announces. “Three, two, one—”

Go.

Heavenbreaker’s jets burst to life, and we shoot off the tilt faster than ever before—smoother, easier, but I struggle to maintain it. I can’t flex my right arm to resist the g-forces, and it’s like gravity knows it, pulling at my right side with a fierceness and wobbling Heavenbreaker on its axis. The lance is so heavy, the extra ballast near overwhelming. It feels like I could capsize at any time—flip, lose control, and spin helplessly off into open space until my jets realign. A thing shot into space has no resistance; it just keeps going.

Terror grips me in sweat and panting, in the idea of crashing into a substation or being pulled down into Esther’s orbit and burning to cinder. This arena is for real riders; the safety barriers only catch what’s roughly parallel to the tilt. Rax, I think. Like him. Like Father’s clips, like Mirelle Ashadi-Hauteclare’s clips. Like the best of the best, I must remain still in the center of chaos and control. I am the one who makes every motion in the steed.

But this time, the steed makes a motion for me.

I feel something click into place inside me—in my bones—and like a tranquilizer dream or a controlling puppet hand, my spine readjusts into a backward lean. Not like Rax, not as true and strong, but enough that the lance feels easier to hold. My right side doesn’t drag so heavily in this position. Ghostwinder never moved for me…but I wasn’t in it very long. This is normal, surely, no matter how abnormal it feels.

The dummy nears. Close, closer, the hard-light target like a shining orange beacon trying to swallow the universe. My eyes strain against the light, my clumsy left hand grips the lance, and I pull back against the impossible gravity. I aim. I fight the weight of the tip with the weight of the handle. Imperfect balance. There’s no way. There’s no way I’ll ever—with my right hand, maybe, maybe, but this…

Impact happens in a blink. Less.

I thrust.

Like every tense moment in my life, time stretches at the last second, and I see the lance hit. Scrape, really, against the very outside of the target—orange pixels scatter into space like broken water. Heavenbreaker passes the dummy, sailing onto the opposite side of the tilt.

I did it.

“I did it!” I shriek, the momentum only letting half my sounds out. Something like pride balloons in my chest…and I slip. I fall off the razor’s edge between focus and unfocus, and the posture Heavenbreaker put me in collapses. The horrifying sound of metal keening and jets sputtering echoes in the cockpit.

I manage one word before the capsize.

“Shit.”

The world explodes in chaos; up is down, stars and darkness whirl around each other, flashes of red and orange and green melt into one nauseating spiral as my organs drop and fall and drop again, and faintly I’m reminded of the reboot, when the thing in the saddle went inside me—spinning with no direction, propelled infinitely forward. Jets, jets, but I can’t hold on to one word for long when my brain suffocates on its own heaviness. Waves of unconsciousness and consciousness weave together, and in one moment of lucidity I remember Dravik’s lesson:

“A capsize is most dangerous because very few riders can regain control. A rider is only human, and space is not kind to our kind.”

Why did he send me out with a broken arm if he knew the dangers? Does he want me to die? Maybe. Maybe he hates me. I hate him, too. Doesn’t matter how patient he is—he hurt me.

“Syn—”

The comm rings in my ear faintly.

“synali”

My name is clear the second time—that faint, soft voice as crisp as if it was speaking in a completely silent room. I black out. Black in. Black out again. Space is everywhere, and it goes on forever, and I’m lost to it, panic like ice freezing my heart still. I can’t hold on to a coherent thought, let alone a riding thought.

And then…light.

Shining bronze light fills my fluttering eyes… Plasma trails. Whose? I feel an arm grasping for me, missing, grasping again, and then the drag of my brain against my skull as all momentum slows, then stops. A noble emblem of a bronze stag solidifies in my vision, printed on a deep green-blue shellac. A breathless voice reverberates in my comms.

“Hello? You all right in there?”

I blink until the stars settle. Heavenbreaker feels right side up, a pressure crushed against my chest as if someone’s holding me to theirs. Another steed clasps me tight—sleek blue-green armor; their helmet is slender, but the brass-brushed antler decorations jutting out from the sides are far more impressive. The nausea makes it impossible to speak as the hologram of the rider in a blue-green suit and helmet connects to my comms.

“That was a pretty impressive capsize.” The voice chuckles—an older man, older than Dravik and warmer than him, too. “Let’s get you back to the arena, shall we?”

“Who—” I swallow. “Who are you?”

“Sevrith.” Dravik’s voice reconnects. “Kindly unhand my charge.”

“Gladly, old friend.” The rider named Sevrith chuckles again. “Just as soon as you tell me why you’re sending an inexperienced rider onto the practice tilt.”

There’s a silence. How does Dravik know this man? And why was he so close to the practice arena in his steed? I didn’t see another hangar open in the launchpad—so was he riding around in open space? Riders aren’t supposed to ride if it isn’t for practice or a match.

“Bring her to the launchpad, Sevrith,” Dravik insists and then cuts comms.

Sevrith turns his steed’s helmet to look at me properly. “Sorry about him, kid. He hasn’t changed much—still ornery and secretive. Always talking about his dreams and plans.”

These two definitely know each other. My stomach still heaves, and I’m too afraid to open my mouth lest I vomit. I’m too sick to wrench myself out of his arms. Sevrith’s jets kick on, and we make our way back toward the ring of red light that is the arena.

“Is Dravik training you to be his rider? That’d be strange—I thought he left the noble life behind a long time ago.”

Sevrith speaks informally for a noble—like Rax. Dravik left the noble life behind? Can one even do that? Why? It’s a life full of privilege and comfort.

Sevrith pauses. “Recessive-hand training is always tough. From what I saw, you were managing it pretty well.”

I frown. “Recessive-hand training? What do you mean?”

“Well…you know. All riders are ambidextrous—hard to switch lance hands without it.”

A gnawing dread picks at the back of my brain, working its way into my arm’s cast.

Sevrith laughs and recites, “Can’t have right without switching the fight! Surprised he’s still got you training on the left. I guess you didn’t do too well with the ambi class at the academy, then? I get it—those fake casts they put your good arm in get real annoying after year four.”

All the clips I’ve studied flash through my dizzy mind at once; they all switch hands. Every single one of the riders switched hands when the grav-gen pulled them into the infinity-symbol loop of the second and third round. You have to switch the lance to your other hand when you circle in the other direction, or hitting the enemy becomes near impossible.

It was right in front of me the whole time. Every rider is ambidextrous. There’s a “class” for it, for years. That’s why Dravik broke my arm. Not to be cruel, not to hurt me: to help me. To train me like a real rider—a real knight capable of winning—but faster. The sloppy soup spoons, dropping things, all of it.

It helps me learn faster.

Dravik waits for us at the end of the launchpad tunnel, his cane glinting silver and his eyes shadowed. Sevrith walks behind me, helmet still on, but I take mine off and speed my pace to Dravik until I’m jogging. He takes slow cane-steps toward me. I come to a stop in front of him. His face is unreadable. Heavenbreaker shadows us, lying flat in the clear, massive vacuum tube looming outside the tunnel walls.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt.

“It’s all right,” he says instantly. “It’s fine. As long as you’re…” His throat bobs, and he turns his back as Sevrith draws closer. “We should go.”

For the first time, I follow him without hesitation. Sevrith calls out from behind us, his voice clear and visor-less, “I don’t know what you’re doing, Drav, but leave the kid out of it.”

For once, Dravik retorts instead of ignoring, and that’s how I know they must’ve been very good friends. “Your concern has been noted, Sev.”

Our footsteps echo. The cold steel hallways of the practice arena turn into a noble-friendly foyer—white marble floors and grav-fountains and lush potted plants. The attendant behind the counter bows at us as we leave through the sliding doors. We wait on the highway stop for the hovercarriage to pull through, the Station spinning in the distance beyond the clear tube wall. The many orange spokes of the hard-light highways fetter the Station to its outer ring like a beast.

“You’ve done very well,” Dravik says softly. “It’s a difficult thing to hit a target on the first—”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the purpose of breaking my arm?”

The orange hard-light glow illuminates his pale face from below.

“I think, in the end, it is perhaps better you consider me a villain.”

We watch the stars turn across space-time. We’ve both lost our mothers. He is not them. I am not them. Whatever happens next, we must move in the same direction, until the day he brings me rest.

I look over at Dravik and smile.

“I suppose we’ll be villains together, then.”