68. Proelium

proelium ~(i)ī, n.

1. a contest or strife

Rax Istra-Velrayd steadies himself on the sink of the studio and watches silver spiral the drain.

He wipes his nose one last time and straightens, straightens the bloodred lapels of his breast coat. He’d prefer if it was blood coming from his nose. He’d prefer it to stop happening every six hours. But what he prefers in his life has, historically, gone ignored.

Rax prefers, but he doesn’t regret. He found it—what Synali meant. He managed to connect to her memory by passing out—he isn’t sure why, but he knows it now like logic, like basic math; the source of the memories he sees in the dream is the saddle. That’s why riders about to overload see the dream so often; the more time spent in the saddle, the more nerve fluid exposure and the more vivid the dream. Knowing where the memories come from eases his mind. It will kill him, eventually, but at least he knows now.

At least, if he passes out in the saddle, he can see her. Be her. Be near her, even if he can’t be with her in real life.

He aches to reach for her as they sit at the triumvirate conference, but the Lithroi man sits too close in the crowd, watching Rax blink and breathe in the middle of the two girls. Mirelle’s dressed in all black to his right, and Synali sits to his left in blue—her hair short and dark and those beautiful ice eyes riveted forward. The cameras flash nonstop. His hand twitches under the table toward hers, his entire body frothing to be close to her again. Now that he knows what she feels like and tastes like, he can’t unknow, and it is torture.

Flash.

“Lady Synali, are you nervous about facing Lady Mirelle in the next match?”

Flash. He can feel Synali move without looking at her—heat and closeness as she grips her knees.

“I’ve come too far to let nerves rule my feelings.”

Flash. Mirelle’s laugh slides sideways into subzero ice. “Are you certain you have feelings at all, murderer?”

The lights go out. The backup generators hum on.

Flash. Flash. Flashflashflash. Quiet murmurs echo in the dark studio of “murderer” and “what is she talking about?” The Lithroi man stands, cane kept square before him like a warning.

Mirelle doesn’t know or doesn’t care, her laugh collapsing on itself. “You’re a vicious little pretender—no name or title or honor. And I will show you that on the field.”

Rax starts forward in his chair—Mirelle never insults other riders; after she fights them and beats them, maybe, but never before. It goes against the knightly code she’s told him about time and time again: no judgment until impact. Something’s wrong—something’s happened, and he’s been too focused on Synali to notice it, but he does now. The way Mirelle’s mascara smears, the way her jaw strains. Could it be…

Terren Helgrade is oblivious. “Watching Lady Synali rise through the ranks, well…I think I speak for the entire Station when I say it’s been immensely entertaining. You fight her in two days’ time, do you not, Lady Mirelle? Would you have anything to say to her?”

The water in Mirelle’s eyes turns to steel. “I will accept your surrender now.”

Synali’s breath catches and releases in the same instant. “Never.”

Rax stands, motioning to the host and flashing the best golden grin he can. “I think that’s good. We should call it here—everyone is obviously tired—”

“Do you know what it means to ride?”

Synali’s soft question to her cousin cuts through. Flash. The king’s rider asked the same. Mirelle straightens her neck—looking forward but never to the side.

“It means honor, traitor.”

Flashflashflashflash. Synali’s ice eyes flicker to him, cold and impervious.

“Do you know what it means to ride?”

Her fierce gaze cuts off all his thoughts. It’s a question that is the answer itself, a closed loop—rise and descent. His mouth opens; he’ll give her every scorching truth in his body, always—all she has to do is ask.

“It means living.”

Flash. Flash. Flash.

“What—” the host starts, nervously smiling. “What does riding mean to you, Lady Synali?”

Rax watches her gaze slide off to the prince standing before the crowd, and then their eyes slide off together—to a shadowed corner of the studio where no one stands—and when she looks back to the cameras, the only thing on her face is a faint, terrifying smile.