72. Vorago
vorāgō ~inis, f.
1. a deep hole or chasm; watery hollow
My heart beats.
“Three!”
The silver spirals writhe.
“Two!”
Every finger, clenched.
“One!”
Flowers bloom in space—daisies and hyacinths.
Zero.
The brilliant white-and-gold steed blasts into ignition.
Every single jet on our body is a blue sun.
This is the very point of the knife; the very point of my lance held straight and deadly. The two of us are lances—mirror-image incisors gunning for each other. We’ve been gunning for each other without knowing it since the day we were born. Bastard, noble. In another world, she’s me and I’m her; annihilation, two particles that can never exist in the same space-time, born to aim for each other’s throats until one no longer exists.
faster. hotter. more.
Heavenbreaker’s agreement is wordless as she burns past her limits. There is no limit. We’re together, and together means everything is possible. Inside Heavenbreaker, I can bring them inevitability. With Heavenbreaker, I’m stronger than despair. I know now: a true victory is won together.
that, too, is what it means to ride.
The parsemeter steadily increases, g-forces like fingers of giants tearing at my eyeballs, my tongue. The winged lion on Ghostwinder’s chest grows closer, quicker. Every thought comes faster than blinking; blink—her arm’s too low to be anything but a Waites-Reinhardt maneuver aimed at my legs. She thinks it’s an easy hook on me, like Helmann, like Yatrice.
Blink—too transparent. Anyone who’s watched my matches would do it, which means it’s exactly what she isn’t going to do. Blink—she’s feinting, but there are only so many maneuvers you can feint into from Waites-Reinhardt. I can’t remember all the names, but the shapes of them, the steps you take to form them…I know those. watch. I watch even as the giant tears out my eyes. The silver whorls vibrate like light spots in my vision.
there!
The shift—among the blistering speed and smearing stars, her shoulder rolls back in its socket, her legs splaying—readying her frame to absorb repeated sudden changes in direction. She’s covering her bases, pre-countering, but…her gold knees are too wide. Overextension either means inexperience or specificity—the former doesn’t apply to her. She’s not covering bases at all; she’s aiming. All her jets are engaged, none reserved or waiting in the wings.
She wants to hit one spot.
Heavenbreaker’s worry: “which? where? quickly.”
Her strength is her weakness—her family. The two of us boil with the same ruthless winter blood. If I wanted to utterly wipe someone off the face of the arena, I know exactly what I’d do.
she’s going to helmet hit me in the first round.
Correction: she’s going to try.
She knows I avoid well. She knows I act on instinct. But she doesn’t know I’ve studied. So many weeks ago, Rax cornered me with a needle of my own flaws, and so I pored over the academy books again. The Hverfa semi-hexagon… It’s dangerous, using it to dodge a helmet hit, and I hold no delusions—she’ll see it coming. Just not soon enough.
“kind,” Heavenbreaker insists. “he was so kind.”
no, I counter. he was fuel.
In the midst of assuming the Hverfa semi-hexagon, there’s a pop in my ears, a loosening of the Heavenbreaker over me—our opposite thoughts weakening the mental wax holding us together—and our stance unravels. scrabble. Calm. panic. Don’t panic. The grav-gen grows close and brightly blue. His breast coat, red. Mother’s throat, red.
he is gone. we remain.
Truth from the both of us like agreement. Heavenbreaker fuses in close again, heavy like armor, like regret. Mirelle’s white lance spears toward us, its gold tip true, and then there’s the zenith of all pressure, the drumbeat roar of blood in my ears. Brace softly.
Impact.
Time and all its teeth slow, illuminated by the white light between us. Like camera flashes, like lightning, like hair, like stars—white light stretches long and loud with the deep cry. The gold lancepoint juts forward just past our nose. Slow. Everything is so slow, and our own body feels heavy, like being tied to cement blocks.
release.
The Hverfa semi-hexagon snaps—all our muscles going slack. Three joints click into place, falling neatly into the empty space we held for them. Our helmet falls with us, neck crashing flat to our chest, the sudden pain like sunspots, but gravity makes the dodge for us faster than we ever could. Mirelle’s lance sears over my skull, catching hairs but not metal. Close. Too close—a nanosecond later and she would’ve had us.
Red, 0. Blue, 0.
The merciful release of the rise only relieves some of the tension. Agony stabs at our neck, but we can still move. The holoscreen flashes to life then, Mirelle’s chest heaving.
“You’ve made a mistake, traitor.”
My smile drips sweat. “That’s a strange thing to call success.”
She stares at me—gold eyes beneath black eyeliner like a bruise. She’s alone. I can see it now. I can hear it as clear as a bell rung with intent—she’s lonely.
“Mirelle, your father helped kill my mother. He was there in the alley, waiting—”
“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT!”
Her roar is crystal shattering—something broken and pristine, the first heartbreak of an angel.
“I have proof,” I whisper. “For all of them—what they did. What your father did.”
“Made by whom?” Her sneer is vicious. “Your rat benefactor? The fallen crown prince who surely holds no grudge against each and every one of the noble Houses for coercing the king into throwing his mother aside? Yes.” She laughs, shrill. “Yes! I’m sure the proof you have isn’t fabricated in the slightest!”
My own doubts claw at me. Dravik’s using me, but I agreed to it. We’re using each other. The Endurance, Theta-7, more I don’t know about—he’s killed so many people. He’s made me stronger, given me a sword in Heavenbreaker. He’s protected me from the assassins, from House Hauteclare, from everyone.
he’s protected me as my father never did.
“You’re a tool of revenge, traitor.” She lifts her lance. “Not a rider.”
“And you, cousin,” I say softly, “ride a symbol of a murderer’s pride.”
“The duke was a kind man—”
“My father was a murderer.” I slice her argument off at the knees. “Just like me.”
That physical feeling slithers through my back again, over it, between the vertebrae and more prominent this time. jealousy.
“Did your uncle give you candy?” I ask, strained. “Did he pick you up and twirl you around whenever he saw you? Did he call you pretty and smart? Did my father send you to the academy with the best care while I starved in the streets?” Something in me cracks down the very center. He was kind to her. He protected her.
Her fist tightens on her lance. Mine loosens.
“I have seen the powerful murder the weak while smiling, Mirelle, and call it mercy.”
“My father was no murderer!” she shrieks.
“No. He just watched the assassin’s back while he did it. He chose to be the knife. As I choose to be the lance. As you can choose, right now, to step aside. I must win this Cup. There is nothing else for me but winning. But you…you have a fiancé waiting. You have a life—”
“YOU’VE TAKEN IT ALL!”
The crystal shatters again, and this time forever. Her body rocks in the saddle with her scream, teeth flashing, fists clutching her head, white-gold steed clutching its helmet.
“You’ve taken everything from me! My father—his honor, our honor! You twisted us all—you twisted Rax until he turned his back on me! You corrupted him and my father and my House! You’ve ripped everything apart! You’ve taken it all!”
The rise rounds and ends. The descent begins. Her visor dissipates with her thrashing, and then she goes completely still, head tilted up. Black mascara streaks down her face like melting ice. Tears. Her neck arcs down, slow, her beautiful face utterly wiped clean of emotion. Nothing remains in her irises—no warmth. A gaze I know so well: the gaze of a girl who’s lost everything.
I hear it, and then I hear it. She speaks, but not with a noble’s voice. No pride. No affectation. All that’s left in her are bells ringing dire with intent, with the true meaning of every single word—a rider’s voice.
“You have taken everything from me, traitor. And now, I will take it back.”