The Spy by Sophie Lark

15

Ares

The first challenge of the Quartum Bellum takes place directly before Halloween.

Leo is, of course, voted in one last time as Senior Captain. He’s trying not to let on how badly he wants to be the first Captain to lead his team to victory four years in a row.

I’ve never been able to tell him how much that would enrage my cousin Adrik, the former record-setter. Adrik is intensely competitive, maybe even more than Leo or Dean, if you can picture that level of psychopathy.

He’s been infuriated by the ongoing war with the Malina. He wants to go scorched earth on them, though he knows as well as I do what their first act of reprisal would be.

My family will never be able to repay my uncle Dominik or his sons Adrik and Kade for how they’ve stood by us through all of this. Dominik’s name has been slandered among the Bratva—he’s been accused of embezzling money, overstepping his position, and god knows what else. He swallows it all to protect us, though his honor means everything to him.

Kade and I used to talk about how much fun we’d have attending Kingmakers together. Now I have to pretend I don’t even know him.

I fucked up on that too, trying to come to his defense when Bodashka, Valon, and Vanya were harassing him last year. It’s infuriating hearing those idiots slander my own family right in front of me. Hearing their “secret plans” of how they’ll exploit our weakness for their gain. I’d like to strangle every last one of them in their sleep.

I asked Kade to enlist Dean to help us—to inform us if he hears of any concrete plans from that snake Danyl Kuznetsov. Dean, of course, thinks that Kade is only asking on his own behalf.

I wish I could tell Dean how much I appreciate his kindness to our family, which is in direct contrast to his own self-interest in Moscow.

I wish I could tell my friends a lot of things.

Despite Kade’s team being eliminated in the second round last year, the Sophomores apparently feel he did well enough to warrant being voted in as Captain again.

I can at least congratulate him publicly, giving him the same kind of friendly fist bump that a casual acquaintance might offer.

The Juniors, perpetual first-round losers in the Quartum Bellum, seem at a loss when choosing their Captain. This year they go for brains over brawn, voting in Jacob Weiss, a slim, bespectacled Spy from a well-known Chicago mafia family.

The real surprise is the Freshman Captain: none other than Sabrina Gallo.

Though not everyone likes her close friendship with Nix Moroz, there’s no denying Sabrina’s charisma. Within a week of landing on campus, everyone seemed to know her name—certainly all the male students did. The Freshmen may be hoping that all Gallos are born champions. Or they might think that only a Gallo can beat a Gallo.

Leo and Sabrina have been engaging in non-stop shit-talk at every meal. Sabrina fully intends to knock her cousin off his pedestal, and Leo is equally determined to grind her into the dirt, not giving a fuck that she’s three years younger and a girl.

“That’s true equality,” Leo tells Sabrina, grinning at her. “I wouldn’t be a good feminist if I let you win.”

“Let me win?” Sabrina scoffs. “You’ll be lucky if you even catch of glimpse of me as I speed past you to the finish line.”

“You don’t even know what the challenge is yet,” Leo says.

“It doesn’t matter.” Sabrina shrugs. “I’m nothing if not adaptable.”

I’m not listening to them banter.

I’m looking across the table at Nix, who’s eating her usual enormous breakfast, but without her typical enthusiasm.

Things have been strained between us since our argument outside the annex. She probably thinks I was being a shit friend to Hedeon, and she’s right. I’m not a good friend to him. Or to anyone.

There are no classes today. All students will either be participating in, or watching, the Quartum Bellum. We never know what we’ll be facing until directly beforehand. Strategizing on the spot is part of the difficulty.

By ten o’clock, every student in the school has assembled in the large field outside the castle grounds. Professor Howell waits for us in his usual drill sergeant stance: legs apart, shoulders square, chest out, hands clasped behind his back.

The air is crisp and dry, with a light, teasing breeze.

I’m relieved to see that Professor Penmark is nowhere in sight. The last QB challenge designed by him was one of the most torturous I’ve encountered—fitting, since he is our professor of Torture Techniques.

The absence of any visible apparatus is nerve-wracking. Surprises at Kingmakers are never good.

“Good morning!” Professor Howell bellows. “Would the four Captains please step forward?”

Sabrina Gallo, Kade Petrov, Jacob Weiss, and Leo Gallo all take their place before the professor.

Sabrina looks ridiculously self-possessed next to the three older Captains. Ridiculously glamorous too, even in her gray gym shorts and white socks. She tosses her mane of dark hair back over her shoulders, looking boldly around at the assembled students.

Kade bounces lightly on his toes, running a hand through his thick black hair. Kade has a gentler temperament than Adrik, but I’d never make the mistake of thinking he’s a pushover. Like Leo, his cheerful demeanor hides an inner fire.

Jacob Weiss is still and watchful, examining each of the competing Captains in turn. He gives Leo a nod when they take their place next to each other. They probably met in Chicago.

Leo flashes his bright white grin to the Seniors, a silent signal that he already believes we’re going to win. He knows a good leader never shows anything but full confidence to his troops.

It’s Anna Wilk who looks pale and nervous, watching him. I know she wants the Seniors to win even more badly than Leo does—because she can’t bear to see Leo disappointed.

“The rules for this first challenge will be slightly unusual,” Professor Howell announces.

A ripple of whispers runs across the crowd of students as everyone tries to guess what that might mean.

“Each Captain will select one champion,” Professor Howell says. “Only the champion will compete in the first event.”

Now the mutters are louder and more excited.

“Be aware,” the professor continues. “Whoever you select as champion will not be permitted to compete in any other events of the Quartum Bellum. Also, Captains cannot select themselves.”

Now the mutter is a full-out babble as students begin shouting their suggestions to their Captains.

I can see Leo frowning, wondering who he should choose.

It’s an interesting paradox: you want to pick someone strong enough to win the challenge, whatever it might be. But if you select your strongest competitor, you eliminate them from all subsequent challenges. A choice you might regret in the second and third round.

“Leo Gallo,” Professor Howell says. “You first.”

Leo doesn’t canvas the Seniors to ask their opinion. And he doesn’t hesitate. He looks me dead in the eyes as he declares, “I choose Ares Cirillo.”

My stomach flips over.

Just what I needed: another massive burden on my shoulders.

“Thanks, buddy,” I say.

Leo grins, knowing I’m not exactly thrilled.

“You’ve got this,” he says.

“Your turn,” Professor Howell says to Jacob Weiss.

Jacob considers for several minutes, looking around at his team.

I know why he’s hesitating: the reason the Juniors have repeatedly lost the Quartum Bellum is because they don’t have any all-stars in their year. They have no Leo Gallo or Dean Yenin, no “full package” competitor. Jacob is forced to choose between brains and brawn, skill and strategy, without even knowing the terms of the challenge.

At last, as Professor Howell taps his foot impatiently, Jacob says, “August Prieto.”

August and his friends give a round of whoops. August is from a Brazilian Narco family. Handsome and popular, he was voted Captain in his Freshman year, but his team lost immediately. Jacob is clearly hoping this will be an athletic challenge and not one requiring much strategy.

“Kade Petrov,” Professor Howell says.

Kade takes a deep breath, naming his champion: “Tristan Turgenev.”

The blond giant steps forward with a look of resignation. Tristan is one of the Paris Bratva—an Enforcer already almost as tall as Leo and me, though he isn’t yet full grown.

He’s Kade’s roommate and closest friend. Like Leo, Kade clearly wants to use someone he trusts, willing to risk deploying one of his most valuable soldiers early. After all, there’s no point “saving the best” for the second and third round if you don’t make it past the first.

Now only Sabrina Gallo is left to make her decision. As Professor Howell gives her a nod, she answers without hesitation. “Nix Moroz.”

An uneasy murmur runs through the Freshmen.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Estas Lomachenko says loudly.

Sabrina ignores them all, secure in her authority as Captain. She smiles at Nix, who tries to smile back but only manages to grimace.

“Excellent,” Professor Howell claps his hands sharply. “Now, if you’ll all follow me to the river bottoms . . .”

We troop downhill in a long, snaking line of students. With the champions chosen, speculation runs rampant on what the challenge might be. I don’t bother to guess—we’ll find out soon enough.

Leo falls into pace beside me.

“You don’t mind being out for the rest of the challenges?” he asks me.

“No,” I say. “It’ll be nice to relax and watch for once.” I throw him a look. “You might be watching, too, if I fuck this up.”

“You won’t,” Leo says.

Even though I know Leo is an eternal optimist, his warmth spreads through me regardless. This is why people will follow him anywhere: Leo makes you believe. In this moment, I believe too. Leo chose me because he knows I can win.

As we reach the shady, sun-dappled river bottoms, I can’t help glancing at Nix. We ran through here together. The river is right in front of us—I can hear it though I can’t yet see it. It runs east toward the waterfall.

She looks over at me, a glint in her green eyes. I know she’s thinking the same thing.

The path is roped off, with scarlet markers every hundred yards through the forest ahead.

Professor Howell calls us to attention once more:

“You’ll be running an eight-mile race,” he says. “With several obstacles along the route. Spectators, you may spread out along the route, or you can take the shortcut to the finish line. DO NOT interfere with the course or the racers. If you do, your team will be eliminated. Racers, you must follow the red markers. If you attempt to take a shortcut, or you fail to complete any of the obstacles, you will be eliminated.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Leo says.

“You would think so,” Professor Howell says, with a suspicious look at the assembled teams.

He knows as well as I do that cheating and sabotage are second nature to most of the students.

I take my place at the starting line, right next to Nix.

She’s pulling her insane curls back into a ponytail so thick that she can barely get her hand around it. The elastic band does its best, but snaps after one twist.

“Goddamnit!” Nix curses.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got one,” Sabrina says, taking the band off her wrist and passing it over to Nix.

Nix successfully completes the ponytail, though the elastic is straining like a waistband at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

She sees me staring.

“Just . . . zip it,” she tells me. “I’m not in control of this hair.”

I can’t help laughing. “Have you ever tried cutting it?” I say.

“Yes.” Nix scowls. “It broke the scissors.”

I can’t tell if she’s joking.

“Ready . . .” Professor Howell says, raising his starter pistol.

Nix, Tristan, August, and I all drop to a half-crouch, looking straight ahead through the trees.

I can’t see the obstacles. I have no idea what we’ll be facing.

The pistol fires with an echoing boom that sends several birds rocketing up out of the treetops.

Daddy Issues — Sophia Gonzon

Spotify → geni.us/spy-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/spy-apple

My legs are churning before I even register that we’ve started.

I dash across the pine needles and soft, springy earth, following once more the bright red banner of Nix’s hair. I can see Tristan on my left, and August ahead of all of us, but it’s only Nix I’m following, like we’re the only two people in the woods.

August is faster than all of us, Tristan the slowest. That means little in the first leg of an eight-mile race. August constantly plays soccer with the other Narco kids, and if this were a simple sprint, he’d surely win. His stamina is a different question.

Tristan Turgenev is in for the long haul. I can hear him puffing along behind me, steady as a freight train.

I feel intensely focused. When I have to wait and worry, my mind runs in circles. But when it’s time to act, I know what to do—at least, when it comes to physical tasks.

I see the first obstacle ahead of us: a thirty-foot fishing net strung up on a frame. We’ll have to climb up one side and down the other.

August reaches the net first, leaping up and beginning to scale the front side. Nix follows hot on his heels. August climbs steadily at first, but as soon as Nix begins her ascent, the net undulates like a wave.

“Watch it!” August shouts down at her.

“I’m not making it shake on purpose!” Nix calls back up.

When I start climbing, the net jerks so hard that August loses his grip and drops five or six feet before he can scramble for purchase. His face is red and irritated but Nix doesn’t give a fuck, she passes right by him, climbing hand over hand as fast as she can. Furious, August grabs her heel and tries to yank her down, half pulling off her shoe.

“No interference!” I shout at August.

“He said no interference from the spectators,” August spits back at me.

“I don’t give a fuck,” I snarl. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

Ignoring me, August grabs for Nix again.

Nix retaliates by kicking back with her heel, hitting August square in the forehead.

“You fucking bitch!” he howls up at her.

While he’s distracted, I knock his feet out from under him. He loses his grip on the net, sliding all the way back down to the bottom.

Nix has flipped over the top of the net, descending the other side. We come face to face with each other, me going up and her coming down.

“You don’t have to help me,” she tells me.

“I’m not,” I say.

“Good,” she calls over her shoulder, dropping down. “Because I am going to beat you.”

“We’ll see about that,” I mutter, climbing faster.

Tristan has reached the bottom of the net. His bulk makes it sway like a gale-force hurricane. I’m seasick by the time I’m halfway down the opposite side.

August is also climbing again, with a heel-shaped mark in the middle of his forehead and a poisonous expression on his face. He’s only just reaching the top as I drop down from the net and start running.

I jog down a mile of winding trail before encountering the next obstacle.

I pound after Nix, using her as my pace setter, not really trying to pass her. From our previous run, I’ve got a pretty good idea of our relative speeds. If she’s going as hard as she can and I match her, I’ll be close to my redline.

The next challenge is a rig with twelve hanging rings set just far enough apart that you can brachiate from one to the next like a tree-dwelling monkey.

It’s fairly straightforward. Nix and I cross over without too much trouble, me catching each ring directly after she releases it.

When we drop down on the other side, Nix pants at me, “Who builds all this?”

“The grounds crew,” I say. “There’s fifty of them, and they’re mostly here for school security. But they do other shit too—tend the greenhouses and the gardens and all that.”

“Do they ever have to secure anybody?” she asks, jogging off down the path again, following the red markers hung from the trees.

“Yeah,” I say. “Miles Griffin—that’s Leo’s cousin—he got in pretty deep shit the year before last. They hauled him up to the Prison Tower for a week. And Ozzy Duncan . . .” I break off, not really wanting to relive that particular event. “He got in a lot of trouble, too. The Rule of Recompense is a real thing.”

Nix has slowed slightly, listening to me as we run. She frowns.

“Miles Griffin . . .” she says. “I know that name . . .”

I want to swallow my own tongue.

I hadn’t realized that Nix would have heard about the deal Miles cut with her father, handing over his drug pipeline to Dieter Prince and Alvaro Romero in exchange for breaking Zoe’s betrothal to Rocco Prince.

And Nix definitely doesn’t know I was there that night. Miles and I stole the Chancellor’s private speedboat, one of the only ways off this island. We snuck over to Dubrovnik in the dead of night, so Miles could meet with Dieter, Alvaro, and Moroz in person and work his persuasive magic to force them to take the deal.

I warned Miles not to include the Malina. I tried to tell him that Marko Moroz is not a partner you want to have.

But Miles was desperate. He was willing to risk anything to free Zoe from her loathsome engagement to Rocco. So he cut the Malina in on the deal—using their American dollars to launder the bitcoin from the online drug deals.

Little did he know, that’s not Marko’s money.

It’s my fucking money.

And I want it back. Along with everything else the Malina stole from us.

I should have known that Marko shares his business with Nix. Or at least, the parts he wants to tell her about.

“Miles is Caleb Griffin’s older brother,” I say, hoping she won’t make the connection.

“Hm,” she says, her brows still knit together.

“Anyway, quit trying to distract me,” I pant, putting on another burst of speed. “I can’t talk and run at the same time.”

I hear footsteps behind us—August Prieto with fire in his lungs and malice in his heart, trying to overtake us.

We’ve almost reached the third obstacle: five pillars, before which stand five spherical stones.

I’ve seen this before. It’s part of a typical strong-man competition, and also some of the Highland Games. I’ve seen it called the Atlas Stones, or the Dinnie Stones in Scotland.

You’re supposed to lift the rocks, one by one, placing them atop the pillars.

Each stone is heavier than the one before.

I can’t help casting a worried glance at Nix—strong as she might be, someone like Tristan will be at an obvious advantage in this part of the competition.

“Go ahead,” I say to Nix, nodding for her to try the lightest stone first, while I start with the second.

Nix braces herself, feet wide apart, so she can muscle up the awkwardly-shaped rock. It’s difficult to gain purchase on the smooth sphere.

I’m having the same problem with the second stone. I try several angles before bear-hugging the damn thing and lifting it up to the plinth, which is chest height for me and nearly head-height for Nix.

Grunting, Nix manages to lift her stone. It must weigh at least eighty pounds. The others only get heavier.

Once she’s completed the lift, Nix shoves the stone down again so August can take his turn. I do the same with mine, grimacing at how hard it falls to the ground, knowing Nix will have to lift it back up again.

I work my way down the line. Each stone feels twice as heavy as the one before, though I know that’s only my own growing exhaustion. The real difference in weight is probably only twenty to thirty pounds per rock. Still, it adds up quick.

By the time I get to the fifth and heaviest stone, I’m guessing it’s about two hundred pounds. I have no idea how Nix will lift it, and I have the sick sensation that this might be the end of her race.

Tristan Turgenev has finally caught up with us. He seems to view the stones as a pleasant break from all the hateful running. With an expression of relief, he easily heaves up the stones one after another with no break in between.

August looks like he’d like to kill Tristan. He’s still struggling with the fifth stone, having failed to lift it twice. He has to step aside to let Tristan finish.

I go back to the first stone and hoist it up, almost glad I saved the lightest for last.

Task complete, Tristan jogs off.

I should leave too. I linger, wondering if Nix will be able to lift the fifth stone. It took her several tries to get the fourth.

August manages to muscle the last and heaviest stone onto the stand, knocks it off, and sprints after Tristan.

Nix braces herself, breathing heavily, staring at that damned stone like it’s her mortal enemy. She hugs it to her chest, driving her heels into the dirt, the muscles standing out on her quads against the tight legs of her shorts.

I can’t stand and watch. My team is waiting somewhere along this course, hoping to see me in the lead, expecting me to win.

I start running again, praying for Nix’s sake she can do it, even though I’m supposed to be beating her along with everyone else.

The next obstacle is a long crawl under a low-slung net, in which we receive a thick coating of dust and pine needles, and August and I pass Tristan once more.

Then we come to a pool with chain-link stapled over top.

August stares in confusion.

“How the fuck are we supposed to cross that?” he says.

The pool is essentially a shallow wooden coffin, a hundred yards long, filled with water. The only break in the chain-link is at the front of the pool, and then again at the end.

“You’ve got to swim across,” I say.

I’m already dropping through the narrow opening in the chain-link. As far as I can tell, the point of this particular challenge is to battle your claustrophobia. The water is barely deep enough to actually swim. You can come up for air, but just barely—you’ve got to lay on your back, your face pressed against the metal mesh, with barely enough space for your mouth to open without water rushing in.

It doesn’t bother me much—I used to swim in the ocean all summer long when we stayed at our house in Poseidonia. Ares and I even swam through the narrow sea caves on the south end of the island. So I’m able to cross the pool with only two breaks to breathe.

August lingers at the entrance of the pool, a greenish cast falling over his face. He’s obviously dreading dropping in. He only does so when a large group of Juniors swarm along the edge of the course, shouting encouragement.

I climb out of the pool, sopping wet, wishing I’d thought to take off my sneakers before I got in. Now they squish with every step.

I’m smiling a little, thinking that if Nix does manage to lift that fucking rock, she’ll sail through the next obstacle. She could swim the whole thing without taking a breath.

We must be getting close to the end now. Almost the whole course is lined with students who took the shortcut to the end, some walking back along the route to see who’s in the lead. They shout a mix of encouragement and jeers, depending which team they’re rooting for.

I check behind me to see how Tristan and August are faring—I can see them jogging along, both soaking wet. Tristan is plodding with the same steady determination as ever. August is the one who seems to be flagging. He made it through the pool, but at the cost of the last of his willpower. As I guessed, his stamina is shot and he seems to be running slower and slower.

I cross the next obstacle—a tightrope—which I have to repeat twice when I slip off two feet from the end.

Tristan falls on practically his very first step across the slack rope, then tumbles off again on his second attempt.

Seeing this, August picks up speed. He manages to cross first try, and now I’m sprinting again, sensing that we’re nearing the end. August races after me, catching a second wind.

The thickets of spectators are three deep on either side of the course. They’re screaming at me to “RUN! RUN! RUN!”.

Up ahead, I spot two twenty-foot towers erected at the base of a short cliff. At the top of that hill . . . a hundred-yard dash to the finish line.

I race to the wooden tower, August grunting and gasping right behind me.

When we arrive, neither one of us knows what the fuck to do.

The towers are hollow, like we’re supposed to climb up inside to reach the top of the cliff. But the sides are smooth, with nothing to grip. Reaching out with both hands, I can barely touch each wall.

August spreads his legs as wide as he can, almost in the splits. He tries to wedge himself in place so he can shimmy up like it’s a chimney. His legs are so widespread that he can’t scoot his feet without falling.

I hear his curses, echoing in the empty tower.

I’m racking my brains, trying to discover the trick.

I know there’s a way to get up. I just have to be smart enough to think of it.

Nix comes sprinting out of the woods, her elastic split again, her hair bouncing wildly behind her.

She catches sight of August and me, still trapped in the towers, and her face alights with fresh hope. She’s running harder than ever, her gaze darting back and forth between the towers, strategizing before she’s even reached us.

She stops in front of me, breathing hard.

“Back-to-back!” she gasps.

“What do you—”

All at once, I understand.

I turn so I’m facing the side wall, letting Nix slip in behind me. With our backs pressed together, we can wedge our feet against the wall. She pushes against me, and I push against her. In coordination, we begin to climb.

“Left leg. Right leg. Left leg,” Nix grunts, as we inch our way upward, knowing that if either of us slips, we’ll plunge all the way down.

“Ready . . .” I say, when we’re almost at the top.

In sync, we each grab the upper ledge of the tower, our legs dropping away beneath us. We haul ourselves up and over.

As soon as our feet hit the ground, we’re sprinting for the finish line.

It’s between me and her; August and Tristan are far behind us.

Though I can’t spare a second to look at any of the Seniors crowded around us, I can hear them all screaming, “ARES! RUN! FUCKING RUN, YOU’RE ALMOST THERE!”

The finish line is right ahead of us.

Nix and I are sprinting flat out, side by side, running harder than we ever have in our lives.

And I’m trying to beat her, really trying.

Until I edge just the tiniest bit ahead.

I’m taller. My legs are longer. I know in that split-second that if I truly run as hard as I can, I’m going to win.

Nix is trying so fucking hard. She’s racing against three boys, all bigger than her. Somehow she lifted that stone overhead when it weighed more than she does. She figured out how to get us up that tower. She wants this so badly—to prove herself to every kid at this school who hates her on sight. She wants to be their champion.

I don’t need it. She does.

All it takes is one slow step—a slackening of pace that no one could notice.

Nix pulls ahead. She whips across the finish line, inches in front of me, immediately enveloped by the screaming, cheering Freshmen.

I let Leo pound me on the back in a congratulations I don’t entirely deserve.

“Well fucking done!” he hollers, thrilled that we’ll be moving on to the second round.

Anna, Chay, Dean, Cat, and Hedeon all swarm around me, along with the rest of the Seniors. The mild disappointment at the second-place finish is flushed away in the amusement that August is still trapped at the bottom of his tower, furiously listening to the celebration on the top of the cliff while he waits for Tristan to complete the tightrope.

We all crowd the edge of the cliff, looking down at him. He stares back up at us, sweating and snarling.

Tristan jogs up the path to the tower.

Through gritted teeth, August says, “Come on, go back-to-back with me so we can climb up.”

“No,” Tristan says, shaking his head.

“What do you mean no?” August shrieks.

“No,” Tristan says calmly. “You’re faster than me. When we get to the top, you’ll sprint past me and win.”

August can’t argue that point.

“Well, you have to anyway!” he sputters. “That’s the only way up!”

“The only way for you, maybe,” Tristan says.

Crossing to the opposite tower, Tristan lays down on his stomach, his arms and legs outstretched like Superman. With his superior height, he can just wedge himself in place and begin inching his way upward, belly down.

The mixture of laughter and howls is deafening as half the students cheer Tristan onward, the rest in near-hysterics at the sight of August trapped on the ground.

Like the fabled tortoise, the slow and steady Tristan makes his way inexorably upward. He hauls himself over the ledge, then lightly jogs across the finish line.

“There,” he says to Kade, wiping the back of his arm across his sweating brow. “We didn’t lose at least.”

Kade is laughing so hard that tears run down his cheeks. “I can’t believe you left him down there,” he howls.

“That’s what he gets for making me run so fast,” Tristan says, his face still pink and sweating.

“You weren’t fast,” Kade says, holding his sides.

“Fast for me,” Tristan grumbles.

Tristan’s little sister Lucy and his cousin Rene come running up to congratulate him. They’re both Freshmen, and they seem in awe of Nix, who pulled off a stunning first-round victory against the far more experienced champions of the opposing teams.

“You even beat him,” Lucy whispers to Nix, looking at me like I’m an ogre in a fairytale.

“I can hear you,” I tell her.

Lucy blushes almost as pink as Tristan.

“I didn’t think you were gonna come back from those stones,” I tell Nix.

She shakes her head, surprised at herself.

“It took me six tries,” she admits. “I almost gave up.”

“Why didn’t you?” I ask her.

“Because,” she says as if it’s obvious. “I never give up.”

“Right,” I say. “I should have known.”

And I really should have.

My whole life I’ve been intimately acquainted with that kind of woman: my mother is exactly the same.

Several professors have joined the crowd of spectating students. While Professor Howell has jurisdiction over the Quartum Bellum, the other teachers enjoy watching the challenges, especially the strangest and most interesting ones.

I see the Chancellor congratulating Sabrina Gallo on a rare Freshman win.

The Chancellor has come to the Quartum Bellum before—usually only when it takes place right outside the school grounds, where he has appropriately luxurious seating available to him. I’ve never seen him walk as far as the river bottoms.

He’s standing close to Sabrina Gallo, his black, heavy-browed eyes roaming over her face. The deep, craggy lines on his face are arranged in an uneasy mixture of curiosity and something else . . . something very like hunger.

Sabrina doesn’t seem discomfited. She speaks to the Chancellor with the same careless, confident air she applies to everyone, young and old, weak and powerful.

I’m the one with the anxious impulse to drag Sabrina away from him.

Nix follows my gaze, watching the Chancellor’s avid conversation with the much younger girl.

“He’s taken a liking to Sabrina, hasn’t he?” she says quietly. “I thought so on the first day of school, when he let us off so easy.”

I force myself to look away, saying, “He’s not always a despot. I’ve seen him be nice to students before.”

“What kind of students, I wonder?” Nix says, her red-gold eyebrows drawn together in a line.

“Come on,” I say, trying to distract her. “Everybody’s going to want to throw you a party.”

* * *