Occasionally, she reaches for me or takes a swing at my face. When she sees me flinch, her face lights up. My fear has given her a target, and suddenly I know that if she had a pistol or a rifle with her, this would all be over. A violent parry sends us both reeling backward, and Belrosa takes stock of the crowd as if to remind me that she has an army out there.
My mind is too tangled with anger to make any sense of consequences.
I know the Nameless soldiers won’t see any illusion I create, but the crowd is growing restless, and I don’t want them to interfere, so I imagine a wall surrounding us made of solid white stone.
Belrosa’s eyes dart behind me as my fake wall surrounds us. I swing my sword, and she barely has enough time to dodge it.
She grabs for my arm and gets a brief hold over me. A hollow ache of fear makes its way up to my shoulder before I spin out of her reach. She chuckles maniacally as if finally seizing my weakness. She lunges for me again, arm outstretched.
This time, I let her.
Her cold fingers wrap around my wrist. If I can’t do this, then she wins. It’s as if a wall of ice builds between us. Both of us press against it, waiting to see which way it will shatter.
It shatters inward.
Belrosa grips my wrist and crushes it, feeling the bones crack. Angry triumph fills her, and she brings her sword forward through a thick layer of armor and then through my body and blood.
“Your power is mine,” Belrosa shouts. The smooth black ink of the tattoo materializes on her arm. The wall disintegrates, and the crowd gapes in shock and silence. Then she feels the pain of the tattoo—like needles jabbing into her arm. Auras burst like fireworks around her—a concoction of light and fear. She rises to her feet and violently withdraws her blade from the body of the dead queen, the Nameless wretch.
“She thought she could steal our city!” Belrosa shouts to the crowd. “Rest easy under my leadership. Your Nameless queen is dead!” She raises an arm, and a spear of earth rises up from the ground, taking the form of the towers of Seriden’s palace.
“I can make Seriden the conqueror of magic and of all cities,” Belrosa says. “Do you stand with me?”
The crowd stirs but remains silent. There is no rallying cry. She does not see obedience or faith. She sees hatred. Soldiers from the Nameless army emerge from the audience into the edge of the arena, their sleek gray uniforms slowly turning to black.
The Royal Council stands together, their horror transmuting into anger.
The soldiers, one by one, slowly advance. Then the Royal guards.
“What are you doing?” Belrosa demands in disbelief. “You have to follow me! I will lead you in battle like no sovereign has done for Seriden in two hundred years!”
“How could you!” the redheaded girl screams from where Esther lies dead. Her young face is etched with fury. “You killed them!” With angry tears on her face and Esther’s blood on her hands, she races forward. The loyal lieutenant joins her.
Then, the crowd.
Fear fills Belrosa’s veins—a deep and abiding pain as she realizes they’ve turned on her. The city she has done everything to protect is after her blood.
“No!” Belrosa shouts as they advance.
The crowd closes in.
“You don’t understand!” Belrosa says. “I’m protecting you! I’m protecting you!”
But she knows in her heart that they don’t believe her, that they’re coming to tear her limb from limb. The city she killed to protect is killing her. Her own screams echo in her ears as the first hand seizes her from behind.
Everything shatters inward.
I blink, letting go of Belrosa’s wrist. We’re still standing in the center of the arena. Belrosa thought she overpowered me—she thought she killed me—but instead I went inside her mind and walked her through her greatest fear. And, like turning a key, I’ve locked the door on my way out.
General Belrosa falls to the ground at my feet, staring blankly at the sky. She’s trapped inside her own mind, reliving her worst fear over and over again: gaining power over the city and being rejected and betrayed by those most loyal to her.
The crowd is still firmly rooted outside the arena. Glenquartz and Hat still hover at Esther’s side. The Royal Council still perches in their gilded viewing box.
The world is silent around me, and I crouch down to place my hand on Belrosa’s forehead, feeling the icy chill of her constant fear.
My whole body is filled with energy, and I feel like I could take on a hundred duelers.
I search the crowd, and as I watch, five, then ten, then twenty Nameless push to the front. I tense. Belrosa’s fail-safe: her Nameless army.
No one moves. I hardly breathe.
“I accept you,” I say to them tentatively. “No matter what you’ve done or been made to do. No matter what life you’ve lived or the person you’ve become to survive. If you want a life here in Seriden, one not wrapped up in an obligation of fighting and serving someone else, you can stay here. You can stay.”
Most of them don’t react. But in a few of them I sense a glimmer of hope. Their hope is like spirals of light inside a dense fog; it’s like sparks against my skin, electric. It rises and rises, like a fire climbing higher.
Marcher steps forward. For the first time, I see him as he really is. He’s wearing all black, comfortable and strong.
He joins me in the arena as the crowd watches my every movement.
“Whatever you’re doing with Belrosa,” I say, “it’s over now. They can all stay. You can stay, even.” My throat runs dry, but I hold my stance. If I can’t mean it for him, how can I mean it for everyone else?
“Little Coin,” he says. “Matching every challenge. Defeating every challenger. How like you. I did well raising you, I think.”
I grind my teeth, trying very hard to remain cordial. But it’s been forever since I punched him in the face, and it seems like he’s due for another. I remind myself of the army behind him, of the city watching us.
Marcher leans in, and I grip the hilt of my sword. “You’re right,” Marcher says. “Belrosa is gone. But her plans were never my plans. And I’ve promised them more than that.” He pats my shoulder twice and disappears into the crowd.
The gray soldiers turn and follow him. But there are a couple—a few, even—who stay behind. They’re wavering in their certainty, but they’re clinging to hope. I feel alive with it. Pride builds in my chest.
“Coin!” Hat shouts from far behind me, and my pride crumbles in an instant.