“I’m not going anywhere—” But even as the words left my mouth, I felt the mist constrict around me like iron manacles, knew staying upon failure wouldn’t be an option. The mist—or Le Cœur, or the waters, or the magic itself—wouldn’t allow it. Only when I muttered a terse agreement did the manacles dissipate. I still felt their presence, however, hovering over my skin. Their warning.

“Drink of the waters,” Constantin repeated, near immaterial now, “and spill their truth.” Only his eyes remained. When they found Coco, they softened, and a tendril of fog reached out to caress her face. “Good luck.”

He left us standing alone in the moonlight, staring down at our chalices.

The Waters’ Truth

Reid

I still remembered the exact moment I received my Balisarda. After each tournament, a banquet was held to honor the champions, to welcome them into the ranks of brotherhood. Few attended outside of the Chasseurs and Church, and the celebrations never lasted long—a quick address, a quicker meal. No toasts. No music. No revelry. A modest affair. The next morning, however, the real exhibition would begin. The entire kingdom would come to Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine to watch the induction ceremony. Aristocrats and paupers alike would dress in their finest. Initiates would line the aisle. At the altar, the Archbishop would stand with the inductees’ Balisardas. They would adorn the communion table, polished and resplendent in their velvet boxes.

I’d been the only inductee at my ceremony. Mine had been the only Balisarda.

Jean Luc had stood at the end of the aisle, hands clasped behind his back. His face tight. His body rigid. Célie had sat in the third row with her parents and sister. She’d tried to catch my eye as I’d marched down the aisle, but I hadn’t been able to look at her. I hadn’t been able to look at anything but my Balisarda. It’d called to me as a siren’s song, the sapphire glittering in the filtered sunlight.

I’d repeated my vows by rote. Shoulders straight and proud. After, the Archbishop had broken tradition to embrace me, but his public display hadn’t embarrassed me. I’d been pleased with it. Pleased with myself. So, so pleased. And why not? I’d trained religiously for years—I’d bled and sweat and sacrificed—all for this moment.

When I’d reached out to finally accept my Balisarda, however, I’d hesitated. Just for a second.

Part of me had known, even then, this sword—this life—would bring pain. Part of me had known I would suffer.

I’d chosen it anyway.

Just as I chose it now.