There is an energy to an embrace. As the matter of one powers up the other, the intensity gives off welding sparks. The first time Mariposa wrapped me in a soft duvet hug at the junkyard, when Ma died, the moment wove our souls in a way that was a forever bond.
Today, it's I who cradles Mar close, like a human shield. It's a different hug, but both the duvets and the human shields have their time.
"Don't call me that. My name ain't Spark. My name's Veda Igglesden." I press her face onto my chest as her sobs intensify in my arms.
"Please..."
"Ain't gonna do it, Mar. Ye are my best friend. I don't wanna take yer life." A decision solidifies in my mind. "I want to offer ye a new one. When this is over... If ye wish, and if I win, ye can come and live in the mansion with Pa and me."
"I... what?" Her tongue darts over her dry lips, her irises flitting every which way. "Do you truly mean it?"
"Aye. Together, like sisters. Wouldn't that be grand?"
"It... It would." Silvery tears slip up from the corner of her eyes.
"You believe I can win, don't you?"
"I do." She nods. "If anyone can do it, it's you, Veda."
"And I'll never let the Puncher take ye after this. He'll never hit ye again, or call ye common doxy or other ugly names."
"P-promise?" Mar stammers.
"Cross me heart and hope to die."
"But... But what about all these people?"
"Who cares? They wanted a show, we gave 'em a show. Screw em. Who are they to us? No one. And who are we to them? Expendable cannon fodder. We ain't Flutter and Spark. We are Mariposa and Veda. Best friends."
"And best friends stick together." She squeezes my hand.
"Aye. Best friends stick together." I stand up.
Mariposa follows suit, clutching the broken instrument.
"Why should we do what the crowd wants? We should do what we want."
"Our lives are not theirs," she whispers. "They're ours. I YIELD!"
The wounded wooden violin hits the ground and joins the swarm of unmoving butterflies.
The spectators let out a collective ill-tempered "oohs" and dissatisfied "boos." At first, the crowd's furious, incomprehensible mutters pitter-patter on my ears like the drizzle drumming on the roof of my old hut. Then, they die down and I see people turning their heads towards the pit number one, their hands clasping their mouths.
Langdon.
I don't even wait for the Grand Duke to proclaim the first semifinal battle finished. I slalom around a bunch of newspersons who barge in our pit, curious, hoisting their cameras in the air, pro'ly to snap a photograph for the Wilhelmina Gazette.
"Veda? What's wrong? Hold up!" Mar runs after me.
I wave away the solemn looking apothecaries in gray robes, carrying dem medical bags cuz we ain't hurt, jus' a lil' dizzy.
Mar and I burst through the massive, makeshift steel door connecting both combat arenas, and step inside the fighting space.
The Duke's son stands proud at the far end of the pit number one, wearing a powered brass exoskeleton with armored plating. Summer-cloud white wings, nearly as tall as his body, arc off his back like a concave reflection. Each long, narrow metallic feather tenses and shakes in his heaving fury. They slam upward. When they come down in a flash of silver, Angel is off and away.
I haven't taken a gander at his invention before, and we ain't never talked about it, but holy fuck, 'tis absolutely majestic.
There are jets situated in the boots and the phlogiston-powered repulsions situated in dem gauntlets. I can bet me remaining incisor they fire plasma bolts.
Stupid Puncher is fully encased in his battle armor. The despicable metallic orange blob leers at Langdon Septimus from the ground.
Angel flutters every which way around the Demolisher and 'tis smart: he shoots a volley of rockets, avoiding close range combat. Flurry of blows hits the hulk of a man square in the chest.
The barrage does nothing to slow him down, and does no harm to his upper body. A flail shoots out of his brass sleeve and he swings it at the Duke's son. It wraps around Langdon's neck.
I gasp, clasping Mariposa's hand. She squeezes my fingers back, wincing in discomfort 'erself, when a scream resounds the hallway behind us.
The sound is primal. It has a raw intensity to it that tells of urgency, of desperate fear. We spin and I recognize the raven-haired lass in a dark combat suit.
Her features are striking – almond shaped eyes that hold a glimmer of wisdom, and high cheekbones. Her long, lustrous dark hair cascades down her back, reflecting the subtle hues of the arena lights like obsidian silk.
Her practical dark gray garb enables to blend with the shadows. The attire is adorned with intricate clockwork patterns.
In each hand, she wields shurikens with precision and skill. The metallic glint of the weapons adds to her aura of mystery and strength. With every move she makes towards us, the girl seems to float gracefully in the air, as if she and her deadly stars are in perfect harmony.
Stella, the Gray Champion.
To my surprise, Mariposa runs into her arms and they share a hug stronger than anything I've ever seen, pressing into each other like their life depended on it.
"You're alive," Stella says. The way she caresses the mechanical wing of one of Mariposa's clockwork butterflies, it is clear that Mariposa is important to her. Her eyes soften as she looks at my best friend, and a tender smile graces her lips, relaxing her features and revealing a side of her that is caring and compassionate.
Even if her presence commands respect, there is an aura of warmth and protection that surrounds her.
Mar smiles, as tears of relief stream down their faces.
"Come." Mar pulls her towards me. "Veda, this is Stella Takeuchi, the..."
"The Gray Champion." I nod at her. And Sophie's daughter.
"Madame Igglesden." Stella goes to bow.
I halt her intention. "We're all equal here."
"Stella and I met in the infirmary wing after our quarterfinal battles. She volunteered as an apothecary and patched me up real good post-Steelfist fight."
"I came to see Langdon battle the Demolisher and... I do fear I might be needed in the same venue of service." Stella clenches her fists. Her gaze is pinned on her childhood friend, who is still struggling to disentangle the flail chain from his neck. "Did you win, Mar?"
Mar shakes her head no.
"I fought Veda the hardest I could. She needed to lose before she met the Demolisher in the finals." She turns to me. "He will kill you, Veda, and now I feel guilty about letting it happen."
"Well we'll just have to see, won't we?" I growl. "No quarter!"
"I did all I could to stop you from winning," Mar says longingly.
"I know."
We turn to watch the match.
The Demolisher's power is uncanny, almost suspiciously so: I wonder if he has inhaled his Red Cap drug to enhance his strength and stamina.
The three of us turn to watch the ugly brute pulling Langdon Septimus closer and closer to the ground.
The Duke's son flaps his metallic wings as fast as he can but his efforts are futile. Soon he is within reach distance, and the pumpkin head squeezes his right hand around the boy's neck with a triumphant roar:
"I got you now, you louse!"
The left hand first closes around the left Angel wing, and then around the right one. He plucks them from Langdon's back with ease.
The crowd goes wild.
"What say you now? Langdon Septimus, son and the first Heir of the Grand Duke of Lighthaven? Have I addressed you properly and accordingly?"
The lad gurgles something unintelligible, his neck turnin blue. When the words come out again, a distinctive "I yield," is heard, but the eejit of a Demolisher is not stoppin'.
Is he gonna kill the lad, even if he yielded? Like he did with the Chevalier?
I wanna show the Puncher what's what so badly, but Stella and Mar restrain me from behind.
"Veda, don't," Mar pleads with me. "Don't go in there. You could get hurt. This is not your fight. You don't have to do this."
Langdon Septimus didn't have to leave me the alchemy healin potion on the sink that day, but he did.
"A paragon of excellence," the Demolisher continues in a mocking voice, loud enough for everyone to hear. "And yet here you are." He emphasizes every word. "Seconds away from your precious life being snuffed out."
I glance up at the luxury suite and see lady Cornelia Tertius abandon her seat.
Isn't the Grand Duke gonna do anything?
The man's face looks as if someone's placed sour vinegar under his nose. The leader of the city of Lighthaven narrows his eyes and shakes his head in disappointment, but he eventually approaches the speaking tube.
"Ahem," Lucius Sextus tightens his vermilion cravat as his words resound through the entire pit number one. "Thus concludes the semifinal battle between the White Champion and the Orange Champion."
"Does it? I don't think so," says the stupid Puncher. He slams the lad's body onto the ground, stepping on his back with his armored foot.
The Duke signals a dozen stationed constables with a sharp turn of his head.
They march into the pit, their cobalt blue embroidered uniforms gleaming in the moonlight. The men armed with arquebuses fire at the Puncher at the same time. I can't help but feel pretty pleased when the fusillade of shots with neural disruptor beams soon has him on his knees, booming in displeasure.
Two mousy-looking apothecaries standing at the ready make use of the perfect moment. At Duke's command, the healers run into the ample combat space. They take the poor boy away on the improvised stretcher, as the Demolisher struggles to get up. Once Langdon is out of sight, the constables retreat.
I let out the long breath I didn't even know I was holding. He's fine. The lad is safe.
The Puncher stands tall in the middle of pit number one, both of his arms raised in a victorious triumph. "Your little lordling is lucky his Daddy saved him," he addresses the Duke of the Lighthaven. "But now I am ready to destroy whoever will face me in the finals. A brand new era is about to dawn in the Lighthaven." The bumpkin spits inna dirt.
As the river of attendants trickles out from the pits, no one notices me swoop in, salvage the white brass wings, and dart away.
⚙️🕰🗝️🎩⚙
The door to the castle apothecary wing is ajar, and when I peek through it, my mouth hangs open.
The Duke son's private hospital room is more like a garden. The roof is clear, giving an impression of being outside, and once in a while a butterfly will alight on a nearby leaf. Beds are still metal underneath, but technology has come so far.
I take a deep breath before steeling meself to enter when an echo of approaching stiletto heels has me duck behind the nearest pillar.
Lady Cornelia Tertius exits the room and hurries past me, clad inna gorgeous gown with pale green flowers woven into the bodice. The plume in her mint-colored hat bobs angrily, and she turns left at the end of the corridor, muttering some very unladylike swearwords.
Perfect, stupid Langdon's fiancé, with her perfect straight red hair, perfect white teeth and perfect annoying smile. If she saw me hiding in here, she'd probably wrinkle 'er nose and say "Ah, the Fumedge girl," or somethin' along dem lines.
I snicker at the imperfect vocabulary of her perfect being, and slip inside the Duke son's temporary bedchamber.
The lad sits onna iuge double bed, rocking back and forth, his fingers grasping the clean, stiff cotton sheets. His bandaged scruffy chest rises and falls, and the soft muscles of his arms tell a story of a quiet determination.
"Quite the accommodation you have here, Milord," I say, and Langdon Septimus snaps his head in my direction.
"Ow," he complains, rubbing his right shoulder. "Milady Igglesden, I..." His cheeks go rosy pink, and he gropes the bedside table for his shirt.
Donning the thing makes him more comfortable in my presence, but I secretly think I wouldn't complain in either case.
"Ahem. As to the accommodation you have mentioned. I suppose one may say I was born this way."
"With a silver spoon in your mouth, you mean?" I snicker.
"Material things are overrated. What you want to have around you are — people. People you can trust." Langdon Septimus runs his fingers through his hair and smiles. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
"Material things are overrated when you have them. I snuck in here to tell ye that the debt is paid."
"Debt?" He raises his right eyebrow.
"Dem wings the Demolisher plucked out of yer exoskeleton? I welded them back on just now. As a thank you for the healing elixir you gave me before the quarterfinal battle."
"I... I am very grateful." The boy coughs and massages his throat, spotted with ugly purple bruises. "And I have to admit, thankful to see you alive. Your friend..."
"Mar? She's fine. She yielded."
"Good. I am glad. I was ill-at-ease about a different outcome. The one where you or your childhood companion are harmed. So within the three days you... You are to face the Demolisher in the finals?" His worried gaze scrutinizes me.
"And I bloody can't wait, too. He gonna pay for everything he ever did to me and to Mar."
"I truly hope you can make him pay, as you say. You saw that I... I did what I could and... It wasn't enough." He chokes on his words.
"Ye think I don't stand a chance, do ya?" I place my hands on my hips. "That poor little lass from the slums gonna have her ass handed to her?"
"No, I assure you, absolutely not. On the contrary, Ved... Milady. I look up to you. I admire you. Your wit, your charm, your brashness. Your freedom to... be yourself."
"Be myself?" I don't know what he's talking about. The Duke's son must have hit his head hard when the Puncher slammed him onto the ground. Jus' about anyone is themselves, aren't they?
"You make your own decisions. You are like a wild river that meanders every which way, carving her destiny. Not caring for the terrain that stands in her path."
"You could do it, too." I spit on the pale ceramic tiles, trying to ignore the warmth that forms around my heart at those words.
"My life is not my own. My decisions are entirely my father's. He forced me into an engagement with Baron Secundus' daughter. And then he encouraged me to enter the Trials with my invention because... He hoped that I would win, you see."
That's why dem Trials weren't a combat to death and had a yield option. The Grand Duke needed it in case his son lost! That whip-smart son of a gun.
"Hoping, no, my father wanted me to win. He wanted our money to remain in the Sextus household. Without him having to give the keys to the mansion in Lighthaven and to the aero ship to anyone else. I must be such a disappointment in his eyes for not having achieved it."
"Bollocks. Ye're a mighty fine inventor. Win or lose, that exoskeleton ye made is bloody awesome."
"I... Thank you for your compliment. I cannot take all the credit, however. As you so aptly noted, I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. It goes to show just what technological marvels one can craft... When they have too much time and too much money on their hands."
Baron Secundus' raspy voice with a deep timbre resounds from the hallway, as heavy footsteps halt before the hospital bedchamber door. "The final battle must proceed without problems," he says.
"And so it shall. Without any problem whatsoever. Would my Lord care for another glass of Porto? Let me check up on my son, and then we may take this conversation to my Sanctum?"
That second voice! It's Langdon's father talkin'.
"Do not distract me from the matter at hand. She's trouble."
"She's young."
"Kid you not. She is twice the person you were at half her age."
"Otto's protégé is entirely my problem. I shall make sure she doesn't triumph. The Puncher can be easily bought after he wins."
The door creaks and I dive under Langdon's bed.
"Milady, what..." The Duke's son is astonished by my actions.
"Shh! Jus pretend ye're asleep!" I whisper-shout at him, hoping the eejit will at least have enough sense to close his eyes.
A pair of polished black boots comes into my view as it stops mid-room. All I can hear is Langdon's even breathing, and moments later, the boots turn around and march outside of the bedchamber.
"Shall we?" The Duke's voice sounds from further away, and I crawl out from under the bed.
"Milady, they..." Langdon Septimus stares at me with his mouth open.
"They were talkin' about me, I know." My hand is already at the door handle.
"Where on earth are you headed?" He sits up in his bed with a groan.
"Where do ya think? I wanna find out what they sayin!" That comes out rougher than I meant it to, but the lad's skull is sometimes real thick.
"Ved... Milady. Let me accompany you to my father's Sanctum. I happen to be familiar with the fastest way to get there." Langdon Septimus buttons his pale blue shirt and dons his boots.
"Fine. I admit ye might be of some use in this feckin' labyrinth of a castle. You can tag along. But don't you slow me down, boy, didyahearme?" I huff.
"I would not dare." He chuckles.
When we are out of Langdon Septimus bedchamber, walking side by side, it's not easy to find a conversation topic. Talking of home is painful. Talking of the present unbearable. So we just plow on to the Grand Duke's Sanctum, resorting to safe, comfortable silence.
When we arrive at the massive brass door, a gigantic symbol of the sun surrounded with eight light beams stands before us as a weathered shield, ever-protecting the Grand Duke's retreat.
Two constables are stationed at the entryway, but they simply salute the lad in a respectful fashion, and abandon their posts at his signal.
Langdon operates the doorknob mechanism with a finger on his lips until the entrance is ajar, but doesn't dare to press it further.
The room is poorly lit, but the opening is enough, cuz we can hear everything they're saying even if we don't see 'em proper.
"The House of Secundus is overjoyed at the prospect of the union." Baron lets out a small cough.
"The steam machine business is steady as well. When Langdon and Cornelia are married, nothing will stop our dominion," says the Grand Duke.
The lad hangs his head, his lips a thin line.
I put my finger into my mouth and pretend-gag—that makes him gift me a feeble smile.
"The blueprints for the inventions from the contestants? Do we have them?"
"They are here, Alexander, not to worry. Soon, we shall produce them en-mass, equipping our armies before the march on the Imperial City."
Langdon Septimus lets out an inhuman gurgle.
I quickly cover his mouth. Fer crying out loud? The Baron and the Grand Duke organized dem Trials to get the invention blueprints? They are planning to attack the Emperor himself with our weapons?
The boy next to me is white as a sheet, leaning against the doorframe.
The Baron speaks on.
"Now, what is all this nonsense about electricity at the Trials, Lucius? That little display of hers? Everyone saw the Yellow Champion use it against the Blue Champion. People will be talking."
Ele-ctricity? But I didn't. I don't even know what that is. I only used my sparks.
"There are no reasons for concern whatsoever, Alexander. The ignorant crowd, preoccupied with fine wear and fine food, does not know what it witnessed."
"They better not. I wish to remind you it's thanks to my efforts and my efforts alone that you are the richest person in Lighthaven."
"There is no need."
"Now, you said that the girl is Otto's protégé?"
It's my turn to clutch the doorframe, listenin' more intently than ever.
"How is the senile old fool these days?" Baron Secundus speaks on, giving a little half-suppressed laugh. "Since you pardoned his life in exchange for his silence, I hear he likes to pretend he's a mere toy maker."
"It would be unwise to underestimate him," says the Grand Duke.
How the hell do Baron and the Duke know my Pa?
"But do you think he has somehow stumbled upon those electricity schematics the five of us were working on two decades ago? How could he have? They were destroyed when we had the Voltas and their newborn child disposed of in that aero ship accident."
"Well, about that," Lucius stutters.
My heart thunders.
I peek and I can see the Grand Duke's discomfort in the paltry light of the candles.
"Ah. Therein lies the core of the issue. Yet perhaps everything can still be amended. After all... How many problems can one girl cause?" Baron Alexander Secundus brings a glass of wine to his lips and sips the liquid with a pensive expression on his face.
There is a pause, and then a whisper in the dark.
"One ordinary Fumedge girl — none. The daughter of Albert and Mileva Volta—quite a few, indeed."
The daughter of the...
A tiny moan by my side makes me realize I must have completely stopped the circulation in the lad's hand. That's how tight I've been clutching it.
I look down at our linked fingers, feelin' faint, and the boy loosens his grasp, but I regain my grip on him.
"Don't let go of me, Langdon," I whisper, shaking against the wall, my knees refusing to obey. "Please."
The moonlight flickers off his chestnut-brown eyes.
"I won't, Mil... Veda."