Paragon

by Rowan Rook

  Shakaya hurried up the stairs, and sure enough, a couple of new doors lined a hallway. The first room was silent, but the sound of light, booted footsteps came from inside the second. She knew that rythm. It had to be her.

  It was locked. She jammed the tip of her dagger between the door and the frame, pushing against it, then raised her own booted foot and kicked. The door burst open with a snap. "Rickard!"

  Rickard barely turned to look at her, her pointed face framed by the long white hair cascading down her shoulders. Bags, books and files covered the bed and clothes hung from chairs, all sorted neatly in preparation for packing and departure. An ornate, red-and-black cloak lay across the dining table, freshly ironed. She smiled. "Oh, you did come. I have to say, it took longer than I expected for you to pay me a visit. I even had your favorite tea prepared and waiting last night." She curled a strand of hair around one finger. "Still, you could have simply knocked, dear."

  All it took was one look at her—one look at that slick, painted smirk—and the venom brewing in the soldier's gut erupted, tearing through the pit of her stomach and tainting her blood. Liar. That fucking liar.

  Shakaya roared with rage. She charged, hands curled into fists. She didn't care about bullets or blades. She wanted the satisfying snap of skin on skin. She wanted to feel the heat of blood on her knuckles when she ripped that smile right off its face.

  Rickard reacted quickly, dropping to the floor as suddenly as if her legs had given away. It was clumsy, but it worked. Shakaya fell victim to her own momentum and tripped over Rickard's outstretched shape. She threw out her hands, ready to catch and launch herself off the opposite wall, but Rickard reached up from below her. Rickard's bony fingers barely brushed against hers.

  Shakaya screamed. Electricity ravaged her limbs and throbbed in her head. She lost control of her senses, her pulse pounding until her heart threatened to break through her ribs and her vision threatened to go dark. She collapsed like a doll.

  Rickard managed a chuckle and hauled herself up. "Goodness, I had hoped we could talk this thing through like adults, but it seems you're still a child. I thought I raised you better than that."

  Shakaya rose to her knees with a gasp, sparks flickering across her skin and armor. She waited for the pain to pass from her face before she looked up at Rickard. "It seems you've become comfortable with Translation, too. I was wrong to think of you as Human."

  Indeed, Rickard wasn't Human. At least, not entirely. She was an Other. Shakaya's nose wrinkled with disgust. A mockery of Humanity.

  Rickard's face reflected her distaste. "Translation is a sick thing—its chaos and unpredictability an inherent violation of order—but you've given me no choice but to use it."

  "You made your choice. You lied to me," Shakaya's voice hissed with an anger more black than red. "You placed a Lyrum—an Anwell—by my side. What else have you lied about? What other games have you played with me? You're no different than a Lyrum, after all!"

  Rickard sighed, painting her face with hurt. "Dear, I know you're upset. I understand why. It was simply something that had to be done, because we needed you, and I knew you wouldn't cooperate if I told you who and what the Editor was. But we're close now. Close to our goal. Your revenge will come to pass. I wouldn't lie to you about that. It would have been—it will be—worth it."

  Shakaya looked at her, at the woman who considered herself her mother. She hated her; there was no other emotion left. Rickard had also lied when she said she had a Human heart. She was just as much a monster as the rest of them.

  "I'm done, Rickard." Shakaya pushed herself to her feet. A strange smile played with her lips. "Why don't you kill yourself before I do it for you?"

  She didn't care about any alliances anymore. Not with Rickard, not with the Butterfly's Lyrum, not with anyone. She didn't care about any lofty promises of perfect revenge. It was all lies. All of it. And she was done believing a word this Otherling said. Her childhood from eight-years-old... The life she'd lived for the last fourteen years... Meaningless. Wasted on the Scarlet Butterfly. She wasn't about to walk away without wreaking havoc on the organization that had played her like a puppet, toyed with her heart, and quite possibly ruined what little she'd ever had left of a life.

  Rickard tilted her head at her. "Can I ask you something? I'm afraid I don't quite understand. If you're betraying your alliance, then you no longer need to honor the Anwells. Why is it me you're seeking out? Why not go after the Editor? If you killed him, everything would fall apart. Destroy him, destroy the Butterfly. I'm replaceable, he's not. If it's revenge you want, you could take it from both the Butterfly and the Anwells with a single, precise stab."

  Shakaya said nothing, unable to find an answer. After all, Rickard was right.

  Rickard ventured a step closer. "I wonder... Were you lying too when you claimed indifference, or are you simply a fool? It's one or the other."

  Her hands moved to the chakram on her belt. "I'll deal with the Editor later," she lied. "Now, I'm here for you."

  Rickard laughed. "You're still weak. That's why this happened to you, you know. I told you to guide and protect the Editor. I never told you to care for it. I never told you that it was Human. That was your assumption. That was your decision." Her green eyes stared straight into Shakaya, at some part of her that she kept hidden. "You were desperate enough to believe that someone might love you. That someone might want your love. That's not my fault."

  Something snapped inside her. Shakaya snarled, throwing the chakram with muscles lit on fire.

  Rickard thrust a knife from her pocket and held it in front of her face. It sparked with blue electricity, and as metal hit metal, the chakram flew across the room with a flash. The toxic blades bit into the wall, out of reach. She smiled with satisfaction. Her fingers tightened around her dagger, flickering blue and white.

  Shakaya didn't need her chakram. She snatched her own knife from her belt and lunged, her muscles rippling with rage.

  Rickard leaped back, but this time, Shakaya was faster. Their daggers clashed.

  Electricity ripped through her. She nearly bit her tongue as she fought for control of her body. She wasn't going down. Not again. She braced herself against the wall until the shock passed, her knuckles white around her knife.

  "You're not doing it right." A strange grin stole Rickard's face. "You can't just touch it like that!"

  The boy named Amaranth slumped against his table after another shock from his assignment. She'd watched him for a while, losing track of how many times he'd tried to touch the thing, always with the same result. He was like a lab rat who never learned. Some scientist, he'd make. Pathetic. Why did the Editor have to be someone like him?

  Resigning herself, she stepped inside to meet the stranger she had no choice but to befriend.

  "You're not doing it right. You can't just touch it like that!"

  Shakaya screamed, launching toward Rickard. This time, she avoided the blade blocking Rickard's face and upper body and dove instead for her legs.

  Rickard reacted too late. The edge of Shakaya's knife sunk into her skin and ripped up her left thigh. Blood splashed Shakaya's face. The blood of the woman who'd saved her life. The blood of the woman who'd given her a home. The blood of the woman who'd called herself her mother. The blood of the woman who'd fed her false promises. The blood of the woman who'd watched her introduce herself to an Anwell. Oh, how she must've laughed.

  Her own eyes lit up with laughter as Rickard howled. Her Otherling body was weak. It didn't take much to break her. She fell back, her bleeding leg giving out. She swung with her blade, its aim unsteady in her shaking hands. Shakaya dodged easily. Her own knife sunk into Rickard's shoulder until it touched bone and sprayed crimson. Rickard shrieked, her body convulsing as if in the grip of her own electricity.

  Shakaya's heart hammered with adrenaline. Rickard would regret ever saving her from that fire. She'd tear Rickard apart until there was no blood left to spill.

  The room
lit up with a flash. It was Shakaya's turn to scream as another shock blazed through her. The world spun. Her insides boiled. She fought for footing, for control, but she hit the floor with a thud, barely managing to hold onto her knife. The skin around her wrists and knuckles burned. How the Hell had...?

  Rickard leaned against the wall for support, dangling her torn leg. Blood dripped from her hair. Electricity crackled across her skin, shimmering like stardust.

  Shakaya pushed herself off the floor with narrowed eyes. Rickard had electrified her own body. The instant she touched her, she'd be shocked. For an Otherling, it would take incredible strength to maintain such intense Translation, and no matter how much the effect was muted, Rickard had to be searing her own insides. Her gritted teeth, her shaking muscles, exposed her pain. She was desperate.

  Rickard clutched her shoulder. "Look, I know you're angry. I'm angry, too. But if you forgive me, then I'll forgive you. Please believe me when I say I had nothing but the best intentions for the both of us. I didn't mean for you to get hurt."

  Fuck that. Fuck her.

  Shakaya grit her teeth and raised her knife.

  Rickard's eyes widened on her pale face. She couldn't run, couldn't dodge. She screamed as the knife bit deeper into her shoulder.

  Shakaya held in her own scream, white hot pain searing her senses. Only one thing mattered: her fingers wrapped around the knife's hilt, holding tight. Just a few...more...seconds...

  The electricity flickered and died. Rickard's legs failed her, dropping her to the floor. Shakaya's knife went with her, embedded in bone. Her own dagger fell from her fingers.

  Shakaya saw the fear in Rickard's eyes when she bent to pick up the fallen knife. Rickard knew, in that moment. Rickard knew that Shakaya could kill her. For perhaps the first time, Rickard was afraid of her. Shakaya smiled, and lunged with Rickard's own dagger.

  Instead of her throat, her skull, her other shoulder, it pierced through the collar of her dress and pinned her to the wall. Shakaya wasn't going to make it quick, not for her. She wanted more fear. She wanted her to beg.

  Rickard gasped with relief, but it didn't last long. She fought against the knife like a wounded animal. Fresh blood spilled from her gashes as she twisted and strained. She wasn't strong enough.

  Shakaya sneered. "It's you who's weak, Otherling." With slow, deliberate steps, she walked over to her chakram and snatched it from the wall with a graceful leap. "Translation means nothing in the face of Human strength."

  Rickard's eyes gaped in her skull when Shakaya aimed the chakram at her neck. She fought for breath, her chest heaving up and down the way every Lyrum's did right before the soldier brought down the blade. Right before she ended their lives. But then, Rickard swallowed. She sucked in air, steadying her voice and her stare. "Go ahead," she said, "kill me, if that's what you want. I don't mind. My division will finish what I started. But I wonder, who will love you, then?" Her eyes searched for Shakaya's. "I do love you. I hope you know that. I love you in a way no one else ever will again. Who could love someone like you, except someone like me?"

  Shakaya shivered, blood dripping from her chin.

  "Certainly not a Lyrum." Rickard smiled sadly. "They can't truly feel anything, after all. He never cared about you. He never could. But I can't help it. You're my daughter. No matter what you do to me, I'll still love you, because I'm as much a fool as you are." Her eyes softened through the pain. "Do you really want to be alone in the world?"

  Shakaya stared back at Rickard, everything in her burning with hatred. And yet... Her fingers paled around the blade. And yet...

  She couldn't do it.

  For years, she'd lived to kill. It was what she was meant for. It was the purest justice. She relished the heat of blood and the cold of death.

  But this time, she couldn't do it. What a wrong, unfamiliar feeling. She hated it. She hated it as much as she hated Rickard. And yet...

  She looked at her. At the agony hidden behind her lying eyes. At the smile still painted on her lying lips. Even now, she was lying. Rickard had never loved her. And yet...

  She couldn't kill her.

  Instead, Shakaya reached into her pocket, and once more, pulled out her Butterfly pin.

  This wasn't what she'd wanted.

  She'd wanted to leave the Butterfly in a mess of chaos, blood, and spite. She'd wanted to do damage they couldn't repair. She'd wanted to make them regret making a plaything of her.

  Instead, she simply tossed away her pin. It rolled like a silver coin before falling flat against the floor. "I'm not wasting another second on you."

  With a final glare, she turned away. She walked slowly at first, refusing to give Rickard the satisfaction of urgency, but when she reached the stairway, her pace quickened. Her swift, heavy footsteps echoed messily, noisily. They surely reached Rickard's ears, but she didn't care anymore.

  She was getting off that damned ship and never looking back.

  Chapter Nineteen: Death

  Rain played in chorus with the creaky, plodding wheels and pattering hooves as the carriage traversed the main road toward Velvire. The Butterflies had rented the vehicle and its driver's services at the port, and it would take them directly to their destination. In just a few short days, they'd face the Monarchy.

  Anson stared through the window, watching the dusky clouds flicker with lightning. Thunder followed about five seconds later. Even when the horizon sat still and dark, he could just make out the white mountains against the evening indigo of the sky. He'd never seen them so close before.

  "It's quite something, isn't it?" Jeriko piped up. "Havventhale is much wilder, much more majestic, than Lusanthine."

  Anson only nodded.

  "It's home to me." A fond smile wrinkled Jeriko's cheeks. "But it's been so long since I was last here."

  Lusanthine was rugged with cliffs and canyons, but it held no true mountains. Its roads and fields were much more open, shaded with browns and grays. Havventhale was a menagerie of green. Trees obscured much of the view through the window, glistening with wet moonlight.

  "I'm glad I got to see it," Anson finally answered.

  "Wait until you set your eyes on Velvire, then." Jeriko grinned, pointing to a place far beyond the glass and near the center of the mountain range. "Its right in the middle of a valley there, and the architecture is beautiful. It was the first major city Humans built after the Inversion. It's breathtaking."

  "Velvire couldn't be more different from Elavadin. I think you'll like it."

  Anson's eyes drifted from the window and toward the carriage floor as he remembered Shakaya's voice, and what had become one of the last happy moments they'd shared. In spite of everything, he'd looked forward to seeing it with her.

  The carriage fell back into silence as it pushed through the night. The rain, the wheels, the hoof beats, the thunder, the breathing. The rhythms kept repeating, harmonizing into what seemed like a sad song. All so different from the Academy's familiar mechanical drone. All as if a veil had been lifted from his senses, simultaneously setting them free and leaving them exposed to the bitter world.

  It was humming that broke Anson's reverie. Jeriko watched the view outside his window with a folkish tune that clashed with the ambience, seemingly oblivious to the rest of them. Anson grimaced in annoyance, but decided against saying anything.

  Jeriko and Tayla, the Lyrum girl, sat across from him. At his side was Aydel. Forcing his gaze off the floor, he studied her quiet figure.

  It was still hard to believe, to truly process, that he was looking at his sister. That he was looking at one of the siblings with whom he'd shared the better part of his childhood and all of his days in Riksharre. At least...it was until he studied her features. She looked so much like him, so much like Lyn. And so much like the Delly who'd once splashed in the lake, stayed up late telling scary stories, and explored the edges of the colony with him. His chest ached with a strained sort of nostalgia.

  She leaned back into her seat wit
h closed eyes, her arms crossed over her stomach. Whether or not she was actually asleep, he couldn't tell, but her breath rose and fell peacefully. Anson found himself smiling, just slightly, before turning instead toward his other new companions. When their gazes met, his quickly shrunk away again.

  Tayla's green eyes glowered at Anson. They didn't bear the feverish hatred he'd seen in Aydel's, but there was definitely bitterness there.

  He'd admittedly never paid much notice to Tayla Wylan before, though he'd met her inside the Hazza mines. She'd healed his wounds then, and she'd apparently cared for his more recent injuries, as well. She was young in comparison to most of the Butterflies, but she was highly skilled with healing Translation. Her reddish brown hair hung in braids and framed a freckled face. She was fourteen...the same age he'd been when he'd entered Elavadin Academy.

  Trying not to meet her gaze, he couldn't help but notice how relaxed the girl always seemed around Jeriko. She sat beside him, leaning gently on his shoulder, as if his simple presence gave her comfort. They were a Lyrum and a Human, and both of them knew that, yet there was no tension between them. He could've easily mistaken them for an older brother and a younger sister, or perhaps even a father and a daughter. It was...strange, and lovely, to see.

  But it was also a bit sad.

  Tayla was still a young adult according to Lyrum standards. Jeriko was thirty-nine, yet he'd outlive her by decades. At best, she would pass when he was forty-nine. No matter what relationship they had, no matter how close they were or would become, it would end abruptly in just ten years time.

  Ten years...

  Ask perhaps any other Lyrum, and they would say that was a long, long time. But to Anson, it seemed little more than a moment.