Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If Gideon hadn’t ditched her shift on watch she could have been the first to read the letter and taken an appropriate preventative action, such as: 

1. using a titty mag to bribe Ortus into volunteering, 
2. hiding herself in one of Drearburh’s giant barrels of grain, or 
3. hurling her sword down the nearest well. 

Ok, probably not that last one. 

She stroked the scabbard laying across her lap, leaning down and cooing to it “Don’t worry, daddy would never throw you down a well.”

Without looking up, she could feel Harrow’s glare fall on her like a physical thing. Drops of acid maybe, or rotten tomatoes, or, ooh, a very appropriate wet blanket metaphor.

The carriage rattled its way along the pitted road, sunshine beating down and turning the tiny, cramped, and, above all else, completely black compartment into a toasty little oven.

God, Gideon hated the Ninth House.

The Black Castle of Drearburh, situated as inconveniently as possible in the tallest, coldest, darkest mountains in the kingdom, carved into the rock with no windows and too few fireplaces, was the seat of the Ninth noble House of the Undying Empire. 

It was home to a death cult, home to the holy tomb of His Majesty’s enemies, home, unfortunately, to Gideon, and home to a lot of people that despised Gideon which was fine really, since Gideon despised them right back.

The rock was black and their clothes were black and their Lady’s hair and eyes and heart were black, and normally it all served to help contain what little heat they were able to generate but right now in this tiny carriage on the road to Canaan House, it was roasting them alive. 

Even Harrow’s normally impeccable face paint was starting to run with sweat, not that she had made a single concession to it otherwise. Her many layers of black wool robes were draped just as they had been when they’d left Drearburh’s frigid gates that morning, and her hood was pulled low over her face to keep out the glare. 

Were it not for the sweat Gideon would have taken this as proof that the Reverend Daughter, Heir to the Ninth House, Keeper of the Locked Tomb, and overall Massive Pain in the Ass, was just as frozen on the inside as she had always assumed. 

Harrow put extensive time and effort into maintaining the machines that ran the heat and tended the plants and otherwise kept the Ninth House alive, but didn’t seem to give two fucks for some of the people that made up that house, aka, one Gideon Nav.

So if Gideon had only known that letter was on its way she could have predicted exactly how Harrowhark Nonagesimus, the Ninthest Heir that ever Ninthed, would have reacted: blackmailing Gideon, the best swordfighter of her generation, (Harrow had actually said those words and Gideon was never letting her forget it, nevermind that there were only 3 people left in their generation of the Ninth) into playing at cavalier and coming along to champion her in the tournament.

Gideon had to admit, as she watched the landscape roll by out the window and slowly melted to death in the stifling heat, that the idea of fighting in a tournament was damn exciting, even if the premise was pretty dumb. 

A tournament to decide the next Imperial heir? Bitch, please.

It wasn’t even the heirs that would be fighting, they got to stay all safe and wrapped up in the stands while their cavaliers did the real work of duking it out in the ring. 

How did that make sense? The heir with the best taste in cavaliers gets the throne? Gideon’s not sure how that qualifies someone to rule a kingdom but she’s also not sure what’s actually involved in ruling a kingdom, and anyway it’s not like she’s the one who might end up on the throne, so whatever. 

She gets to hit things with her sword, spend some time outside the oppressive darkness of Drearburh, and maybe possibly impress a Cohort officer enough that they whisk her away to be a hero on the front lines. What more could she ask for. 

“Griddle.” 

Oh, right. She could ask not to be stuck in a rolling crematorium with the princess of darkness. 

“What.” she replied, matching Harrow’s biting tone.

“You’re petting that sword in a manner I can only describe as “extremely sexual,” and I need you to stop it” Harrow hissed at her.

Gideon smirked. It was a well practiced expression. “Jealous, my lady? I thought my” - she quirked her fingers into air quotes -  ““intense, bordering on inappropriate,” relationship with this sword was exactly why you asked me to come with you.” 

Harrow’s glare intensified, reaching a 5.7 on Gideon’s internal scale of ‘How angry have we made Harrow today.’  

“The way you use that sword is literally the only good thing about you, and if I could have frozen you and stuffed you in a box until the second the tournament starts, I would have.”

Gideon opened her mouth to deliver a reply so scathing it would burn all the hair off Harrow’s head, curdle her blood, and make her finally get on her knees and admit Gideon was the superior human, when the carriage lurched to the side with a loud and ominous cracking noise and came to a sudden halt.

Harrow let out a bellow of frustration so loud it impressed Gideon a little, threw open the carriage door and flung herself out, robes flapping behind her like a bat on the hunt.

With the door open there was a light breeze coming inside and Gideon closed her eyes and sunk into the sensation of the cool air hitting her sweaty face.

The effect was only slightly ruined by the shouting from outside. 

“What do you mean we don’t have a spare axle?” 

The voice of the driver, the small mousey man who had delivered the Emperor’s letter then hung around to escort them back to Canaan House, was too soft for Gideon to make out.

Harrow’s was not. 

“What kind of idiot leaves on a long carriage journey without checking the emergency repair kit?”

Another muffled reply from the driver, but Harrow was already stomping back, her dark silhouette suddenly blocking the open door.

“Griddle.”

Gideon’s face scrunched up, eyes still closed. “What.” 

“I need your sword.” Without waiting for acknowledgement Harrow stomped away again, sturdy black boots rustling through the undergrowth on the side of the road.

Gideon stayed stubbornly where she was, eyes tightly shut, trying desperately to focus on the returning breeze. 

“Griddle!” Harrow bellowed again, louder but further away, in the tone of voice Gideon knew meant she would keep yelling until her target complied.

With a groan Gideon hoisted herself up and out of the carriage, propped her two-hander over a shoulder, and followed Harrow into the woods. 

“You know, I’ve read a porno that started just like this,” she threw out as she caught up with Harrow. 

(She hadn’t, but the opportunity was too good to pass up)

Gideon could hear the sound of Harrow’s grinding teeth echo around the forest. 

“I swear to God, Nav, if you can’t keep your perverted thoughts to yourself I will take one of these branches and shove it so far down your throat you will be shitting leaves.”

“Not with those noodley arms you won’t” replied Gideon cheerfully. 

With a sudden turn (overly dramatic, really, she must have practiced in a mirror to get her robes to snap like that) Harrow stopped directly in front of Gideon, causing her to pull up short. 

Harrow’s eyes burned up at her with a solid 8.2 on the glare scale.

“I have been single handedly maintaining Drearburh’s mechanical systems since the age of eight , Nav, I have re-invented the heating systems three times when the fuel sources dried up, and without my agricultural maintenance machines the Ninth House would have run out of food years ago. 

“I do not need muscles to fuck you up, I have levers.

“Now, take that unnecessarily large sword and cut off this branch, as close to the trunk as you can.” 

The mechanical genius of Drearburh pointed at a particularly thick and straight branch on the closest tree, then stomped quickly back along the direction she had come in, denying Gideon any opportunity for a witty retort. 

Rude.

-------------------------------------------------------

When Gideon hauled the branch all the way back to the carriage, Harrow already had her toolkit out and was removing the last shards of axle from the wheelbase. Within an hour she had the branch trimmed, smoothed, cut to size (Gideon did the cutting part, thankyouverymuch) and hooked up between the wheel and carriage body. 

“There,” Harrow said, leaning back on her heels and dusting off her gloves, “that should hold us until we reach Canaan House.” 

Gideon, who had been happily running drills in the shade of the forest this whole time, groaned. “Back in the oven then. How much longer?” 

“6 hours,” replied Harrow grimly.

“Balls,” said Gideon.

-------------------------------------------------------

They came within view of Canaan House just as the sun was going down.

The low rays of light turned the white marble pillars of the island fortress into great pink seashells jutting out of the ocean, the long access bridge a gleaming fish jumping from the waves. The hills on either side of their road were full of vibrant green trees, curving down to frame the sparkling blue water and the sunset-dyed castle. 

Even Gideon, whose aesthetic preferences tended towards the naked and curvy, thought it was beautiful. She didn’t think she’d ever seen that many colors at the same time before.

Graceful spires rose atop 20 differently sized towers, all connected in a lacy maze of skybridges and aqueducts. A massive wall ringed the bottom, ending well below the water line so the castle seemed to rise directly out of the ocean. 

Some wandering pilgrims had told Gideon that the wall went down further than the towers went up, and there were some places where no diver had ever reached the bottom. No one knew if the castle complex also went down that far - legend said there were whole lost cities under there, ruins older than the Empire itself. 

Some versions of the legend added that not everyone from those cities had got out alive before the next one was built.

Canaan House was situated well away from land and the only access was by boat or the long suspension bridge snaking from the shore. The bridge was built out of thousands of cleverly-linked metal plates and the entire thing was strung on pulleys to be sunk at a moment’s notice, dropping an invading force into the water. 

The bridge was currently commanding all of Harrow’s attention. She had her journal on her lap and was hanging out of the carriage window, retreating inside to make another note or sketch, then shoving her top half out again to look around.

Extensive experience as Harrow’s bullied construction worker let Gideon recognize some of the drawings as force diagrams and other scribbles as the encrypted mathematical shorthand Harrow had invented. 

There was one bit that just said “MAX LOAD???” and was underlined about 5 times.

Gideon never understood how Harrow got so obsessed about such boring things. Maybe it came default installed on antisocial nerd goblins.

Not that Gideon was uninterested in the sight, mind you - there was so much to see, especially as they got close to the plateau of floating docks that jutted from the front of the castle wall. Boats of all kinds were tied there, innumerable tiny fishing skiffs, elegant touring yachts flying Third House colors, even a giant Cohort battle galleon parked at the very end.

In shacks tucked up by the wall there was a set of businesses that catered to travelers on their way inside - pubs, inns, repair shops, supply stalls, fishing tackle - everything a weary traveler who was waiting for cargo inspection could want. 

At this time of day the line for security wasn’t too long, but they rode straight to the front anyways. Their driver flashed some kind of credential at the guards and the carriage didn’t even slow down as they passed through the huge gates and down the long tunnel through the wall that opened into - 

The city. 

Holy shit. There were so many people here. 

Gideon was aware that she was staring around with the slack-jawed look of a country bumpkin on her first real outing, but it was exciting, damnit. 18 years of watching Drearburh’s population go from small to miniscule had not prepared her for the reality of so much life in one space. 

There were window displays full of food items she couldn’t recognize and the sounds of drunk singing coming out of bars. There was a group of children walking hand-in-hand in line behind a primly dressed adult in all white, an old man being helped into a carriage by a boy who looked so much like him he could only have been his grandson, and a tall dark skinned woman with muscles bigger than hers and hair shorter than Harrow’s who seemed to be chatting up a scantily dressed woman on the street corner. 

Gideon’s head whipped around to follow that last scene, but the couple was already lost in the crowd. 

“Do you think they’ll let us out to explore the city at all?” 

The enthusiasm was obvious in Gideon’s voice. Harrow could always tell when she genuinely wanted something no matter how hard she tried to hide it, so why bother. 

“I doubt it,” Harrow was still buried in her journal, scribbling furiously, “I imagine they’ll be having the tournament in the central keep area which has its own moat, wall, and guards.”

Gideon frowned. “How do you know so much about it? Have you been here before?”

Harrow shot her a withering (4.6) glare. “I read things that don’t contain nudity, Griddle.”

Harrow went back to writing equations or sketching dicks or whatever and Gideon went back to watching the city. It seemed like the buildings were getting bigger and fancier the further in they went - almost everyone on the street in this area was wearing at least one ostentatious piece of jewelry, and a lot of the buildings here were set back from the street with yards behind tall fences. 

They rounded a final turn and drew up at another moat crossing, smaller than the city entrance but far more ornate. 

The portal around the gate was carved with the skull emblems of all the Houses, each House’s feature picked out in gemstones. At the very top was the Imperial skull topped with a crown and deep black pits for the eyes. 

Everything else was white, including the little man standing in front of the gate, waiting for them. 

Gideon jerked back from the window, startled. She had been so distracted by the surroundings, and the man’s clothes and skin and hair blended in so perfectly to the marble behind him, she hadn’t noticed he was there. 

“Glory to the Ninth House!” The man clapped, with what Gideon thought was far too much enthusiasm for that statement. His smile bordered on giddy, and there was a manic light in his eyes. He ran forward and opened the carriage door, bowing as he ushered them out.

“We are so blessed to have you with us, at last. Everyone else has already arrived - did you encounter trouble on the road?” 

Harrow had fixed her paint at some point during the journey through the city and her spine was stiffened into the severe posture of the Reverend Daughter as her black boots touched down on the white cobblestones. 

“Mechanical trouble.” Her voice was the flat, sepulchral tone with which she conducted Tomb Rites. “Nothing I couldn’t fix.”

The little man beamed. “Excellent, excellent, no harm done then, although you have missed dinner, I’m afraid. We’ve left some bread and cheese in your rooms - I suggest you go there directly and freshen up from your journey, the ball will be starting in barely half an hour.”

He turned, and led the way inside.

Chapter Text

Damn Gideon looked good. 

She was hot as fuck all the time, she knew this, her body was fucking bangin’. This though, was something else entirely.

“Harrow, how did you get this to fit me so well without me trying it on?” She called to the other room, staring at herself in the floor-to-ceiling bathroom mirror.

“Calipers” came the muffled reply, which didn’t really explain anything but Gideon couldn’t bring herself to care too much. 

The outfit was all black, obviously, but in a thinner material than anything she had worn inside frigid Drearburh. 

The jacket was a fashionable military cut, high stiff collar and square shoulders with a shiny metallic black braid looped under one arm. The front wrapped around and secured on an angle down the side of her chest, emphasizing the cut of her torso. The pants were high waisted and narrow without being constricting, falling down with Cohort-precise creases on the front before tucking into knee high boots, the leather polished to a fine sheen. Black satin ribbon lined the edges of the jacket and down the side of the pants. 

The whole thing made her shock of bright red hair and golden eyes stand out even more than usual, only now they looked striking and mysterious instead of horribly out of place beside the uniformly dark coloring of the rest of the Ninth.

Gideon turned to the side to see what the outfit did for her ass. 

Magnificent.

She was blowing little kisses at herself in the mirror when the door flew open and Harrow barged in.

Gideon had never seen Harrow in any clothes that weren’t black and covered from neck to fingertips to toes, and this was no exception.

Except - Gideon’s dark liege had obviously gotten something custom made for herself as well, since nothing made of thin silk and lace would ever make sense at Drearburh. 

An elegant cowl covered her head, pulled up from the same black silk that draped the top of the gown. It fell in soft folds over her chest and shoulders, and skin tight gloves of the same material were pulled all the way up her arms. Her waist was pinched in the old ribcage corset she wore for formal services back home, but beneath it dropped a simple silk sheath covered in multiple layers of intricate lace that was somehow folded to create a great deal of volume. She’d painted one of the more elaborate skulls on her face for the occasion. Other than the bones and skull paint, everything was black.

“You look like a wet rock covered in mold with half a skeleton stuck on top,” said Gideon. 

“Go die in a fire,” said Harrow, “and paint your face. We’re already late.”

-------------------------------------------------------

The ball was in full swing by the time they arrived, the sounds of faint music, clinking plates, and many chattering people drifting towards them as they approached the entrance. 

The Ninth House wasn’t the type to throw parties, so Gideon hadn’t been sure what to expect. Harrowhark, as Ninth heir, had been to a handful of balls at the Houses closest to them and had described a little of what they were in for. That had all been back when she was very young though - as far as Gideon knew, this trip was the first time Harrow had stepped a foot outside Drearburh since her parents died. 

They came up to the ballroom entrance and stopped, hit by a wall of sight and sound. If Gideon thought the people in the city were fun to look at, this was a totally different level. 

The door led onto a landing with a few wide steps going down to the main floor, so they could see the entire room from where they stood.

Every single person in the crowded room was dressed to the teeth in finery - gowns and suits and uniforms and robes, jewelry and polished leather everywhere, flitting around each other like a cage full of chatty tropical birds. 

Even the room was draped in satin and jewels, big white bunting dripping down from the ceiling and rainbows of gems in House colors set in platinum on every table leg and candlestick. 

There was a gigantic painting of the Emperor Undying on the far wall, those unseeing black eyes creeping Gideon out even more than they did in the small portrait Drearburh had. But where Drearburh’s version was hung above their very boring cult altar, this painting was hung above - 

“Food,” Gideon breathed, staring at the enormous buffet laid at the Emperor’s painted feet. It looked barely touched, hardly surprising given there had been a full dinner service a few hours earlier. She could see racks of little meat skewers, giant platters of cut fruit, intricate cups that seemed to both contain and be made out of vegetables.

With inevitable magnetic attraction her body started towards the buffet, but Harrow’s arm shot out and grabbed hers in a claw-like grip. 

“We have to be announced first, moron,” she hissed at Gideon under her breath.

Hooking her arm casually through Gideon’s, Harrow leaned out to exchange a few words with the white-liveried attendant by the door and then adopted a posture of haughty disdain looking over the crowd. 

The attendant took an audibly deep breath then boomed out for the whole room to hear -

“Announcing the Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Heir to the Ninth House, and her Cavalier Primary, Gideon Nav.” 

Gideon heard all the capitals in that sentence.

How did he do that? Was there special training for it? What a useless, but kind of awesome, skill.

Every single face in that room now pointed at them. Scattered whispers broke out across the room as Harrow descended the stairs, pulling Gideon along with her. Gideon wasn’t sure what the hell they were supposed to do now. Talk to people? It would have been so much easier to strike up a casual conversation if they hadn’t been immediately spotlighted upon late arrival. Most of the guests had turned back to their conversations, but a few still flickered glances their way. 

Harrow steered them slowly on a circuit around the room, starting, to Gideon’s dismay, in a direction away from the buffet table. Harrow didn’t attempt to strike up a conversation or even have a particular goal in mind, just walked with slow measured strides around the perimeter of the room. 

It was amazing how quickly these colorful, chatty people moved out of the way when the Ninth House came sailing by - Harrow didn’t have to alter course once.

There was a whole pod of grey-robed members of the Sixth in front of them, deep in conversation about whatever the hell doctors talked about at social gatherings. Half of them squished themselves out of the way as soon as they saw the Ninth House coming, creating a break in the circle which let Gideon see what they were clustered around. 

Wow. Maybe there was some redeeming value to this shindig after all. 

Gideon tried to keep the gleaming figure in sight as long as possible, but Harrow’s arm pulled her inexorably away. 

The woman had been tall, with several inches of artfully arranged blonde hair and a tiara on top adding to it. The short look Gideon had got was enough to know that she was stacked too, a long golden dress molded to her curves like a shining second skin. A purple half-cape and heaps of amethyst jewelry confirmed her as Third House, aka, ‘the one with all the treasure’ as Gideon usually thought of them.

A loud confident laugh erupted from the cove of grey behind them, and Gideon couldn’t see but she knew it was from the woman in gold. A lady like that could Third Gideon any time she wanted, if-you-know-what-I-mean. 

(Gideon didn’t actually know what she meant, but she didn’t much care. Her sexual experience was limited to the self exploration and educational-porno-mag variety, and the first beautiful woman to get her in bed was going to get a very willing and adventurous partner.)

“Keep it in your pants, Nav” growled Harrow. “I don’t want you flirting and exposing yourself as the bumbling idiot you are before the tournament’s even started.”

Gideon was deprived of her chance to reply when a middle-aged man in a brown velvet doublet slashed with gold stepped in front of them. 

“Hello hello!” He beamed, in the overly cheerful tone of the slightly drunk. “Ninth House, eh? Wonderful to meet you, I’ve been to so many of these things at Canaan but never met one of the Locked Tomb before. You must spend some time talking to Abigail while you’re here, there are so many holes in our records of Drearburh, it’s positively criminal. All the other Houses have extensive archives from the time of the Founding, feudal agreements and architecture plans and whatnot, but the Ninth section just lists the names of each Reverend Leader in turn and the years they lived, nothing else. There’s a whole volume of population records from about 20 years ago that’s just up and missing. It drives Abigail mad, you wouldn’t believe the rants she gets into sometimes.”

This explosion of words paused only for the man to take another sip from his goblet. 

“I’m Magnus Quinn by the way, cavalier primary of the Fifth House.” The hand that wasn’t holding wine shot out towards Harrowhark, obviously assuming it was going to be shaken. 

Spoiler alert: It wasn’t.

Harrow stared silently at him long enough that the tipsy smile started to fade and the hand was awkwardly withdrawn, before deigning to say “Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House, Heir to the Locked Tomb. This is Gideon Nav, my cavalier.” 

Harrow’s lips quirked, just enough to send warning signals through Gideon’s brain. 

“You will have to forgive Nav for not holding conversation, she’s taken a holy vow of silence.”

What. 

No, seriously, what. 

Gideon opened her mouth to say abso-fucking-lutely not you insane little hobgoblin, but Harrow elbowed her sharply in the ribs and all the breath left Gideon’s lungs at once. 

Magnus noticed none of this. He was beaming again, clearly under the impression that these shared bits of information meant the conversation was going well. 

“Wonderful! What dedication. That will probably serve you well here, Nav, I’ve caught at least three other Houses trying to chat me up to learn more about my fighting style before the first round tomorrow. With no restrictions on weapon choices, there’s no way to plan a strategy until you see someone in the ring at least once - or find out by more sneaky methods.”

Huh.

That was actually a pretty good point. 

Gideon was willing to bet that none of the other cavs used a broadsword like she did - the traditional cavalier weapon was a dainty little rapier and a secondary offhand. Her heavy sword would be even more of an advantage in the first fight if her opponent wasn’t prepared for it. 

Gideon kept her mouth shut and gave what she hoped came across as a penitent nod.

Magnus looked delighted, so she must have succeeded.

Harrow looked… disappointed?

What, had she hoped for more of a fight on the issue? An evening of stabbing Gideon with her knife-like elbows every time she tried to open her mouth?

As Gideon puzzled over this, a delicate ringing noise pierced the air and the whole party turned towards the stairs where the little man in white from before now stood tapping a goblet with a knife. Apparently his idea of formal party wear was to add a pearlescent rainbow waist sash on top of exactly what he’d been wearing when he met them at the gate. 

“Welcome, welcome!” He clapped his hands together in glee. “Welcome to the honorable heirs and courageous cavaliers of His Majesty’s Undying Empire, and welcome to those others of your House who have traveled to support you! We here at Canaan House are so humbled to be hosting you all for this momentous occasion, and hope your stay will be both pleasant and rewarding.”

Gideon had never met anyone who was so completely thrilled with life as this man. It was getting old fast.

“You may call me ‘Teacher.’ I am the organizer for the tournament, and will be your guide to the event - I’ll be going over the rules tonight, but if you have any questions or requests later, please do not hesitate to find me - any servant in the castle will be able to bring me your request.

“Now!” He seemed to rise up on the balls of his feet as if anticipating blowing out a birthday cake, “To business. As you all know, this tournament marks the 18th year since the death of our Divine Majesty’s True Heir - the child of his own flesh, natural successor to his throne, tragically hidden from him at conception and taken from the world altogether not long after.

What the fuck?

Gideon had never heard of the Emperor having his own kid before. Though to be fair, she didn’t pay attention to a lot of the gossip from Canaan House.

She tried to elbow Harrow for more details but got nothing but a glare (only a 2.3, weaksauce) in return, and her brand new vow of silence stopped her from asking further.

“The Emperor has mourned all these long years, but although the Empire is Undying, Our Lord will not live forever and he needs an heir. This is the year his True Heir would have been crowned the Imperial Heir apparent - in their place, His Imperial Grace has decreed it will be one of you. 

“All eight scions of the Imperial Houses are assembled before me, paired with their chosen cavaliers. Tomorrow morning the tournament will commence, and will work as such.”

Teacher began reminding them of all the tournament rules that had also been in the letter - points-based scoring, fight to submission, don’t leave the circle, blah blah blah. 

Gideon’s brain drifted into a fantasy of a cheering crowd and waving banners. 

Stands full of hot babes chanted her name, throwing assorted undergarments into the ring where she stood, her beaten foes on the ground around her. “Gi-de-on! Gi-de-on!” The golden princess she’d spotted earlier approached her in the dream with swaying hips, a ‘ravish me now, mighty champion’ look on her face.

Teacher’s list of rules continued. “You may choose any two weapons to bring into the ring, and any kind or amount of wearable armor. No horses or other mounts are allowed. No interference from outside the ring is allowed. Injuries are to be expected at all stages, but intentionally fatal wounds are strictly disallowed in the ring, and will cause your heir to be disqualified from the tournament.

Gideon blinked back to reality, her attention caught by the unusual wording. Intentionally fatal...? That seemed very specific. What kinds of things were they expecting to happen here? 

“Other than that - ” Teacher smiled, spreading his arms wide “- anything goes! Please, enjoy the rest of the evening, and I will see you all at the arena tomorrow morning. 

“If the heirs and cavaliers would now come forward for the first dance, we can get this ball started properly.” 

Uh.

Gideon was definitely paying attention now. She shot a startled look at Harrow, who for once looked just as taken aback as Gideon did. 

The bulk of the crowd was retreating to the edges of the room, the other House pairs coming forward and spacing themselves a few meters apart.

Harrow turned to her, eyes wide in panic. Apparently this was not one of the ball customs she had expected. Reassuring, actually - Gideon wouldn’t have put it past Harrow to “forget to mention” the required dancing, leaving Gideon to stumble through the steps while Harrow sneered and demonstrated yet another way in which she was superior.

Soft, pleasant music started drifting through the room, and Harrow’s continued ‘deer-in-torchlights’ expression wiped those suspicions firmly from Gideon’s mind.

Sneaking a look at the other pairs beginning to revolve around them Gideon decided on the time-honored strategy of ‘fake it til you make it.’ 

She danced with a sword regularly, surely dancing with a human couldn’t be that hard. Right?

Her hands grasped Harrow’s, dropping one on Gideon’s shoulder and holding the other in the air to the side. Her own hand went to Harrow’s waist, squeezing lightly in warning before starting to sway them both gently side to side. 

Harrow was jerky at first, moving her weight from one foot to the other quickly and holding the position for too long, but after a minute they synced up and managed a few repetitions of fairly smooth motion. 

They were even almost in time with the music. 

Gideon snuck another look around the floor. Most of the other pairs were similarly swaying, although two dark-skinned women in crisp white-and-red Cohort uniforms were performing some very fancy footwork, and Magnus was being led through a series of energetic twirls by someone with long brown hair.

Gideon made brief eye contact with a woman in a sharp grey doublet who was steadying her much taller partner. The scrawny man seemed to have tripped over his own grey robes, and was stumbling to get back into rhythm. Given that 90% of the muscles between the pair belonged to the woman, Gideon would have bet teeth that she was the cavalier.

They shared a look that seemed to say “Heirs. What would they do without us.” Then the man in grey tripped again, and the woman looked back at her partner, saying something that made him chuckle.

No laughter was forthcoming from Gideon’s heir.

Harrow’s lips were white from tension as well as paint, and although her legs and torso were moving, her arms were rigid, stuck firmly in the positions Gideon had put them in. It felt a bit like dancing with a statue.

She squeezed Harrow’s hand and waist, trying to reassure without words, and wiggled her own body a bit to demonstrate the concept of loosening up. 

Her efforts got her nothing but a 5.0 glare, so she gave up and went back to watching the crowd.

Her eye was immediately caught by a pair of teenagers off to the side of the dance floor. They were partially hidden behind a pillar, but Gideon still couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed them before because they were wearing -

Good God, Gideon thought, what in the Empire are those?

They looked like they had started life as a pair of reasonably fashionable dresses, but someone (and Gideon had a very shrewd guess who, given the hair colors and absurd number of piercings adorning both teens) had made alterations and additions until they resembled nothing so much as two parade floats. There were cut-outs placed seemingly randomly and embroidered sequins that chased each other over the fabric. The slender one’s dress had some kind of shoulder sculpture with spikes on it, and the other, beefier, one had cut-outs over their biceps. 

Gideon fully understood the desire to demonstrate one’s Gun Show, but that’s what sleeveless tunics were for. This was just unnecessary.

She was so distracted that she missed a beat and caused Harrow to stumble as her stiff arms attempted to sway away. 

“Stop gawking, Griddle” Harrow hissed, low enough that only Gideon could hear.

They swayed for a few more uneventful minutes until the music mercifully drew to a close. Most of the pairs stayed on the floor, joined by a wave of new dancers from the sidelines as the musicians struck up a faster, cheerful tune.

Directly next to them however was an absolute mountain of a man and a fragile-looking younger woman in a seafoam dress who were making a beeline for the closest table. 

Gideon made the executive decision that if this pair was leaving it couldn’t be improper for them to do so as well, and drew Harrow off the floor behind them. 

The woman seemed to be using the giant man for support while walking, and he eased her carefully into a chair. She looked exhausted and was fanning herself vigorously, but was also smiling like she was having the time of her life, and her light and delicate laughter made something go wibbly in Gideon’s stomach. 

The woman’s bright blue eyes caught Gideon looking at her and she winked from behind a tumble of curly brown hair. 

Harrow’s hand closed like a vice on Gideon’s arm and pulled her away.

Gideon considered protesting, but then realized she was being dragged in the direction of the food display and all other interests fell away at once.

-------------------------------------------------------

Gideon was going to marry this buffet. 

She didn’t think she’d ever felt this way about anyone else. It just kept giving and giving, catering to her every desire before she didn’t know she had them, not stopping until she was completely satisfied. 

Harrow had restrained herself to nibbling the dry crackers from the cheese board and didn’t look happy about Gideon’s indulgence.

Gideon didn’t see the point in restraint, not with layered canapes spread out before her: thin cuts of meat draped salaciously over breads and topped with teasing dollops of sauce. Every piece of cheese was cut into the perfect single-morsel size, every bite of fruit flavorful and juicy, but not so juicy you need a napkin after. Definite wedding potential.

All she was saying was that she liked it, so she better put a ring on it.

Gideon was in the midst of selecting her next mouthful when Magnus reappeared, this time accompanied by the woman from the dance floor and - oh, dear god - the two disastrously dressed teenagers. 

“Ninth!” beamed Magnus, even more warmly than before. The increased rosiness of his cheeks made Gideon suspect that goblet had been refilled several times since their first conversation.

He bowed low to Harrowhark.

“Allow me to introduce my darling wife, Abigail Pent, Lady of Koniortos Court and head historian of His Majesty’s archives.”

Harrow recited their own introductions and had barely gotten the last word out before Magnus butted in with the air of someone who has been bursting to say something and finally sees their chance, “Gideon here has taken a holy vow of silence!”

“Really?” Abigail turned an intrigued eye towards Gideon. “I wasn’t aware of any traditional vows of silence taken by members of the Locked Tomb outside of the direct Reverend line.” 

“She’s very penitent,” Harrowhark said hurriedly, and then redirected with “Are these your children?” gesturing to the two teenagers now attempting to hide behind Abigail and Magnus. 

“Oh no,” Abigail laughed, “This is Isaac Tettares and Jeannemary Chatur, heir and cavalier of the Fourth.

She gestured for the two to come forward, but they seemed to shrink back even further. Isaac, the one with the spikey shoulder pads, hissed in a low but carrying voice.

(“Abigail, nooooooooo”)

And Jeannemary of the bicep windows added,

(“Nooooooooo Abigail”)

Abigail rolled her eyes and turned back to Harrowhark.

“The Fourth and Fifth are very close, both geographically and socially. When their parents died in the last expansion campaign we stepped in as caretakers. Not that they’ve needed too much, but we try to be there for them when we can.”

Magnus reached out and cuffed Isaac jovially on the shoulder.

(“Noooo Magnus, you’ll break the spikes”)

“That’s…. Very nice of you.” Harrowhark offered. 

Gideon could hear the disdain clear in her voice, and winced.

During the carriage ride Harrow had ranted at least twice about how humiliating it would be to have her House become a vassal estate to one of the others, specifically citing the Fourth as an example.

Perhaps Abigail could hear it too - an awkward silence descended on the group, coinciding with the end of a song from the musicians. When they started back up again, a bubbly energetic tune, Abigail exclaimed with false brightness “Oh, I love this one! Let’s dance, Magnus” and dragged her husband off to the dance floor, sulky teens following close behind.

Harrow stood like a gloomy statue watching the twirling mass while Gideon descended once more upon the buffet table. While they’d been talking to the Fifth, servants had brought out fresh trays bearing several varieties of small sweet cakes and Gideon needed to renew her proposal of undying love to each of them in turn.

“The vow of silence works well for you” said Harrow, still looking out at the crowd. 

Gideon - being under a vow of silence, seriously, why was Harrow trying to strike up a conversation with her in public - glared at her and stuffed another cake in her mouth. 

“It’s smart,” she continued, “as loathe as I am to take advice from the Fifth house, Magnus was right - don’t let them know anything about you before the fights.” 

Harrow stared at the dancers and Gideon stared at Harrow and Gideon’s hand reached out to grab another cake from the pile on the table.

They hung around in silence for another excruciating hour before things started to break up and Harrow decided it was an appropriate time for them to take their leave.

-------------------------------------------------------

Harrow was methodically removing her paint back in their rooms when Gideon decided to bring it up again.

“So… That thing, about the Emperor’s dead kid. What’s up with that?”

Harrow sighed, looking at Gideon in the mirror. Half her face was still an intricate skull, half showed the pointy weasel face she hid under the paint.

“Honestly Griddle, if I didn’t have unfortunate first hand knowledge otherwise I’d assume you were raised inside the Locked Tomb, rather than engaging in any interaction with the outside world.”

Gideon stuck out her tongue. Harrow rolled her eyes and went back to wiping at her face. 

“No, really, what’s the deal? I’m pretty sure he’s never had an official consort,” Gideon said, moving up behind her. “And what was that whole ‘hidden at conception’ bit? Was it the classic ‘affair with a noble’s wife’ situation? Maybe a courtesan who forgot to take their herbs? How does the leader of a damned Empire have a kid and not know about it?”

“It was nothing like that,” Harrow said calmly, continuing to work at her paint. “You’re right, he never took an official consort, but that’s because he was in love with the leader of his own army - Commander Annabel Wake or something, I don’t quite remember her name. 

“Everyone knew about it, but you can’t serve as both the Imperial Commander and the Imperial Consort, and by all accounts she was brilliant on the battlefield so he needed her to stay where she was as long as the expansion campaigns continued.”

It sounded like the ultimate power couple to Gideon. “Makes sense. So what happened? She die on the field before telling him she was preggers?”

“No,” said Harrow, putting down her tools and closing the box of paint supplies. She turned and looked directly at Gideon. 

Gideon suppressed a shiver. Those black eyes in a naked face had always unsettled her far more than any skull paint ever could.

“She led a rebellion and tried to kill him.”

Oh shit. That wasn’t where Gideon was expecting this story to go at all.

“He was visiting her at some minor outpost on the frontier, and she attacked him in his sleep. She’d convinced a full third of the army to follow her, and had them all stationed there - they slaughtered the Imperial Guard he’d brought with him, and they were planning to move on Canaan House after she’d killed him.

“Except she failed. Somehow in their fight he managed to knock her out and barricade himself in his rooms until a loyal General arrived with the rest of the army. 

“They killed most of the soldiers who were there with her, and brought the Commander and a few survivors back to Canaan House for questioning.”

For once, Gideon was hanging on to every word Harrow said.

“The story goes he conducted the torture himself, somewhere in the deep dungeons here. They say that she laughed and laughed, and told him everything. All her plans, all her moves against him - including how she’d discovered she was pregnant with his child right before her last long campaign. That she’d carried the baby in secret, delivered it on the road, and left it to die in the forest. 

“The child that could have grown up to inherit our entire world, instead nothing more than some wolf’s dinner.”

Harrow tilted her head and got a look on her face that usually meant she was judging someone else’s machine designs and finding them severely lacking. 

“Personally, I don’t understand why she didn’t keep it. It would have made much more sense to use it as a pawn to help her take over. A True Heir on the throne, acting as a puppet while she did the actual ruling, would have gone a long way to getting the people of the Empire comfortable with her.

Harrow shrugged, as if to say it wasn’t her problem other people were idiots. “Anyway, she didn’t. A physician was called in to determine that she had, in fact, given birth within the past year, and one of the other survivors confirmed they helped cover up the pregnancy, and dispose of the… results.

“He tortured her for days, dragged out details of every single way she’d manipulated and betrayed him over the years, and then killed her with his own hands and had her body interred in the Locked Tomb.”

Harrow seemed to hesitate, as if, somehow, this story was about to get worse.

“That was also when he lost his eyes.”

Yep, about to get worse.

“In the fight, when she tried to kill him. No one knows if she stabbed them or used some kind of caustic poison or what, but when his forces arrived and dug him out of that room, his eyes were ruined beyond healing. 

“This part isn’t common knowledge, though it’s not exactly a secret either. The eyes he wears now are obsidian from Drearburh. The Ninth had to carve a new niche inside the Tomb for her body.”

Harrow paused again, this time for dramatic effect.

“He had a few pieces of the rock from her grave saved and made into prosthetic eyes.”

Well, that was possibly the creepiest thing Gideon had ever heard.

-------------------------------------------------------

It was still on her mind as she lay in bed trying and failing to go to sleep. She needed to sleep, the first tournament fight was in the morning, but the story kept dancing through her head.

The Emperor whose own lover had tried to kill him and steal his kingdom.

The Commander whose last act had been to reveal the existence of their dead child.

The newest grave inside the Tomb, the body replacing part of the rock, the rock replacing the eyes that had been destroyed at the hands of that body.

What a shit deal, thought Gideon. 

Maybe being Emperor wasn’t such a great gig after all if that was the kind of story you got.

Chapter Text

The tent they gave her was big and enclosed a dressing area, weapons rack, warmup floor, and small seating area with plenty of room in between.

The seating area was arranged so all the chairs had a good view of the warmup floor, and it gave Gideon the creeps - like a pack of judgemental ghosts were watching her go through her exercises. Most of the other Houses had brought a full retinue of staff and courtiers to the tournament, so she imagined the chairs in the other tents were getting more use. 

Her longsword slashed through the air, dark and quiet, Gideon’s breaths and the clack of her boots the only sounds in the dim interior. 

Maybe next door a crisply-uniformed group of Cohort officers were giving last minute tips on proper stance, arguing about the efficiency of a side slash versus overhand. Maybe a gold-draped gaggle of Third courtiers was heckling their cavalier, already a little bit tipsy. Maybe somewhere an heir was watching their chosen champion prepare with soft, grateful eyes.

Not here. 

Harrow had already been gone when Gideon woke this morning, and she wasn’t sure where the hell she’d disappeared to but it definitely wasn’t this tent. 

Her feet danced through familiar patterns, arms executing moves they’d done thousands of times before. She could hear her old swordmaster Aiglamene in her head, “weight on your back foot Nav, don’t leave yourself open to being pushed over.”

Dancing in the dark like this felt comfortable, felt calm.

Nowhere in Drearburh was particularly bright - even the areas where you could go outside were covered in a perpetual fog - and the training salles were all deep in the mountain, lit only by fires and what little light bounced down the illumination shafts. That was where Gideon had learned, practiced, and mastered the sword, the clash of metal and her teacher’s barking voice echoing off the black stone. 

When Gideon had been growing up the only other fighter in need of training at the Ninth was Ortus, a man 17 years her senior and the actual cavalier primary of Drearburh by birthright. Unfortunately Aiglamene had already given him all the instruction she could and none of it had stuck, so she turned the full brunt of her focus on her enthusiastic younger pupil.

At first Gideon had picked up the sword just because it was something to do - the endless prayer sessions of the death cult, oddly, hadn’t appealed to a lonely, hyper-energetic child. Then puberty hit and her muscles started filling out, and Gideon realized this was something she could be good at. It calmed her mind and gave her purpose, as well as the first glimmer of hope of one day escaping the Black Castle. 

No one in the Empire had much use for a cast-off orphan with a smart mouth and a tendency to throw the first punch, but the Emperor was always in need of skilled fighters. She’d dreamed of getting good enough to be welcomed without question into the ranks of the Cohort, winning honors on the battlefield and riding back to the Emperor with victory banners flying above her. 

Still had those dreams, actually. If she won the tournament Harrow could have her shitty throne, and surely - surely - that would prove Gideon’s skill enough to compensate for her lack of a House pedigree, her lack of a proper sponsor. 

Aiglamene’s voice came back to her, “Keep your head in this fight, Nav, not all the ones before or after.”

She moved into the final set of warmups, full speed now, metal singing as it cut through the air. She executed one last climactic turn-parry-spin-thrust, and came to a stop with her feet planted wide, both hands holding the sword straight out in front of her. Her breath steamed in the chill morning, panting as she lowered her weapon. 

In a few minutes the first randomly-drawn sets of opponents would be announced and the tournament would start. 

The first four rounds were all points-based, which meant a loss now wouldn’t mean she was out of the running, but still - her first real fight, in front of a massive audience which included her own dread mistress as well as the highest-ranking nobles in the Empire. 

The face of the golden princess from last night’s ball stood out in her fantasy crowd, cheering and throwing a token into the ring. A Cohort commander stood before her, holding out a scroll of service. A grateful Emperor hung a medal around her neck, Harrow standing behind him with a pinched, jealous look on her face. 

She chugged some water, poured the rest over top of her, and shook her head fiercely to clear it.

Keep your head in this fight. 

Gideon opened the tent flap and went to face her future.  

-------------------------------------------------------

The reality of the arena was a bit less pleasant than she’d imagined, with dust clouds mixing into the morning fog and irritating her eyes. It wouldn’t be too bad once the fighting started and only two sets of feet were left to stomp around the dirt, but right now there were over 20 people assembled kicking up an almighty ruckus. 

Gideon sneezed. 

The 8th House cavalier next in line shot her a chastising look that could have been cut from the face of a Drearburh nun. She was pleased to see his bleached white leathers were turning a putrid, muddy brown in the dusty fog. 

The cavaliers had been trotted out in a lineup to bow and wave at the assembled crowd. Gideon wasn’t sure who the sad sack they’d found to hold the Ninth banner was, but as the black fabric dipped down to whack her on the head again, she continued to plan his slow and tortuous death. 

All the other cavaliers had standard-bearers who were tall, straight-backed members of their own court, dressed in ornate house uniforms and - most notably to her - holding their banner steady so it didn’t bob about in the wind. 

Teacher must have pulled a random palace servant and shoved them into a black grain sack when they realized the Ninth didn’t have a spare person to carry the banner. 

The edge of the banner whipped into Gideon’s ear, and she winced at the sting but otherwise stood perfectly still as the formal presentation continued.

Gideon would rather they hadn’t bothered. A stake stuck in the ground would be more stable than this idiot.

At long last, Teacher finished reading out the list of rules and was about to unveil the pairings for round one. 

Gideon could hear rustling all down the line as the cavaliers stood back to full attention. She’d eavesdropped a bit at the ball last night, and knew there were mixed feelings about being sorted into the very first match. Some of the cavaliers wanted to come out swinging, show off then get it over with - others wanted to watch at least one match to get oriented in the arena and put some of the focus off them. 

Gideon didn’t particularly care, as long as she finally got to fight. 

The house heirs were seated in the Imperial stand behind Teacher, the massive carved white throne in the middle conspicuously empty. The Emperor, apparently, had better things to do than watch the contest that would determine his replacement. 

He’d probably turn up for the final. 

Maybe.

Harrow was seated at the rear edge of the stand, voluminous Ninth robes making her blend in with the shadows. 

Gideon was surprised to see that she’d gone for the classic Jawless Skull paint today, much simpler than her usual choices and a match to Gideon’s own face. 

Teacher was speaking into some kind of carved horn that amplified his voice out over the crowd, fancy words about how the randomized selection process worked.

Was it intentional that she matched Gideon? It must be, this was the only paint design Gideon ever used. (So sue her, it was easy and she was lazy)

Harrow must have decided to match her face to Gideon. Why? Ninth solidarity? They were the only people wearing all black in the entire arena, no one could possibly mistake them for anything but heir and cavalier. 

Teacher had pulled the drama out as far as he could, apparently. “The very first match of the tournament will be…”

Was it something to do with Gideon specifically? No, that didn’t make sense. There must be some symbolism to the Jawless Skull that she didn’t know about, some reason that Harrow would probably call her an uneducated dolt for missing. Maybe it was the ceremonial paint for tournaments, or was supposed to be lucky, or was the traditional my-future-throne-is-in-the-hands-of-someone-I-would-like-to-eviscerate-slowly design.

Harrow turned slightly, and with a weird jolt Gideon realized she was staring directly at her, black eyes locked onto her golden ones from across half the arena.

In matching faces. Why?

“...Magnus the Fifth versus Gideon the Ninth.”

Oh! Right. 

Tournament. Swords. Yes. 

Apparently she would be the one who got to show off and get it over with, her and that chatty Fifth inebriate from last night. Shouldn’t be too hard, he seemed like the type who spent his time on books, food, and his wife.

Don’t get cocky, Nav.

As she turned to walk off the field, the Ninth banner swung down and smacked her full across the face. 

-------------------------------------------------------

After their conversation at the ball, Gideon would have put money on Magnus being the traditional sort of cavalier that fought with a rapier. 

She was right.

Magnus faced her with the slender sword in hand, a sheathed offhand dagger, and a truly appalling stance, seriously Magnus, get it together man. 

Gideon’s body moved into a fighting stance, so well practiced she didn’t have to waste any thought on it. She could feel her adrenaline starting to sing and took a few deep breaths to calm down - don’t burn yourself out at the beginning, idiot. 

She could feel hundreds of eyes in the crowd watching them, sizing them up, greedy for entertainment. She felt greedy too - her first fight outside Drearburh, her first opportunity to really use the skills she’d spent a lifetime developing. 

A stiff looking woman in Fifth brown leaned into Magnus and whispered something in his ear, before walking away as everyone cleared the circle. He subtly adjusted his stance to something more stable.

She wondered what Aiglamene would hiss in her ear if she were here. She wondered why Magnus had even entered this competition if he wasn’t a practiced fighter. She wondered what would happen if she lost the tournament, if the Fifth would absorb the Ninth like they had the Fourth.

She wondered if Harrow was still looking at her.

Teacher hit the bell and started the fight, and for a little while she stopped wondering about anything at all. 

-------------------------------------------------------

It was over so quickly there wasn’t time for the audience to get ramped up.

Magnus moved slowly, broadcasting every action before it began, so all Gideon had to do was slip inside his grip, catch his sword inside hers, and with a swift yank throw the weapon clear out of the ring.

Magnus was left gaping like a fish, empty hand still raised in the air before him as Gideon gently booped the front of his jerkin with the point of her sword. 

“Match… Match to the Ninth!” came Teacher’s voice over the crowd. He sounded unprepared, like he’d gotten good and comfortable in his seat and had to scramble to get back to the horn. 

There was a murmur, then a trickle, then a storm of clapping as Gideon stepped back and lowered her sword.

Magnus was looking at her with something like wonder, and as they walked out of the ring together - Magnus detouring briefly to retrieve his sword - he said, under the still-ringing applause, “Well done. What a way to start, eh?”

-------------------------------------------------------

In the staging area the next pair to fight were standing ready. Camilla, the dangerous-looking Sixth cavalier Gideon had seen at the ball, and Colum, the pious Eighth cavalier who gave off a strong impression of being very, very boring. 

Camilla, Gideon noted, had two identical short scabbards on her belt, not short enough to be knives but definitely not long enough to be regular swords. Some kind of specialty dual weapon? That could be fun, especially against the long-but-heavy force of her two-hander. Gideon exchanged a nod with the woman, hoping she’d get the chance to fight her at some point. 

Magnus had crossed to where the young Jeannemary was stretching, ruffling her hair affectionately. Evidently the other cavaliers had been watching the fight, because as Gideon headed to the exit she heard her whisper “Three moves, Magnus!....”

She was also most definitely staring and Gideon threw the girl a wink as she passed, causing her to flush and stammer in whatever else she was saying to Magnus. 

Gideon smiled to herself as she walked through the dark tunnels under the stands. Post-battle and away from the crowd, she allowed herself to get a little giddy. That had been fun. Sure, she looked forward to a better test of her skill, but compared to fighting Aiglamene in a literal crypt in Drearburh, surrounded only by the dead, exercising her sword against an almost-stranger in view of hundreds of cheering people, all of whom were fixated on her fight - well. 

Whatever else happened, she was going to enjoy this.

-------------------------------------------------------

Her plan had been to return to the tent, store her sword properly, then snag a snack or two and head back to the arena to watch the other fights and size up her future opponents. 

This plan fell apart very quickly, as, her arms full of nuts, fruit, and dried meat, cheeks puffed out and chewing the large hunk of bread and cheese she’d stuffed in there (what? Fighting made her hungry, and the First House had great snack game), she went to exit her tent and ran straight into Harrow. 

Literally ran into, Harrow bouncing off her to fall into the side of another tent, and Gideon’s armload of snacks spilling all over the ground.

She gave a brief moment of thought to the five-second rule, then figured there was no way she could justify saving her food when there was more of it inside her tent and Harrow was frantically flapping around in the partially-collapsed wall of fabric.

(Probably no way she could justify just standing and watching either, but still, the way Harrow’s legs were sticking out of the pile and wiggling in impotent rage was very funny. 

Maybe just a few seconds.)

She pulled Harrow free of the tent and helped her to her feet, then withdrew her hand quickly. Harrow tended to get feisty about personal space when her pride was hurt. 

“Are you alright?” That was what people asked when someone fell down, right? Great, mission accomplished, being a person.

Ugh, why was interacting with Harrow always so weird. 

“Yes, I’m fine.” Harrow’s voice was sharp, like it got when she was gearing up for a good yelling fight, but then all that energy seemed to go out of her at once. Her shoulders slumped and she sighed at the ground. 

“Griddle…” 

She looked up, right into Gideon’s eyes. 

And then they just.

Looked at each other. 

For like, 30 seconds.

“...what?” said Gideon, eventually.

Maybe she had a bit of cheese on her face. Maybe her paint was smeared into a little dick on her nose (it had happened to Harrow once when they were wrestling as children, and Gideon had laughed for a solid hour). She couldn’t come up with any other explanation for why Harrow would spend so much time looking at her in silence. 

Then Harrow squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head, said “Nope,” turned around and literally ran away, cloak flapping awkwardly behind her. 

Gideon was left standing alone next to a half-collapsed tent, a snack graveyard at her feet. 

“What. The fuck.”

-------------------------------------------------------

Gideon made it back to the stands, fresh snacks tucked safely inside a handy sack she’d found, just after the end of the second match. 

She was annoyed that her encounter with Harrow had caused her to miss seeing Camilla in action. If Gideon had to go against her in the second round unprepared because Harrow had wanted to surprise Gideon and ruin her food or whatever, Gideon was going to be pissed.

Luckily she found an empty seat on the high edge of one of the stands, an excellent perch to observe the remaining two fights. 

The third match was Marta the Second with a rapier and dagger vs Naberius the Third with a rapier and a fancy-looking knife. 

Marta was a Cohort officer, and fought like one - strong, bold, precise. She took a while to set up her attacks, but when they went off they were strategic and full force. Gideon had the impression that if Naberius hadn’t been so fast on his feet, the Second cavalier would have cornered him into a hole within the first few minutes. 

But Naberius was fast, faster than any fighter Gideon had ever seen. (which, to be fair, wasn’t many) The Third Cavalier was like an illustration from one of the textbooks Aiglamene had shown her. His basics were flawless, each step landing exactly in line with his form, each parry the epitome of what all other parries aspired to be.

Gideon would rather get entombed in ice than try to fight like that, but to each their own she supposed. She’d rather focus on power than fancy footwork, but she had to admit the speed of Naberius’s feet had already saved him more than once in the fight.

Marta and Naberius were well matched, and fought to a furious tie - the bell rang indicating time was up, and both their rapier arms fell to their sides limp, as if out of fuel. Gideon was deathly curious to see who would have tired first, but as it was only day one of the tournament she supposed they didn’t want cavaliers blowing themselves out just yet.

Even without a clear winner, it had been an entertaining match - the audience was cheering enthusiastically as the fighters dragged their tired bodies out of the ring. Naberius found enough energy to give a megawatt smile and pretentious little wave to the crowd. Marta’s face was the same blank mask it had been at the start of the fight, now dripping in sweat. 

Gideon was clapping and cheering around a mouthful of roasted pecans when she realized - 

Harrow was sitting beside her. 

“Fuck -” Gideon jumped a little in her seat and hurriedly swallowed. “How long have you been there? How did you get here?”

“I walked, Griddle.” Harrow was staring out intently at the empty ring, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I want to talk to you.”

“O… k…?” Gideon wasn’t sure how to handle this situation. Harrow usually just started talking when she wanted to, it wasn’t like she’d ever needed Gideon’s permission before.

“That was…” Harrow gave a little cough, still not looking at Gideon. “That was really good. What you did. Out there. So. Thank you.” 

Gideon stared. 

She tried to wrack her brain for another instance in their lifetime of history that those words had been uttered in her direction, and came up blank. “...for what?” 

Harrow gave another little cough. “For the fight. For coming with me. I know you agreed, but I wasn’t really sure you wouldn’t just… drop your sword or lose on purpose once things got started. I know you hate me, and I assure you the feeling is mutual.” 

Why did Harrow sound extra emphatic on that last phrase? Gideon knew how Harrow felt about her, how they felt about each other - neither had been subtle with their dislike over the years. It wasn’t like Gideon needed to be convinced of it.

Harrow continued, “This is bigger than us. This tournament is the last chance to save the Ninth House. I can’t keep the mechanicals running much longer on my own, and before too long we won’t have many people left to feed anyways. You know all this, I’m just - “

Harrow looked down at her clasped hands, seemingly lost for words. 

“You just… you were really good out there today, Griddle. I didn’t know you could move like that. I think we might actually have a chance of winning now.”

The silence grew between them, Harrow’s eyes locked on her lap, Gideon staring at her with her mouth open in astonishment. 

Gideon had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Her brain defaulted to its fallback option, which was crass sexual humor. 

“You should see the other ways I can move” paired with an eyebrow wiggle.

(Ok, it wasn’t her best.)

Now Harrow looked at her, scowling. “Goddamnit Griddle, I am attempting to give you a compliment.”

Gideon relaxed - back to familiar territory. “Well, you’re being really weird about it.”

Harrow’s glare intensified (a full on 9.0, Gideon usually had to try to get up that high) but instead of retorting she got up and walked away down the stands.

Something occurred to Gideon. She yelled down the stands at Harrow’s retreating back, “Was that what you were trying to say earlier? When you came by my tent and spilled all my food?”

Harrow didn’t reply but she did break into a jog to get away faster, which Gideon took as a ‘yes.’

She turned to the person on the other side of her. 

“This is the weirdest day.”

The man just nodded politely and continued to bounce the excited child sitting on his lap.

-------------------------------------------------------

The last match had also been interesting. It was another tie, but if Marta and Naberius had tied because they were evenly matched, these two were about as different as you could get. It was  Jeannemary the Fourth vs Protesilaus the Seventh, whom Gideon recognized from the ball as the companion of the beautiful floaty woman in green he had assisted off the dance floor.

He had been tender and solicitous then and, even though he was now holding a weapon, Gideon could recognize that side of him. Protesilaus’ strength was defense - not only was he a solid meat wall of a human, he kept his unusually large rapier close to his body, always ready to block an incoming strike. 

Jeannemary, in contrast, was a very energetic rabbit. She bounced around the arena, the dark springy curls caught behind her head moving in time to her jumpy footwork. It seemed like all she did was attack. As soon as the bell rang to start the fight she jumped forward and lashed out, clearly trying to surprise Protesilaus into an opening and give her an early win. 

It didn’t work. 

Neither did the strike after that, or the hundreds after that. She got close a few times, but Protesilaus clearly picked up on her patterns and tightened his defense even further. He attempted a few strikes of his own, but was clearly hesitant to move his sword too far from his body, and Jeannemary easily jumped out of range.  

The bell rang and both fighters left with expressions of frustration. 

Teacher made some little speech about the end of the first day, same time tomorrow, blah blah blah, and the crowd started to leave.

Gideon lounged back in the stands to wait for the crush of people at the exits to clear out. 

So, day one: She and Camilla had won their fights and claimed 3 points each. Magnus and Colum had 0 points, the four cavaliers that had tied their fights all had 1 point. 

Right now she was strongly in the front of the pack, but she knew that could change quickly tomorrow. 

She had already come up with strategies for fighting Jeannemary and Protesilaus, but Marta or Naberius would be a challenge. She had missed Camilla’s match but she was pretty sure that woman was her biggest competition. Colum was still an unknown - he had lost to Camilla, but that didn’t mean he was a bad fighter. 

And then there was Harrowhark. Gideon didn’t have a strategy for her. 

The conversation today, as awkward as it had been, felt like it had flipped the script between them. As long as they both had been alive they had been opponents. Not exactly rivals, for what could a no-name orphan and the heir to one of the nine noble Houses have in common to compete for? 

Maybe it was that difference that had sparked the original enmity. 

Or maybe Gideon had accidentally stolen Harrow’s favorite toy, or maybe Harrow was just born with a bag of nails instead of a heart. It had been so long ago. Their mutual hatred had been cemented long before Harrow’s parents died and kicked off… everything that had happened after. 

Now they were working together. 

Kind of? Gideon was putting in a lot of effort towards Harrow’s goal, and Harrow was… supporting her. Encouraging her.

Gideon shivered. That was a strange thought. She wasn’t sure what to do with the feeling it gave her.

-------------------------------------------------------

Once the crowd at the exits had thinned a bit, Gideon made her way out. 

It was early afternoon and there would still be lunch laid out in the kitchens, but she was still feeling pretty full from all the snacks. She wasn’t particularly tired - her fight had only lasted a few seconds, after all. Maybe she’d do some pushups back in their guest room, or find a promising looking running path. 

Despite not having definite plans, she still wasn’t particularly happy to run into Teacher as she was leaving the arena. There was something she didn’t trust in a man who was always that happy with life. 

“Congratulations, Ninth!” he said. Cheerfully, obviously.

Gideon was about to reply with a droll “thanks, Teach” but remembered her ‘vow of silence’ just in time. 

She gave a penitent nod. She was getting pretty good at penitent nods.

“That was quite the match. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one go so fast! Hopefully tomorrow will give you a bit more of a challenge.”

He actually winked at her. 

Gideon just stood there blinking, but that didn’t seem to deter the man at all. 

“I’m glad I ran into you! As this is your first time at Canaan House, I’ll give you a tip. Just behind the inner courtyard is a rather extensive bathhouse, open to all our guests. I believe many of the cavaliers are planning to be there tonight!”

He leaned closer to her and glanced side to side, lowering his voice, as if he and Gideon were bestest buds and about to share some juicy gossip. 

“Most guests go straight to the large baths in the main hall, but there are a few side rooms that people don’t know about. One of them has a small bath that’s not as hot as the others. The last time we had anyone from the Ninth House visit us, I know that’s the one he preferred. Apparently when you’re used to the water from Drearburh, the main baths are a bit too hot to be comfortable!” 

He winked at her again. Seriously, what was this guy’s deal?

Despite the slightly repulsive presentation, Gideon for the first time was cursing her inability to speak. She was rather intrigued by these baths, but how did you ask for directions without using words? Were there really nuns that did this their whole lives? Maybe that’s why none of them ever left Drearburh, they’d get lost and couldn’t ask for directions. 

She tried to make a face that said “how interesting, tell me more,” and it must have worked because Teacher followed up with detailed directions to the bath and the room with the cooler pool.

Then he patted her on the cheek and walked away. 

What a creep.

-------------------------------------------------------

Gideon changed her mind, Teacher was the best. 

She sighed and sank deeper into the hot water. It tingled over every submerged inch of skin, just on the edge of pain. If this was the cooler pool, what the hell kind of masochists were in the main baths?

Not that Gideon was complaining - she was alone in the room and, given how well hidden the entrance was, would likely stay that way. She had heard quite a few voices echoing off the walls as she skirted the edge of the main bathing area. The other cavaliers were probably out there gossiping and posturing and eyeing up everyone’s collection of bruises. Some of them (Jeannemary) had hit the ground quite hard going into some rolls. 

Alright, maybe Gideon was a little wistful about missing that part. She did like a good bruise. 

Not enough to make her leave this pool, though.

The room was small, the bath a circle about 15 feet across. The ceiling was domed, covered with artful sculptures made to look like stalactites. The benches scattered around were all rough-hewn blocks of marble, and in the flickering light of candles the whole thing looked like a remarkably upscale cave. 

They had baths in Drearburh of course, otherwise everyone would go around smelling like they were one step removed from a rotting corpse. Unfortunately, fuel was so precious that they used as little as possible, which meant baths were heated only enough so one didn’t turn blue. 

Now the steam from the bath curled up around her in graceful arcs, the tiny waves from her own movement lapped at her chest, and Gideon felt some of the tension from the awkwardness of the day and the newness of her surroundings melt away. 

The candlelight did lovely things to her skin. She’d shucked all her clothes and washed her face paint off in the antechamber and, as she refused to believe modesty was a virtue, had spent some time admiring how well flickering light and a sheen of water highlighted her muscles. 

She’d dunked all the way under when she’d gone in, and her hair was still slicked back from her face. She was languishing on a ledge in the tub all the way back from the entrance, arms spread along the rim to keep her anchored, and kicking lazily to watch the light on the water move. Even her parts that were out of the water were pink with heat and wet with water and sweat.

Today really had gone well. 

Now that she was on the other side of it, she could admit she’d been nervous. The first fight of the entire Tournament, against a new opponent, with the future of her entire House at stake? Hell yeah she’d been nervous. 

But it had gone so well. She grinned, closing her eyes and letting her head rest on the rim of the bath. 

She let herself sink into the memory, embellishing it, enjoying it. The shock of the crowd when she’d disarmed Magnus in three moves. The rising wave of noise as they started to cheer. The roar as they hit their peak and were screaming in celebration of her victory.

Her mind again placed the fantasy of that golden princess at the front of the crowd, one of the first to jump to her feet, clapping furiously. 

Gideon saw herself turn and acknowledge the crowd like Naberius had, a gracious wave to accept their congratulations. She locked eyes with the princess, who gasped and placed a hand on her ample cleavage as if to say “who, me???” Gideon strode towards her, taking her hand and bowing to place a kiss on it. She could feel a shiver run through the princess’ body as Gideon trailed her fingers along the graceful wrist and palm before falling away. 

Afterward she’d had to rush away from the staging room, keeping her silent and mysterious persona in place, but what if?...

Camilla walked right up to her and held out a hand in congratulations, a mischievous smile on her face that said ‘I acknowledge you as a skilled equal.’ The other cavaliers surrounded them, thumping her on the back or the arm, telling her the moves they most admired from her fight. Jeannemary actually hugged her, proud instead of intimidated. 

And then… the run in with Harrow. 

How could that have gone better? 

Well, pretty much any way but how it actually happened would have been better. 

She had originally come to thank Gideon, to tell her how well she did in the fight. Maybe Harrow arrived before Gideon, maybe she was waiting in the tent. 

Gideon pushed aside the door flap to find Harrow standing there, shrouded by her dark robes in the middle of the dim tent. The only light spot in the entire space was her skull paint. 

Her skull paint that matched Gideon’s own. 

“Griddle,” she said.

Gideon took a few steps in, the door falling closed to shut out the rest of the tournament. 

Just like they had in real life, their eyes met and held. 

And they just looked at each other. 

“What?” Gideon said softly. 

“I wanted to say…” Harrow took a deep breath, “thank you.”

Gideon took another step. They were only a few feet apart now. 

“For what?” 

She was close enough to see the pink showing through the paint on Harrow’s lips, as though she’d been biting them while standing here waiting. 

“For all of it,” Harrow said, “for today. For coming along at all. For being… you.”

This close, Gideon could tell the difference between the dark blackish-brown of Harrow’s iris and the true black of her pupils. They were huge in the gloom of the tent. 

“You did so well today,” she continued, “I didn’t know you could move like that. It was incredible.”

She paused. 

“You’re incredible.”

Gideon felt her clit twitch at that thought. 

Huh.

Welp, it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing she’d ever masturbated to. She slid one hand under the water. 

“You’re incredible. You really are the best sword fighter I’ve ever seen.”

“You haven’t seen that many sword fighters,” Gideon teased. 

“True.” Harrow’s lips quirked into a small smile. “But you’re still the best. I want you to know how grateful I am for what you’re doing for the Ninth House. For Drearburh’s people.” 

Harrow hesitated, then moved forward to cover the last few inches between them. 

”For me.”

They were so close now.

“You’ve done so much for me. Let me show you how much I... appreciate you.” 

Harrow’s dark eyes burned into her, and then she very slowly, very carefully, dropped to her knees. 

Gideon moaned.

Someone else squeaked in reply.

Gideon’s eyes shot open, her hand flinging itself away from her crotch, water splashing everywhere. 

Harrow - the real Harrow - stood on the far side of the pool, bare-faced, wearing only a fluffy black towel wrapped around her body. 

A small part of Gideon’s mind found time to wonder where in the hell she’d found a black towel in all-white Canaan - had she brought it from Drearburh? - but the rest of it was just running around with its hands in the air going “AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

Gideon said nothing. 

Harrow said nothing. 

They looked at each other. 

And then Harrow turned around and ran away from Gideon, for the third time that day.

Chapter Text

So that happened.

And then the next day she has to fight Naberius Perfect-Teeth Tern. 

Great, she’s sure it won’t be a problem at all that she’s super distracted.

They’re drawn fourth, so Gideon had plenty of time to sit in the stands, watch her competition, and try not to think about certain rodent-faced nobles who apparently bring their own damn towels along when visiting the Imperial House. 

Harrow hadn’t come back to their room by the time Gideon fell asleep last night and she’d still been gone in the morning, but her bed had the indentation of the threatened-armadillo curl Harrow always slept in so she must have returned at some point.

If, two days ago, someone had asked Gideon what would happen if Harrow walked in on her doing the one-handed tango Gideon would have probably guessed at yelling. 

So much yelling. “Inappropriate” this, and “shame to the Ninth House” that, glare approaching critical 9.9+ levels. (when she first created the Glare Scale™, she’d assumed that a full 10.0 glare would cause an actual aneurysm. Everybody needs goals.)

She might have guessed Harrow would be disgusted, would pretend to gag or roll her eyes, throw out a few insults about Gideon’s lack of partners or sexual prowess. She had a stable of unflattering comparisons for Gideon’s facial features, which Gideon knew because she’d once stumbled across the notebook where Harrow brainstormed them.

She would not have expected Harrow to hold sustained eye contact with her as a blush overtook her face and then hurriedly leave without uttering a single cutting word. 

(She was also, resolutely, not thinking about the fact that it was Harrow she had been thinking of when Harrow walked in on her polishing her pommel.

Nope, NOT thinking about it. 

NOT. 

STOP IT. 

gaaaaah)

On the plus side, she finally got to see Camilla fight and realized she was right about two things: 

1. The Sixth cavalier fought with an unusual matched pair of short swords, and 
2. Gideon might not be able to beat her. 

She had an acrobatic fighting style that - paired with the dual blades, neither of which seemed to be an “off” hand - left no safe angles of attack or retreat. 

Camilla was paired with Protesilaus for the first match of the day and, after a few minutes of back and forth, had delivered a coup de grâce that easily outclassed Gideon’s little three-move disarm from yesterday. 

Protesilaus had aimed a powerful low sweep at Camilla’s calves, which stooped his massive body down to a normal human height. Camilla had caught his rapier mid-sweep by jabbing one of her knives like a fence post in the dirt, stepped on his low-angled arm, and used it to launch herself in a flip over Protesilaus’ head. The action had the side effect of sending the giant stumbling forward off-balance, so when Camilla landed behind him all she had to do was take her remaining knife and press it gently to the side of his neck.

He yielded with good grace, even pulling her dagger out of the ground and handing it back to her as the arena boomed with deafening applause. 

Magnus and Jeannemary were up next and, to exactly nobody’s surprise, Jeannemary won. It took her longer than it should have - she seemed nervous about attacking her foster-father, possibly afraid that he wouldn’t block in time and she would actually hurt him. 

Or maybe she was just going easy on him. Gideon heard that was a thing some families did for each other. 

At any rate, by the time she got in close enough to cause a submission the sun was high and the audience - Canaan House nobles and townsfolk, used to three regular meals a day - were grumbling with hunger. 

Teacher called a break for lunch.

-------------------------------------------------------

All the clouds of yesterday had burned off and the sun was bright and pounding as Gideon stood in line for a turkey leg. Not for the first time, she cursed the Ninth House color - her sleeveless tunic would have been fine in the heat if it had been left as undyed linen, but the requisite black was soaked through with her sweat. 

Gideon didn’t mind sweating if she’d earned it, but she’d been sitting around on her butt all day watching other people fight - that was not the kind of thing that should make her body this moist. 

Of course, she still wasn’t as wet - in any sense of the word - as she’d been last night in the bath, when -

(NOPE. 

THINK ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE.)

Who were these chatty people in front of her in line? They sure were talking loudly and animatedly, maybe they were discussing something Gideon could be interested in. Please, dear god, let them be discussing something she could be interested in.

Gideon blinked in the sun and then blinked again in surprise as she realized that one of the arguers was none other than the golden princess who had played such a prominent role in her recent arena fantasies. 

Somehow she hadn’t noticed her, probably because her mind had been stuck on other fantasies of - 

(NOPE.)

Golden princess. Yes, that’s who she was ogling right now.

The Third heir obviously wasn’t wearing the slinky golden gown and heaps of purple jewelry from the ball, but her light-colored pants and tunic were draped in a gauzy golden robe that floated around her voluptuous figure and seemed to sparkle in the bright sun, giving a similar stunning effect. Her hair was piled high on her head, blonde curls erupting out of a bun to create a bouncy halo. 

Whatever they were discussing had brought high color to the princess’ cheeks, and her eyes were flashing with anger as she spoke and gesticulated forcefully. 

It was a good look. 

Commanding, authoritative, the kind of look that made Gideon want to snap her heels together and salute, and then present herself to be tied up and disciplined. 

Gideon was getting ready to lose herself in that safe fantasy, when something from their discussion brought her back to attention. 

“...at the baths. Babs said he was asking questions about it, the whole time. We can’t ignore that!”

“Oh please,” the princess’ companion rolled her eyes, “he’s not a threat. If anything, that thick-headed cavalier was just following some mad orders of Octakiseron’s, he’s always playing weird mind games.”

“But that’s my point,” the princess said, brows drawing in and eyes glinting dangerously, (Gideon may have whimpered a little) “he’s always got some mad scheme going on, and with stakes this high it’s likely to be a dangerous one. We need to figure out what it is.” 

“We don’t need to worry about the Eighth. If we need to worry, it’s about - two turkey legs and a side of mash.” 

This last was to the server at the food stand, as the pair had reached the top of the queue. 

Gideon was full-on intrigued by that point. She had no idea who ‘Babs’ was, but the mention of the Eighth made her think they had been talking about Colum, the stolid cavalier who had lost to Camilla the previous day. Octakiseron must be his heir, that was definitely a noble Eighth name. What kinds of questions had he been asking in the baths that were making the princess this worried? 

Unfortunately they didn’t say anything else as they gathered their food and moved on, and Gideon wasn’t about to give up her own meal to follow them. 

It was only as she was waiting for her order and watching them walk away that she gave much notice to the person the princess had been arguing with. Not surprising really - if the Third heir was a brilliant glowing sun that forcibly captured the attention, this woman was the opposite. She was dressed identically to the golden princess, but on her the clothes were baggy and shapeless, the robe falling flat and dim. She was also a wheaty blonde, but more of a ‘months old dry flour’ color than the princess’ ‘ripe grains in a summer field.’ 

Everything about her screamed “I fade into the background.” Who was she? The matching outfit meant she must also be Third, and was clearly high-ranking enough to have a public argument with the heir, but Gideon didn’t remember seeing her at the ball or the arena the previous day. 

She received her turkey leg and wandered back towards the stands. They had another half hour before the matches would start again, plenty of time to eat and do some stretches.

Marta and Colum were up next, and Gideon had no idea how long they would take. Gideon wasn’t about to be caught unprepared for her own match, so in case Marta trounced Colum as quickly as Camilla had she was going to start her warmups before they went into the ring.

It’d have been nice to get a chance to see Colum in action since he was the only one she’d yet to watch fight, but she could easily picture Aiglamene’s glower if Gideon risked being unprepared for her own fight just to gain intel on a hypothetical future opponent.

As much as she would have loved to denigrate the preppy, puffed up Third cavalier, Naberius was no slouch. Gideon thought she had a chance of winning if she used the extra weight of her broadsword to overpower him and knock him off his form - a little extra oomph behind her parries could force his arm further away from his body than he was used to, leaving him off balance and creating an opening. 

That was the idea, anyways. Naberius was fast, and precise, never wasting any movement or energy - it was entirely possible he’d recover quicker than Gideon could react. 

No matter what it was going to be a challenging fight, but she’d have absolutely no chance of winning if she didn’t warm up first. 

She tore another strip of meat off the bone with her teeth and chewed it viciously as she redirected herself towards the cavaliers’ prep area. 

She could eat while she stretched.

-------------------------------------------------------

An unexpected benefit of warming up here rather than her tent was the opportunity to eavesdrop on gossip. Only tournament competitors were allowed in here, which freed their tongues to be more snarky than Gideon knew they would be in public. 

Occupied with her warmups as she was, she didn’t feel the need to watch Marta and Colum’s fight firsthand. The four cavaliers that had already fought that day were clustered around the arena entrance staring out at the ring.

“Oh my god, what was that move?”

“Either the sloppiest thrust I’ve ever seen or she tripped and stuck her arm out for balance.”

“It looked like she couldn’t decide between a point or a slash, and tried to do both.”

“Ah yes, the well-known dual-nature form of swordfighting - both a particle and a wave at the same time. From the quantum school, I believe.”

That last was from Camilla - who was apparently a huge nerd, wtf - and obviously intended to be funny because she chuckled at herself afterwards, but the other cavaliers just looked at her in confusion. Camilla rolled her eyes and adopted an attitude of “you are not cool enough to get the massively dorky joke I just made,” which, really, mad respect from Gideon for pulling that off.

“Seriously though, what’s up with her today?” Jeannemary sensibly moved them back to the important topic.

Magnus replied, “It’s strange, isn’t it. I was chatting with Captain Deuteros - her heir - over lunch, and she was bragging that Marta had this really great strategy for taking down Colum in the first five minutes.”

Gideon glanced at the clock - they were over halfway through the one hour time limit for the match.

Jeannemary’s mouth pursed in a frown. “Strategy has always been her strength. Every Second fighter’s strength, really. But this is just…” 

“Sloppy,” Protesilaus finished, nodding in agreement. 

“I thought she’d win this easy, for sure,” Camilla added. “Colum’s a solid fighter and probably great in a large battle, but he’s not very creative - he reacts quickly but instinctively, which means he’s easy to trick if you have a plan. It didn’t take me long to figure him out yesterday, and I know Marta was watching.”

Ugh Gideon wished she could have seen that fight. Damnit Harrow, why did you have to come by the tent - 

(No, nope, not thinking about that right now.

Gideon sped up her crunches, adding some leg kicks so the discomfort would distract her.)

“And Marta always has a plan,” Jeannemary agreed, heedless of the emotional turmoil taking place on the ground behind her.

Camilla leaned in towards the others, lowering her voice. “She almost got Tern twice yesterday - he just barely got out of the way in time.”

They all glanced back at Naberius, who was doing lunges across the back of the room. His fawn-colored breeches were stretched tight over the muscles of his thighs - every time he hit the bottom of a step, he looked like a statue carved to demonstrate what the ideal lunge position should be. 

Feeling a weird mix of disgust and jealousy at this sight, Gideon flipped over and started some push ups. 

Camilla continued, “Colum’s nowhere near as fast as him, so why is Marta having so much trouble?”

They stared out at the arena in silence, until Protesilaus asked Jeannemary something about the architecture of Tisis and Gideon tuned them all out again, now stretching her quads.

-------------------------------------------------------

In the end the match timed out, although it sounded like Colum had come close to winning a couple times at the end. Marta had stumbled off the field and straight through the cavalier’s prep area without so much as glancing at anyone. She looked more exhausted than Gideon had ever seen anyone be, and Gideon had seen Harrow after three straight days without sleep (afterwards they had functioning heat again and no one had frozen to death, so Gideon hadn’t even made fun of her that time).

It was definitely odd - she remembered how Marta had looked after an hour against Naberius. She had been extremely sweaty and tired, but nothing like this. Her shoulders hung limply from their sockets, and it looked like she was putting great effort into keeping her eyes open. Gideon wouldn’t have been surprised if she collapsed right there on the floor. 

But no, Marta stumbled off to - Gideon assumed - take a long nap in her tent, so given the lack of a medical emergency it was now Gideon and Naberius’ turn.

They walked out to take their places. Blech, it was still fucking hot under this sun - Gideon went to mop her forehead with her sleeve, realized she wasn’t wearing sleeves, decided she didn’t care, then remembered she was wearing fucking face paint, and just scowled and dropped her arm. She shook her head to get rid of what sweat she could, and to try to force her thoughts back into order. 

Remember, focus on power, she told herself. He’s faster than you, but you’re stronger than him, and your sword’s heavier. Use that to win.

Gideon got to her position, took up her sword in both hands, and then - 

She saw Harrow. 

At the very top of the noble’s stands, off to the side, hiding in shadow. Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed her perched there like a bat in the dark, swathed in black, but her familiar white paint drew Gideon’s eye like a magnet. 

Harrow was wearing the Jawless Skull again. 

Harrow had come to watch Gideon’s fight, matching Gideon’s face, not even 24 hours after stumbling across Gideon naked and - 

Well.

Gideon could feel her own face turning beet red under the paint, and was suddenly, painfully, glad for the Ninth’s insistence on ritualistic face coverings.

The thing she had been trying not to think about all day came roaring back with a vengeance. 

It flooded her mind with memories of the bath cave, the soft flickering light on bare skin, that incongruous black towel, and Harrow’s wide eyes and flushed cheeks. She’d been standing right at the edge of the pool, must have been there for a while, must have come through the door while Gideon had her eyes closed, seen what was happening, and then chose to come closer instead of ducking back out, must have stood there and watched while Gideon -

The bell rang to start the match. 

“Fuck!” Gideon grunted as Naberius’ sword crashed into hers.

-------------------------------------------------------

Gideon hadn’t expected this to be an easy match, and she was right. 

It brought her little comfort. 

Twenty minutes in they both had a collection of tiny cuts from nicks and deflections, but neither had gotten close to a match-ending submission. Naberius had snuck inside her guard a few times, but so far she’d noticed what he was doing and been able to catch it or dodge.

That luck wouldn’t hold for long.

She managed to overpower Naberius a handful of times as well, once causing him to actually stumble, but instead of falling flat on his face or dropping his sword to catch himself, the little douchebag tucked into a roll and popped back up with perfect form.

Eventually he was going to do something she wouldn’t be fast enough to catch, and if she had any chance in hell of winning it needed to happen soon. 

Her eyes narrowed as an idea came to her. He’d been able to recover quickly from individual powerful blows, but what about more than one in quick succession? The extended follow through of a powerful stroke usually made that impossible, but there were a few ways to make it work. Sure they were risky and left parts of her open to attack, but she could probably trust Naberius to spend his time snapping back into perfect form rather than seizing a surprise vulnerability. 

Gideon went on the offensive, building each stroke in power as she stepped forward. Predictably, Naberius parried every hit, inching back in perfect step with her. 

She pulled away to build momentum, just as she had before, and brought her heavy sword slashing sideways at his torso. He braced and slammed his rapier backhanded in response, forcing the swinging broadsword down and across, his own weight pushed temporarily off balance. He would recover quickly, just as he had last time she’d tried this move. 

But this time, instead of pulling her sword to a halt, she leaned into the added force from his backhand, kept it swinging as she spun her entire body in a full circle, and brought it crashing back for a second blow to the exact same spot - only now his hand was too far away to bring enough power to deflect it. 

He didn’t even bother to try. Naberius threw himself sideways to dodge it, putting himself out of striking form but also well out of her reach. 

Gideon cursed and pivoted quickly to face his new position, and realized - goddamnit. The bastard had positioned himself between Gideon and the sun, now low enough in the sky that it shone directly into her eyes. 

She squinted and flinched back, and that was all Naberius needed as an opening. Gideon felt the pommel of his sword slam into her hands, hard enough to drop her broadsword from her suddenly numb fingers. 

Naberius kicked it away and whipped his rapier up to stop a hairsbreadth from her throat. 

“Match to the Third!” called Teacher, ecstatically. 

Naberius smiled his big, blinding, stupid smile, the sun still behind him outlining his entire sillhouette like some unusually muscular saint in a stained glass window. 

Gideon desperately wanted to punch him right in that smug, square-jawed face. 

If there hadn’t been a thousand people watching, she might have.

-------------------------------------------------------

35...

36…

37…

Naberius Tern.

38…

39…

She could still see that self-satisfied smile right after he’d pulled his nasty trick and knocked her down in the rankings. 

40...

With today’s loss she’d fallen from tied for first to fourth, Camilla still squarely in the lead with 6 points and Jeannemary and Naberius tied behind her with 4 each.

41...

Gideon was woman enough to admit that, had anyone else pulled that move, even against her, she would probably be grudgingly impressed and taken notes to use it in the future.

42...

He was just such a pompous twat. 

43…

A real phony, flashy bastard.

44…

With those giant smarmy grins and ridiculous blue-brown eyes. Why are your eyes two colors, dude? Just pick one, like everybody else.

45…

Seriously, did the Third breed that in so he’d be extra fancy? Maybe to fit in with their other House decorations?

46…

Gideon pictured him standing at attention in a corridor, his face blending in with the jeweled sconces. Someone walked by and hung a coat on him, mistaking him for a rack. 

47…

She smirked. This train of thought didn’t really help her bitterness at losing to the biggest fucking tool she’d ever met, but at least she wasn’t continuing to picture the smirk on his face when he’d beaten her. 

48…

Wait. 

49…

Damnit, now that was all she was thinking about again. Stupid brain. 

50.

She collapsed on the cool floor, groaning, her third set of pushups complete. 

Turned out there wasn’t a lot to do at Canaan House between the tournament and dinner, other than go to the baths again, which, no. Gideon had wandered around for a bit, and then gone back to their rooms in the absence of any better ideas. 

She wasn’t sure if she’d been relieved or disappointed that Harrow hadn’t been in them. 

Harrow.

Gideon grunted and hauled herself off the floor to start a round of squats. 

Under threat of torture, she would have to admit that part of her extreme bitterness at losing today had something to do with her dark and brooding liege. All along she had wanted to win the tournament, but now she wanted to win it for Harrow. Gideon didn’t care so much about saving the Ninth House - the world would probably be a better place if the Empire just gave it up as a bad job and reassigned all the nuns to beaches to pick coconuts or something. 

But Harrow cared about it. Harrow cared about it a lot. 

And for whatever fucking reason, Gideon found she now cared about the things Harrow cared about.

Harrow’s raspy words from the bleachers echoed through her mind. “You were really good out there today, Griddle. I think we might actually have a chance of winning now.”

And then another phrase, one she’d never heard in real life but was etched into her mind nonetheless: “You’re incredible.”

Gideon shivered. 

Which, honestly, was a really weird feeling mid-squat. 

And she’d been there today. The feeling that had flooded Gideon when she’d glanced up from the arena and saw Harrow watching - 

Well. She’d been watching, so she’d seen everything that had happened in that trash fire of a match.

Maybe not so incredible now, Gideon thought sourly. Not when she’d been taken down by the king of all twats. 

What did Harrow think of their chances after today? Was she disappointed in Gideon? Did Gideon care? 

Yes. Yes, she did care, and she fucking hated it. 

Gideon had never been in a position to disappoint Harrow before, mostly because Harrow had never had any expectations of her beyond being as aggravating to Harrow as possible. A standard Gideon had been more than happy to live up to. 

Up till now, their 18 years of shared existence had been marked by unconditional hatred and loathing, and that was just the way things were - hating Harrow had seemed as natural as breathing, because Harrow was just so easily hateable. Her glares were cutting, her nails pierced skin, and her words stabbed at Gideon’s youthful, tender heart. 

Replying in kind had been so easy. 

But maybe, the back of Gideon’s brain supplied, you were both scared lonely little kids that got nothing but neglect and abuse from the adults, so you took it out on each other. 

Gideon wrenched herself back to standing and went to splash some water on her face. 

That was quite enough introspection for one day, thank you. 

-------------------------------------------------------

It only took a few minutes to throw on fresh clothes and redo her paint. Technically there was still a half hour before dinner, but there had to be someone around she could hang with. Even Teacher would be better than continuing to be alone with her own brain. 

So, naturally, the only person in the entire castle that was not on Gideon’s list of people she would be happy to see right now was standing outside the door. 

Harrow was slumped against the wall across the corridor, fiddling with something gold and spindly in her hands. She straightened up when Gideon walked out of the door, and shoved the shiny object away under her cloak. 

“Hello Nav.”

Gideon’s brain, unsurprisingly, was not being helpful. Oh god oh god oh god, what the fuck do I do now?! was echoing on repeat.

“Nonagesimus.”

They looked at each other, in silence. 

(Why did that keep happening? Surely they hadn’t spent so much time awkwardly making eye contact back in Drearburh, Gideon was sure she would have remembered that.)

“Have you just been… standing out here?” She tried, which seemed reasonable. 

“Oh, I…” Harrow fidgeted, looking away, “I wanted to talk to you, but I…  I heard some noises, and wasn’t sure I should come in.”

For a second that was also an eternity, Gideon didn’t understand what Harrow was talking about. 

And then she did. 

“Oh my GOD! No!” she spluttered, “I was exercising! Just exercising!”

“Oh! Oh, of course,” said Harrow. 

Neither of them were looking at each other anymore. 

Gideon squeezed her eyes shut and desperately wished she could just evaporate on the spot. Could a person die of embarrassment? That would be awfully convenient right now. 

“Of course,” Harrow repeated, sounding relieved. “What else would you be doing? Ha ha ha.” 

She fully pronounced each “ha,” like an alien reading from a script of a laughing human. 

Gideon squeezed her eyes tighter. How would one go about setting off a death-from-humiliation? Maybe if she held her breath all the furiously blushing blood vessels in her face and neck would pop, and she could have a nice quick aneurysm. 

She had just taken a long inhale to give it a try, when Harrow said “Anyway, I made something for you.” 

“What?” Gideon was so surprised she immediately forgot her escape plan and opened her eyes. 

“I made something for you,” repeated Harrow, digging around inside her robes. She pulled out the golden object again, which Gideon now saw was a slender framework surrounding two dark pieces of glass.

“I saw your match today,” (Gideon briefly re-examined the possibility of just expiring on the spot) “and he only got you because of the sun. So.” She held the object out, offering it to Gideon. 

Gideon eyed it suspiciously. “How does this thing help me with the sun?”

“They’re glasses, with tinted lenses. They’ll keep the sun out of your eyes.” Harrow’s hand sagged a little. “They have a really nice machine shop and smithy here, Teacher showed me. Look -” She pulled apart two long stems on either side of the thing, and Gideon finally recognized the bits that would hook over the ears and where the nose would go. The eyepieces were big, and weirdly droopy to either side, but it was definitely a pair of glasses. 

“Oh, I see.” Gideon took the things, examining them up close. “I’ve never seen dark glasses like this before.” 

“I know. They were originally inspection windows from a focusing array, and I couldn’t find any glass cutting tools to reshape them. Sorry.” Harrow looked genuinely downcast, as if she expected Gideon to throw the things to the floor and scold her for her failure. (Gideon had known Harrow’s parents, and honestly, that was probably exactly what she was expecting)

A minor explosion seemed to be taking place inside Gideon’s chest, one that had nothing to do with spontaneous death from humiliation.

Harrow wasn’t disappointed with her. 

Harrow hadn’t given up on her after she lost to Naberius.

Harrow had seen that fight, and walked away with the idea that Gideon had almost won except for that damn sun, and then she’d gone and invented a thing to help her. 

Harrow wasn’t berating her for her failure or sneering at her loss, she was worried Gideon wouldn’t like her gift.

Gideon slid the glasses onto her face. They fit perfectly. 

Harrow’s face transformed into a small, rare smile, and she asked shyly “Are you going to wear them for tomorrow’s match?”

Gideon’s answering smile was as big as Naberius’. “I’m going to wear them forever.”

-------------------------------------------------------

A small dining chamber had been reserved for the exclusive use of the tournament nobles and fighters. So far Gideon had only stopped in to grab food and run, but she found she was actually looking forward to a sit-down meal. On her own her ‘vow of silence’ kept her from engaging in any interesting conversation, but with Harrow around she could at least converse by proxy.

The two of them walked silently down the hall towards the dining room. A part of Gideon thought she should try striking up a conversation, but most of her was content to bask in the glowy, confusing feelings engendered by the glasses still perched on her face.

She wasn’t sure what she would have said anyway. 

Hey Harrow, thanks for making me this ridiculously thoughtful present instead of continuing to demean me like you have for the past 18 years. It means a lot.

Hey Harrow, you know that other night when you walked in on me masturbating, I was totally thinking about you telling me how great I am. Can you do it some more, please? I’ll let you watch again.

Hey sugarlips, what say we give up on this tournament and go have our own personal fight for dominance. I’ll let you wield the sword, if-you-know-what-I-mean.

Under the glasses, Gideon winced. Definitely not that one. 

Hey Harrow, mind telling me what the hell’s going on in your brain? Cause I’m kinda getting the impression you like me, which is the opposite of what I’ve thought for the rest of our existence, and I’m having a lot of really complicated feelings about it. I think I might like you too, which was a bit of a shock and I’m still recovering, because let’s be honest, you’ve never given up an opportunity to be absolutely horrible to me, and it’s a bit concerning to me that one incredibly awkward compliment literally got me wet for you. 

This inner monologue cut off abruptly as movement flashed in the side of Gideon’s vision. She reacted instinctively, jumping to catch the figure that had just collapsed out of a stairwell.

The woman was small and light, but Gideon’s leap to grab her before she hit the floor had over balanced them. Gideon crashed painfully down onto one knee, but managed to get an arm around the woman’s head and prevent her from smashing it into the flagstones. 

The shock of her leg violently meeting the floor shoved all the breath out of her lungs and she let out an abrupt gasp, grimacing as the impact ran through her. She was still trying to breathe through the pain when the woman opened her eyes. 

“Oh!” came the soft little voice, and Gideon lost her breath all over again as she looked down into eyes that were the same crystal turquoise as the ocean around Canaan House. Long feathery brown lashes blinked at her out of an elegant face, lovely high cheekbones that showed a bit too prominently through the skin to be healthy.

It was the woman in the floaty dress who had winked at her at the ball - the Seventh heir? Must be, she’d been dancing with Protesilaus that night. 

“My savior,” the woman said, and smiled up at Gideon with dimples that seemed to twinkle in the dim corridor. 

Something heavy crashed to the ground on the landing above, and a set of footsteps thundered towards them.

“Lady Septimus!” Protesilaus had appeared, kneeling beside Gideon. A small suitcase slid down the steps behind him from the large pile he had dropped. 

“I’m alright Pro,” the lady replied, easing herself into a sitting position but still leaning heavily on Gideon’s arms, “I fainted at the bottom of the stairs, but was heroically caught by this dashing Ninth cavalier.”

She beamed up at Gideon again. Gideon could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

Protesilaus started anxiously checking over his heir for injuries. “I told you to wait for me, I could have taken the bags and come back for you.”

“I know that, Pro,” said Lady Septimus, some of the ethereal breathiness in her voice replaced with a cutting edge, “and I chose to take the risk and walk on my own instead of waiting for you, alone in an empty room, like a good little girl.” 

“Besides,” she turned back to Gideon, and her voice regained that adoring quality that made Gideon’s stomach flip over, “there was a handsome stranger waiting to catch me. What a better story that is, don’t you think?”

An icy hand clamped down hard on Gideon’s shoulder. 

“We were on our way to dinner.” Harrow’s voice was as flat and cold as the obsidian slabs that covered the graves in the Tomb. 

Harrow didn’t let go of Gideon’s shoulder until Gideon had helped Septimus sit without support. As Gideon eased her own hands away from the Seventh House heir, Harrow’s hand dropped off her shoulder as suddenly as a boulder off a cliff. Gideon swore she could still feel the imprint of those claws digging into her clavicle. 

“Lovely!” Septimus said, “We were going to head there as soon as we’d dropped off the luggage in our new room.” With a helping hand from Protesilaus, she regained her feet. 

Gideon eyed the bulging muscles in the cavalier’s arm, and the way Septimus’ hand seemed to disappear inside his. She was impressed at how delicately the cavalier assisted her off the floor - Gideon knew from experience that large muscles made it easy to unintentionally yank on light objects. At least this explained his deft touch and defensive style in the arena. 

“They thought they were doing me a favor by giving us a tower room with a lot of fresh sea air,” Septimus continued, “but it gets awfully chilly at night, so I asked for one down in the main area. It’s the opposite direction of dinner from here, though.” 

She turned to her cavalier. “Pro, maybe you could finish our move and the Ninth here could walk me to the dining room?”

Protesilaus nodded, seeming pleased with this compromise. 

“Lovely!” Septimus said again. “Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself as usual - I’m Dulcinea Septimus, Duchess of Rhodes, Heir to the Seventh House.”

She raised a slender hand out towards Gideon, eyes sparkling, and Gideon was seized with the sudden knowledge that Dulcinea expected her to kiss it. 

Before she had a chance to do more than twitch in that direction, Harrow had abruptly stuck her own arm out in front of Gideon, seized Dulcinea’s offered hand, and was pumping it up and down in the most awkward handshake Gideon had ever witnessed. 

“Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House. This is Gideon Nav, my cavalier.” She was still latched onto Dulcinea’s hand, now wiggling both their arms around like a snake on a trampoline. 

“She’s taken a holy vow of silence.” Harrow spit out this last sentence like acid, and Gideon felt her heart sink. 

She had legit forgotten she wasn’t supposed to talk - her silence up to this point had been from shock, first from pain and then from the overwhelming presence of the Duchess of Rhodes. 

Whose hand she had almost kissed, right after saving her from a fall and being heavily flirted with - all in front of Harrow, who five minutes ago had shot her a genuine - if small - smile, and whose face now appeared to be carved from very angry marble.

They’d been alone for the walk from their room, and Gideon could have spoken but hadn’t known what to say. Now they were going to be around others at dinner for the next few hours, and Gideon was bursting to say something about the hurt expression on Harrow’s face but she couldn’t because of this damn silent charade.

Feeling miserable, Gideon tried to give her usual penitent nod but it came out more morose than anything else. 

“Oh!” said Dulcinea, recovering her hand and looking delightedly at Gideon. “The quiet brooding type of hero, I see.” She held out her arm in clear invitation. “Escort me to dinner, my silent rescuer?”

Not sure what else she could do, Gideon shot a look at Harrow - who didn’t return it - and took Dulcinea’s arm in hers. 

The three of them went off to dinner: Dulcinea beaming and chatting away about the tournament, arm in arm with a silent and confused Gideon, one quietly seething black-wrapped wraith padding along several feet behind them. 

-------------------------------------------------------

The Seventh’s new room must not have been too far away, because Protesilaus caught up with them just as they reached the door of the dining room. 

(This may have had something to do with Dulcinea’s habit of stopping to gush over artwork or windows with views, and Gideon’s habit of going along with whatever Dulcinea wanted. Harrow’s habit of furiously glowering at their backs had no effect whatsoever.)

Gideon, relieved, handed Dulcinea back to her own cavalier and fell back into step with Harrow, who immediately sped up to leave Gideon behind. 

Gideon rolled her eyes. These dark glasses were already proving useful, even indoors - she wasn’t sure she could have kept up her stoic ninth facade without them.

She got a lot of use out of this as the dinner went on, Gideon and Harrow seated opposite Dulcinea and Protesilaus at the long group table. Harrow’s sulky silences were occasionally broken by remarks that would have been polite if they hadn’t been delivered with a voice so icy it could have preserved the fish they were served for dinner. Dulcinea was either completely oblivious to Harrow’s bad mood or such a well-practiced diplomat she could ignore it at will, and continued to carry most of the conversation herself with occasional asides from Protesilaus. 

The only other people present when they arrived were a trio who had seated themselves at the far end of the table and were giving off strong ‘don’t sit with us’ vibes. 

Gideon shot a glance their way and immediately recognized Naberius, the golden princess, and the woman who had been arguing with the princess in line that morning. 

Gideon frowned.

That didn’t make sense. Teacher had had been very specific that only the heirs and the cavaliers who were fighting in the tournament were allowed in this room. The Canaan House servants who brought the food were clad completely in white and never lingered, so this woman couldn’t be one of them - who was she then? Gideon had been ninety-nine percent sure the golden princess was, in fact, the Third House Princess, but she didn’t actually have proof of that. Come to think of it, she didn’t remember seeing either her or Naberius dancing at the opening of the ball. But if that other woman was the heir, what was the princess doing here?

Her attention was drawn away by the appearance of another set of heir and cavalier. 

“Ah, Nonagesimus. I see you’ve finally emerged from your lair. Hello, Dulcie. Pro.” The long thin form of the Sixth House heir folded himself into the chair next to Dulcinea. Camilla, to Gideon’s immense delight, circled the table and took the chair across from her heir, right next to Gideon.

“Sextus,” Harrow acknowledged, in her chilling mistress-of-the-night voice. 

Dulcinea greeted the Sixth heir (Sextus apparently - wow was Gideon going to figure out some puns for that one) with a friendly kiss on the cheek, which caused a blush to overtake his face. Gideon was relieved to see she wasn’t the only one Dulcinea had that effect on.

The servants slipped a fresh plate of fish and vegetables in front of the two newcomers and faded back into the shadows. 

“Nav, right?” Sextus acknowledged Gideon from across the table. She nodded. 

“Nice specs.” He tapped his own, which were much rounder and clearer than Gideon’s.

Gideon nodded again. 

God damn, she was getting tired of nodding. Once this tournament was over and she could talk properly, she might not ever nod again in her life.

“They are quite fetching,” Dulcinea added, and Gideon wasn’t sure if the tightening of her stomach was in response to the complement or the way Harrow’s grip tightened around her knife after it. 

“Nonagesimus make them for you?” Sextus asked, slicing into his fish. 

“Obviously,” Harrow’s voice dripped with condescension, “they’re far too good to be your work.”

Sextus chewed and swallowed his mouthful of fish with masterful unconcern. “They’re not even optically focused, of course they’re not mine. I’ll admit the frames are rather nice, but I’d like to see you try to execute a plano-concave lens with variable density and accommodate for stigmatic interference.”

Harrow sneered back, but oddly her glare was only rating a 3.2. She was having fun.

“There’s not much need for fancy eyewear in the Ninth. I’m busy keeping people alive rather than making sure they can read at twenty paces. I bet you wouldn’t even know where to start when faced with a knocking bi-valve on an injected combustion three-stage agricultural turbine."

Sextus snorted. “Weren’t you bragging in the lab last night about an articulating claw you’d designed to activate the fire in your room without getting out of bed? Sure sounds like that helped a lot of people, not like the steel bone splint implant I designed last year. Cam, how many people have one of those in them now?”

“Twenty-seven,” Camilla didn’t even look up from her plate.

“Twenty-seven people that don’t need amputations,” Sextus looked extremely pleased with himself, shooting a gloating look at Harrow, “and you try to tell me that biomedical engineering is the inferior discipline.”

Oh god, Gideon thought, there are two of them.

At least this explained Camilla’s propensity for weird science jokes.

Gideon shot a glance sideways, and found said cavalier giving her a considering look.

“They are a brilliant idea,” Camilla said quietly as Harrow and Sextus continued nerd-sniping each other across the table. Dulcinea was sitting back and watching with an amused look on her face. 

“Those glasses will be a real advantage in the arena if we have another sunny day.” Camilla picked up her water glass and smirked into it, “plus they’ll look intimidating as shit behind your broadsword.”

Whyyyyyyyy wasn’t Gideon allowed to talk? This was so unfair. Harrow got to have fun repartee with her new nerdy playdate, why couldn’t Gideon chat with this cool, calm, confident swordswoman who clearly had excellent taste in style and weaponry? 

“It’s a lovely blade, by the way. Obviously not to my taste, as you’ve seen, but I’m glad I’m not the only cavalier with enough sense to ditch the rapier.” She smiled wistfully. “Too bad we can’t discuss tactics.”

Not. Fair. 

Gideon realized Harrow had gone silent - the table conversation had turned to Sextus and Dulcinea discussing the medicinal plants which grew around their respective Houses.

She turned and found Harrow glaring at her and Camilla. It was a 7.8, yikes - she had been practically cheerful - for Harrow, anyway - a second ago, what had happened?

Gideon realized she had been leaning towards Camilla in order to hear her words over the general conversation. She sat up straight, feeling like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to, but not entirely sure why.

Right then was when the Third House trio stood up from the table, and Gideon saw that the golden princess had changed out of her plain tunic from earlier into something… uh… something much more low cut.  

Gideon wasn’t sure what to call the garment, which kind of wrapped around the body in a couple different places, but all that really mattered was that Gideon was getting a full view of some spectacular cleavage - spectacular enough that her mouth was hanging open slightly. 

Harrow stood up, kicked back her chair, and stormed from the room in a swirl of black fabric. 

Everyone in the room, including the three who had been headed to the door, froze to watch her dramatic exit. For a moment there was silence, all eight of them staring at where Harrow had just disappeared.

“Follow her, Nav,” Dulcinea said gently. 

Gideon did. 

-------------------------------------------------------

She caught up to Harrow a few halls away - she wasn’t hard to track, with how hard she was stomping - and pulled her into a dark alcove. 

“What the fuck was that, Nonagesimus?” Gideon hissed. 

Harrow yanked her arm out of Gideon’s grip and turned away from her. She was breathing hard, her shoulders heaving up and down under the thick black wool. 

She continued to stand there, facing away, body shaking and heaving in silence, as it dawned on Gideon that anger might not have been her smartest reaction to the situation. 

She tried again. 

“Harrow…” Gideon tentatively reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder, but Harrow hissed like a startled cat and shied away from the touch. 

Ok, fuck it. A little anger was inescapable here. 

She tried again. 

“Harrowhark,” said Gideon firmly, putting a hand to Harrow’s shoulder and holding it there even when she tried to jump away again, “I need you to talk to me.

“I have had,” Gideon sighed, “a very confusing day. I thought you were going to yell at me, after…” she felt herself going red beneath the paint, “after last night. Um.” She squirmed. Maybe talking about this while holding prolonged physical contact with Harrow hadn’t been her best idea. 

“But you didn’t. You didn’t, you came to the match and made me these glasses, which even Camilla was impressed with, by the way.”

Harrow made another effort to pull away. It was ineffective, mostly because Harrow hadn’t done a single pushup her entire life. Gideon had hoped the rare compliment from the stoic Sixth cavalier would have made Harrow feel better, but apparently not. 

“And you - you smiled at me when I put them on, but then you got all moody again and ran away from dinner.

“I don’t know what to do with that, Harrow,” Gideon continued, “I want to… God help me, I want to win this tournament for you. I do. I thought I just wanted to win it for me, but now… I want you to get the throne. I want you to save your House, miserable though it is. 

“I want to win this for you. You, who I have despised my entire life. You, who has tortured me at every available opportunity. I mean, that can’t be healthy, right?” She shrugged, posing this question mostly to herself. 

“But these last few days, it feels like everything’s been different. And I… don’t know what to do with all that.”

Gideon’s hand slipped off Harrow’s shoulder as she finally turned around. 

Harrow was crying. Long tracks of tears ran through her careful paint, smudging the design and dripping grey streaks down her neck.

“Griddle,” her voice sounded raw, choked. “You are, by far, the least intelligent collection of cells on this planet.”

Harrow surged upward and kissed her.

As far as first kisses go, this one wasn’t particularly pleasant. Gideon still had the glasses on, Harrow was still crying, and both of them were wearing face paint, which didn’t taste any better on someone else’s mouth. 

Gideon didn’t care. In fact, her brain wasn’t really doing much of anything since the moment Harrow’s lips had met hers. 

They were lovely, and soft, and surprisingly warm. Gideon pulled back just so she could press them together again, and oh that was nice. She did it again, reaching up to rest a tentative hand on Harrow’s waist, and - 

Harrow bolted. 

There was no better word to describe the way Harrow was there one second, kissing Gideon - had been the one to start the kissing, for fuck’s sake - and the next second was just gone, running full speed away down the corridor. 

Gideon blinked once, twice, and then took off after her. 

“HARROW!” she bellowed, “Harrow, come back here!”

Harrow reached a T-junction in the hall, skidded a few feet, then took off in another direction. Gideon followed. She was gaining quickly - the only reason Harrow had got so far ahead was that she’d had the element of surprise. 

Harrow darted left, into a hallway that led to a set of tower steps. Gideon wasn’t looking forward to racing up a tower, but at least there weren’t a lot of escape routes from there.

Gideon turned the corner and barely stopped herself from running over Harrow, standing completely still in the middle of the hall.

“Finally! Harrow, what -” Gideon cut off mid sentence, as she got a look over Harrow’s shoulder. 

She stopped speaking. She stopped breathing. For a second it felt like even her heart froze in her chest. 

The bloody and broken bodies of Magnus Quinn and Abigail Pent were lying at the bottom of the stairs.

Chapter Text

Swarms of white-robed people milled around the short hallway, setting up barricades, making sketches, examining the bodies. Harrow and the Sixth duo were in the thick of it, bustling about taking samples and measurements and whatnot.

Harrow had told her to “stay in sight,” so Gideon was pressed up against the wall as far away from the bodies as she could be while remaining in Harrow’s eyeline. Blood was fine, blood was an unavoidable part of your life when your main hobby was playing with sharp objects, but bodies, yuck, that was different. For all that she’d been raised in a death cult, Gideon wasn’t a fan.

Something about her wanted to run and hide, but something else kept her at the scene, unable to not know what was happening, what they’d found, what they thought had killed them.

Well, maybe that last one was obvious. It was the fall down a long set of stairs.

Or - what was that saying - it’s not the fall, it’s the ground that kills you?

Gideon felt an urge to burst into hysterical laughter, but stifled it.

Regardless, the state and location of the bodies made the what pretty obvious. The real questions were why and how. There wasn’t much of interest up that particular tower, why were they up there? How had they both fallen, seemingly at the same time? Were they alone up there? If someone else had been up there and pushed them, how had they escaped without tracking through all the blood?

Gideon’s eyes swayed magnetically towards that blood, spreading in a wide pool across the floor. It was spreading faster in the mortar lines between the stones, thin little fingers racing out ahead of the rest. She gulped, and re-fixed her gaze on a particularly craggy rock in the opposite wall.

Teacher had sent guards to do a thorough search of the tower immediately upon arrival at the scene, but they hadn’t found anything. No people, nothing out of place, no signs of a struggle. Well, except for the signs of two people who had violently fallen down a very long circular stairwell.

Now, apparently, they were all looking for clues, as if she had stumbled into a pulp fiction murder mystery.

Harrow whipped out a tape measure to run between the bottom step and the closest bit of dead human, which happened to be Abigail’s foot. What could possibly be relevant about that information, thought Gideon, a little wildly. Is the foot a foot away from the foot of the stairs?

She felt an insane urge to laugh again. What was wrong with her?

Camilla and Palamedes - which was apparently Sextus’ first name, what a mouthful - seemed to be taking an inventory of all the different injuries on the bodies. There were a lot of them - why was it important to know details about each one? Seemed a bit like a ‘can’t see the forest because all these trees are in the way’ problem to Gideon.

Two people were dead under mysterious circumstances. One of the eight contenders to assume the Imperial throne had been killed. Or, well, she supposed it could have been an accident, but the amount of coincidences that would cause these two people to fall this far down a flight of stairs at the same time seemed highly unlikely.

Jeannemary and Isaac, who had already lost a set of parents once, had just lost a second.

The Fourth teens had, thank god, been kept away from the area. Dulcinea had shown up with the Sixth, and upon seeing the bodies had whisked herself away to sit with the kids.

And on top of all that - Harrow had kissed her less than an hour ago, just down the hall from here. 

Gideon knew, logically, that this was the least important of the night’s events, but that didn’t stop her from dwelling on it anyways. She couldn’t contribute much to the investigation but didn’t want to go alone back to their rooms either, so she had some spare brain cells to devote to it.

Harrow had kissed her.

Less than an hour ago.

Just down the hall from here.

Right before they’d stumbled across a couple of dead bodies.

Gideon grimaced. It was pretty hard to separate the two events in her memory, which led to her feeling either really grossed out about the kiss, or a little turned on about the bodies.

Neither were great.

Harrow, in true Harrow fashion, was throwing herself into the task at hand, and seemed to be having no emotional crisis whatsoever. She had further messed up the paint on her cheeks before anyone else arrived, so it wasn’t obvious she’d been crying. To be honest, it kind of looked like she’d been having a hot ‘n heavy makeout session.

Gideon wondered what her own paint looked like. Her interpretation of the Jawless Skull wasn’t all that neat to start with, and while three pecks of a kiss probably didn’t do that much to it, her anxious hands running up her face and through her hair definitely did.

Come to think of it, that explained the knowing looks Palamedes kept shooting between the two of them.

Smug little bastard. What did he know about anything?

Ok, Gideon had wondered if he and Camilla had a thing, in which case he probably knew a lot. Cam seemed the type to be just as competent at sex as she was at everything else, but maybe that was just Gideon’s sword-crush talking.

Camilla was a talented, clever, cool, stacked fortress of a woman, what was there not to like? In fact, there was plenty of eye candy around this castle. Dulcinea with eyes you could drown in, and that golden princess with cleavage you could - well, drown in. (Gideon was running a little thin on sexual metaphors at the moment)

And yet.

None of those beautiful, talented, alluring women were the one Gideon kept thinking about.

Gideon didn’t want to be attracted to Harrow, damnit.

Harrow was a mean little bundle of twigs who had thoroughly abused Gideon at every single opportunity, and Gideon had hit right back.

That’s what you did when you were enemies, right?

Harrow was cruel, Harrow was gross, Harrow was fucking obsessed with her gears and equations and nerdy shit. Gideon was hot and cool and into sword-fighting.

It didn’t make sense.

And yet.

Gideon glanced to the side, where Harrow was now making a sketch with dimensions of the opening around the stairs. She felt the ghost of another pair of lips press against hers, and shivered.

And yet, she was. She was into Harrow.

She, Gideon Nav, coolest human to ever come out of the Ninth House (not that the bar was very high there), was attracted to Harrowhark Nonagesimus, the dorkiest shadow elf to ever stalk this Empire.

It didn’t make any sense, but Gideon wasn’t in the habit of denying herself what she wanted, and what she wanted was more time alone pressed against her gloomy mistress.

Also to figure out what had happened to Magnus and Abigail. Yes, that too, obviously.

Harrow and Palamedes were deep in discussion now, both crouching over what used to be Magnus Quinn. Harrow reached down and dipped her fingers into the blood, tapping them together to test its tackiness.

Evidently satisfied, they both stood up and walked over to Teacher, who had been observing the whole thing from a perch against a far wall - much like Gideon, actually, without the internal romantic crisis (or so she hoped).

His lips were white from being pressed together, and his arms were crossed with his hands tucked tightly into his armpits. It was the first time Gideon hadn’t seen him look overjoyed by the world and everything in it.

Which made sense. The possible double murder, and all.

They exchanged a few words and Teacher nodded, looking grim.

“Go find the rest of the tournament competitors,” he directed to the Canaan staff, raising his voice to fill the corridor, “wake them up if you have to. We have much to discuss.”

-------------------------------------------------------

They met in the same room where Gideon and Harrow had eaten dinner what felt like a hundred years ago.

Teacher got the new arrivals up to speed on what had happened (gruesome death), what they knew about it (nothing), and what they were to do next.

“You’re not going to stop the tournament?” Jeannemary interrupted, looking appalled.

“My dear girl,” replied Teacher, a grave look on his face,” what reason could I possibly have to do that?”

“Magnus and Abigail are dead!” cried Isaac, the Fourth Heir. His face still bore the distinctive look of a night spent sobbing.

“That is true,” said Teacher, “but as of yet I have no reason to think their deaths weren’t a very unfortunate accident.”

Isaac looked like he had something to say to that, but Jeannemary grabbed his arm and shook her head at him in warning. He slumped back, dejected.

“Even if this was intentional, and Lady Pent and her husband were… assisted in their fall down the stairs, nothing in the tournament rules tells me to stop the contest from continuing. In fact -” he hesitated, “I am under strict orders from the Emperor himself not to stop the competition for any reason other than a direct command from His Divine Majesty.”

Palamedes leaned forward, his eyes intent. “But you might put a murderer on the throne.”

Teacher looked at him, anguished. “Yes. There is that chance.”

Palamedes leaned back and crossed his arms, a thoughtful frown on his face. Gideon recognized the look - it was the one Harrow got when she was close to solving a problem but didn’t like the answer at all.

It was actually a little disturbing to see so many of Harrow’s expressions on Palamedes’ dark, slender face. She hadn’t thought it was possible for another person to so resemble the brooding, awkward, goth mechanic of the Ninth House. Maybe Harrow really was a human being after all, and not just a pack of bats in a trenchcoat.

Jury’s still out on that one, Gideon thought darkly.

Hiding her true nature as a highly evolved bat colony was one of the more reasonable explanations Gideon could come up with for Harrow’s behavior earlier that night.

Her others included :

1. A new supernatural sense being triggered by the deaths of Magnus and Abigail, calling Harrow to the scene.
2. Harrow was secretly allergic to other humans and could only handle a few seconds of skin contact at a time.
3. Gideon was an incredibly bad kisser, and upon realizing this Harrow decided she wanted nothing to do with her anymore.

Most of Gideon scoffed at the last one, but a tiny nugget of insecurity that Gideon usually kept buried deep, deep down in her own personal Locked Tomb, was wiggling its way up.

Was she a bad kisser? Had something about her behavior or appearance in the corridor first made Harrow cry, then sent her fleeing in disgust?

Nah.

Gideon took a mental broadsword to that thread of insecurity, smashing it back into its box. Surely nothing bad could come from keeping that thing locked up under pressure and never thinking too hard about it.

Instead, she glanced around the room. It was the first time all the heirs and cavaliers had been alone as a full group. She recognized almost everyone from the ball or glimpses in the arena, but there was one new addition - a severe-looking young man in pristine white chain mail sitting next to Colum. He looked no older than Gideon but his hair was pure white, tied back in a long french braid.

This must be Octakiseron, the Eighth Heir the golden princess and her friend had been gossiping about in the food line yesterday. Gideon frowned. Wait, had that been this morning? Fuck, a lot had happened in a day.

That pale shadow of the princess was also here, completing the confusing three-person set of the Third. Gideon was determined to figure out what the deal was there, as well as learn the real name of her golden princess, but it didn’t look likely to happen tonight.

“As I was saying, the tournament will continue on schedule,” Teacher resumed. “Given tonight’s excitement and the late hour, we will delay the start of tomorrow’s matches until after lunch. We are now down to seven cavaliers, so one of you will get a bide - that person will not fight in this round and will receive a single point, as if they had tied. We’ll choose that person by random drawing along with the rest of the match pairs.”

He glanced around at the tired and worried collection of faces. “I promise you, we will get to the bottom of this. The Emperor has been notified, and some of his Generals are on the way. Again, there is a good chance this was just a terrible accident. Please do not concern yourselves overmuch. Go get some sleep, and prepare for round three tomorrow.”

The glare from Isaac could have given Harrow a run for her money. It was clear the Fourth had no intention of letting their concerns slide.

It seemed Palamedes felt similar. As the others started to leave, he laid a hand lightly on Harrow’s arm, clearly asking her to stay put. She shot him a quizzical look, but complied.

Oh, so a touch from Sextus didn’t send her running off at full speed. Good to know.

Gideon sulked further down in her seat.

Once the room was empty except for the combined Ninth and Sixth, Palamedes started talking.

“This isn’t good.”

“No,” Harrow agreed, “that wasn’t at all what I thought he’d say. He’s left the field wide open.”

Cam frowned. “What do you mean? You thought he’d be more inclined to believe it was murder?”

Harrow and Palamedes looked at each other. How had they developed non-verbal communication so quickly? Maybe nerds were all connected to the same hive mind.

“Well, yes…” said Palamedes slowly. “But it’s more than that. He’s not changing the conditions of the tournament at all. If the Fifth were killed by another competitor - which I think we can all agree is pretty likely - that person is still eligible to become the next Emperor.”

“Don’t you remember the tournament rules, Hect?” Harrow said to Camilla. “Intentionally fatal wounds are strictly disallowed in the ring. That plus what Teacher just confirmed implies that intentionally fatal wounds are allowed outside the ring.”

Gideon let out a shocked gasp, luckily at the same time Camilla did so her vow of silence and suave reputation were still intact.

“Yes,” Palamedes nodded grimly, “This just became a murder competition.”

Chapter Text

Gideon had assumed she wouldn’t be able to sleep after everything that had happened, but she was pleasantly surprised to wake up many hours later and realize she’d been wrong.

Perhaps it was a self defense mechanism. Between the kiss and the deaths and the realization that they were all supposed to try and kill each other, it would have been a lot to process - her brain had made the executive decision to shut down instead. 

Of course, it all came rushing back the second she awoke.

Gideon slapped her hands over her eyes and groaned, rolling over in the luxurious white sheets of Canaan House. Maybe if she didn’t get out of bed the day wouldn’t start, and she wouldn’t have to deal with murder or fighting or Harrow. 

As if summoned by this thought, a familiar voice came from the doorway. 

“Griddle.”

“Whaaaaat,” said Gideon, into the mattress.

“I’m going to pretend that mumbling was a coherent statement. Today’s match starts in an hour - if you don’t get up now you’ll miss lunch.” This was followed by the sound of footsteps trailing away. 

She doesn’t want to be alone with me, Gideon thought, and then immediately smacked herself for being so maudlin. 

She was Gideon Nav! Hottest of the hot! Coolest of the cool! Fighters ran from her in fear, ladies swooned in her presence, ladies who were fighters had confusing mixed feelings. Was she going to lay in bed and sulk? No she was not!

She shoved her legs off the side of the bed and energetically hoisted herself up to greet the day. 

Her leg was still trapped in the sheet, and she immediately fell flat on the ground.

Yeah, she thought, that seems about right.

-------------------------------------------------------

Chin still smarting from where it had met the bedroom floor, she arrived at the match kick-off chewing her last bite of lunch. 

Thankfully they’d done away with the standard-bearers since the first day, and the contestants now grouped themselves informally in the arena for the announcement of the match pairings. Gideon strolled up next to Camilla, exchanging a nod with the Sixth cavalier from behind her dark glasses. Cam didn’t look like she’d slept as well as Gideon had - dark shadows lined her eyes, and Gideon swore she saw her suppress a yawn a couple of times. Maybe she’d stayed up late discussing theories with Palamedes.

Unfortunately, Cam would have no time for a nap - she was drawn first, against Marta. Gideon was next, against Protesilaus, then Naberius and Jeannemary. Colum would get the bide, and move on with a free point. 

Teacher announced the last with no explanation whatsoever, and murmurs rippled around the stadium. How many of the spectators had heard about the deaths, Gideon wondered. How many knew it wasn’t an accident. How many knew they were all supposed to try and kill each other. 

Gideon fidgeted, looking around at the other cavaliers. Which one of them was a killer? All of them were physically capable, obviously, but who would do such a thing to Abigail and Magnus? 

Naberius was enough of a douchebag to pull it off, but somehow she couldn’t see him sneakily shoving people down stairs. He’d probably murder you the ‘honorable’ way, with a swordpoint to your chest in a perfect riposte. 

Marta was a possibility - she was a soldier, she’d probably killed loads of people on the battlefield. Maybe it came easy to her. 

Protesilaus or Colum were basically slabs of meat with a brain stuck on top, it’d be easy for either of them to knock two people into a stairwell. Camilla too, though Gideon fervently hoped it wasn’t her - she liked the woman too much to think of her as a cold-blooded murderer.

The only ones she was sure were innocent were herself and Jeannemary, who still looked as anguished as she had last night in the meeting room. It didn’t seem fair to ask her to fight the day after her surrogate parents were killed, but Teacher claimed he was bound by the Emperor’s own decree, so here they were. 

At least she was safe in the ring, where an intentional fatality would get the heir disqualified altogether. It was when she left that the danger started, which was a distinctly backwards and uncomfortable feeling. 

-------------------------------------------------------

Marta exploded into the first match, clearly furious about her poor showing with Colum yesterday. She’d also, Gideon suspected, gotten a full day and night’s sleep, something Camilla was distinctly lacking this morning.

Cam put up a good show, but eventually Marta succeeded in knocking away one of her blades and getting close enough to lay her rapier against Camilla’s neck.

The Sixth took her first loss gracefully, congratulating Marta and throwing a friendly arm over her shoulders as they walked out of the ring. 

Gideon, going through her final warm ups alone in a back corner of the cavaliers prep area, found herself prickling with jealousy. She’d never had a sword friend before - it’s not like she and Ortus were going to hang out - and she yearned for that display of easy camaraderie.

Then friendship and murder alike were put out of her mind as she went into the ring to face Protesilaus.

It was an exhilarating match - no fancy tricks here, just two powerful fighters smashing their big swords together over and over. The delayed start meant the sun was high in the sky but, thanks to the glasses Harrow had made for her, this wasn’t a problem at all. 

In the end Gideon wore through Protesilaus’ defenses and scored a hit, putting her back in a tie with Camilla for the lead. There wasn’t any affectionate physical contact afterwards but Protesilaus did give her a smile and a gracious little bow before they left the ring. Gideon tried to give a smile and a bow back, honoring a match well fought. She hoped it didn’t come across as gloating as Naberius’ smile yesterday had, but she would admit she wasn’t well practiced in the art of winning without being a dick about it. Not with Harrow around, who had made an art form of one-upmanship.

And then came Naberius and Jeannemary.

If the Fourth cavalier had been matched with literally anyone else today, they probably would have gone a bit easy on her and settled for a tie, if not given her an outright win.

Not for the Third, that careful consideration of others feelings. He saw a chance to seize the lead in the competition and took it, taking advantage of all Jeannemary’s tiniest distractions and mistakes, ending the match within fifteen minutes.

That put him on top with seven points, Gideon and Camilla tied for second with six each.

That was alright, for now. Tomorrow was the last day of points-based matches, and at the end of it the four cavaliers with the highest scores would advance to the sudden-death semi-final. 

Gideon winced. Maybe she should come up with a different phrase to describe that particular concept. Sudden elimination? No, that still sounded like a euphemism for murder. Single elimination? That sounded reasonable. 

There would be a day off before the single elimination semi-finals, then another rest day, then the two semi-final winners would fight. There was no time limit on these last matches, you fought until one opponent achieved a full submission: either a disarm and body hit, or the threat of a fatal wound, like a blade held to the throat. 

Gideon expected the finals to be much bloodier than the points matches had been. Usually a disarm or a knife to the throat would cause a contestant to stop fighting and accept the loss, but the stakes were about to be much higher. There were ways out of a submission hold if you were willing to get a little banged up - what was a shallow slice to the neck, if the alternative was losing out on the throne of the Empire?

Hmm, Gideon thought, maybe that was why they had the heirs appoint cavaliers to fight for them - the cavaliers don’t get the direct reward, so they aren’t as desperate to try risky things in the fights as the heirs themselves might be.

Except the heirs were encouraged to try risky things, apparently, like straight-up murdering each other. Just not in the arena. What was the point of that? To put on a wholesome show for the general populace, maybe. But why run the murder competition in the background then? You’re basically guaranteed to crown a killer. 

Wait, was that the point? 

Was His Divine Highness, Mr. My Eyes Are The Grave Of My Traitorous Lover, looking for someone ruthless enough to deal with the kind of shit that came with the throne?

There was a horrible logic to that. Not for the first time, Gideon was glad she wasn’t the one eligible to be crowned.

Gideon was drawn out of these depressing thoughts when Cam tapped her on the shoulder. 

“You should show up for dinner tonight - the Warden wants to discuss our findings with all the competitors. He’ll tell your heir in the laboratory I’m sure, but I wanted you to know in case you don’t see us before then.”

Gideon nodded. (Hey, that was actually the normal response for once!)

Camilla grinned. “Good job today. Don’t fuck up tomorrow and I’ll see you in the semi-finals, yeah?”

Gideon smiled back - she couldn’t help it.

“Great.” Camilla’s smile turned into another yawn. “Now I’m off to catch up on sleep.”

-------------------------------------------------------

Gideon was on her way back to their room with the vague idea of finding Harrow and forcing her to talk about whatever the fuck that was last night, when she passed a window that looked out onto Canaan’s main courtyard and found an excellent excuse to be distracted from dealing with her feelings.

Something fancy was happening outside.

A line of the local Canaan House guard ran around the entire perimeter, with two parallel lines of uniformed Cohort soldiers in the middle. They all seemed to be standing at attention, except for Teacher who was wringing his hands in the very center of it all.

As Gideon watched, the gigantic doors of the inner wall swung open and four pure-white horses came through, pulling the nicest carriage Gideon had ever seen. Like everything else around here, the carriage was pearly white with rainbow accents, the crowned skull of the First House emblazoned on the doors. 

All the soldiers snapped a salute in unison, and Gideon remembered that Teacher had said the generals were on their way - this must be them. 

The pair who stepped out of the carriage, however, were not what Gideon had pictured. 

The man was tall and elegantly built, with a thinning crop of grey hair. He was wearing an upscale but old fashioned doublet and half-cape, and carried a cane topped with a white stone sphere, which he used to steady himself while stepping down to the ground.

The woman was shorter, and had a more practical air about her. She wore a calf-length dress and high boots under a long travelling coat that Gideon bet would flare out dramatically as she walked. She brushed her light red hair back over her shoulders as she stepped out beside the man.

Gideon’s window was too high up for her to hear anything of their conversation, but they appeared to be arguing. They barely acknowledged Teacher as he ran up to greet them, then continued their animated discussion as they strode quickly up the steps and into the castle. Even from this far away Gideon could distinctly see the woman roll her eyes.

Huh. Gideon knew very little about the generals, other than they were the highest rank in the Cohort and reported directly to the Emperor. She had assumed they’d be stiff and formal, or at the very least be wearing uniforms. Honestly, she’d pictured them as even more bad-ass versions of Marta and Judith, coats all weighed down with extra ribbons and medals.

She lingered by the window until all the guards and soldiers had filed back inside, and the carriage had done an awkward three-point turn and left the way it had come.

Then she lingered some more.

The day’s fights were over, the courtyard show had ended, and there was nothing left to do but think about the murderous game she’d found herself in or her feelings for Harrow.

She groaned. Back to plan A, then, and set off again for their rooms to see if she could get Harrow to talk to her without running away, for once.

-------------------------------------------------------

Harrow wasn’t there.

Harrow still hadn’t appeared once dinner time rolled around, so Gideon gave up on waiting and figured she’d run into Harrow at the dining room.

-------------------------------------------------------

Harrow wasn’t there, either.

It was still fairly early though, so she didn’t lose hope. A few of the others were already present:  Palamedes and Dulcinea were sitting side by side chatting, with Isaac slumped over the table next to Dulcinea. As Gideon came into the room she could see the woman run a soothing hand up and down the grieving teen’s back.

Dulcinea caught sight of her first. “My hero returns!” she beamed, aiming one of her stomach-melting smiles at Gideon.

“Nav,” acknowledged Palamedes. “Nonagesimus not with you today?”

Gideon shook her head. (Finally, something different than a nod!)

Palamedes frowned. “I wonder where she’s hiding this time. She didn’t come into the laboratory at all this afternoon.”

Gideon shrugged. (Wow, she was getting to explore a whole new world of non-verbal responses today.)

“Speaking of, where’s your other half?” Dulcinea asked of Palamedes. 

“Asleep,” he replied. “I kept her up rather late last night going through the evidence we’d gathered. Which was probably a mistake given how tired she was for today’s match, but I do process things better when I can talk with her.” He yawned. “I got to sleep in, she had to get up and get ready to fight.”

Dulcinea pouted. It was extremely cute, in a way that meant it was probably intentional. “That’s not very nice of you.”

He shrugged. “She’s forgiven me for worse.” For some reason he shot a guilty look at Dulcinea as he said this.

Gideon’s curiosity was derailed as the Third triad breezed through the door. 

“The generals have arrived!” the golden princess squealed to the room at large. The three of them took chairs across from the Fourth, Sixth, and Seventh heirs, which put the mysterious stale-bread copy of the princess next to Gideon.

“Which ones came?” asked Dulcinea excitedly. 

“Augustine and Mercymorn,” replied the princess, “we passed them in the corridor on our way here.” She leaned across the table towards Dulcinea which, Gideon couldn’t help noticing, did rather marvelous things to her chest. 

“General Mercy is something, isn’t she,” the princess sighed, looking wistful. “Even from far away she commands your absolute attention. I remember when we went to see the campaign in the South, they let us watch a strategy meeting. She was so confident, so clever, so in control of all those other hot-shot high ranking officers.” There was a distinctly starry look in her eyes as she remembered this occasion. “It was a joy to watch her interrupt men who were two feet taller than her. The way they cowered.” She sighed again.

Naberius snorted. “Really Coronabeth, she’s at least twice your age.”

Ah-HAH! At last! The golden princess had a name, and that name was Coronabeth. Gideon rolled this over her tongue, imagined saying it out loud. She thought it would taste golden and rich, like butter and honey.

“I didn’t say I want to sleep with her, Babs,” Coronabeth said in an annoyed tone. “I just… appreciate her.”

And there was another mystery solved, the identity of the mysterious “Babs” Coronabeth had mentioned while Gideon was eavesdropping in the food line. Gideon should have known only Naberius would have such a stupid nickname.

Now if only she could figure out what was the deal with this extra Third person, she’d be set.

Gideon glanced to the side, and jumped - the mystery woman was staring right at her, cold purple eyes unblinking. 

Gideon hurriedly looked back across the table, heart pounding. What was she supposed to do here? Normally she’d use her words, say something like “What?” or “Do I have something stuck in my teeth?” or “Are you aware of how extremely creepy you look right now?"

She snuck another look under cover of the glasses. 

The woman was still staring at her, and now had a weird little half-smile on her face that wasn’t at all helping Gideon’s heart rate go down.

Dulcinea was now extolling the virtues of the glamorous General Augustine to the table, but it didn’t seem to be distracting this creeper at all. 

“You’re Gideon Nav.”

It wasn’t a question. 

“Yes, I know you don’t talk.” The woman’s voice was oddly flat and had a spooky kind of echo to it.

“I’m Ianthe Tridentarius. Corona’s my twin sister, since you were wondering.”

Ianthe smiled. It wasn’t friendly.

“You’re a very good fighter, Gideon Nav.”

Gideon’s pulse spiked again. She felt like an animal frozen in the sights of something higher up the food chain. She did not want to stay in this freaky little one-sided conversation, but also wasn’t sure how to get out of it without talking. 

Luckily for her, that was when the Eighth showed up, closely followed by the Second and Jeannemary. The Fourth cavalier was deep in conversation with Marta and seemed marginally better recovered than Isaac, who was still in a heap on the table. 

Ianthe looked away to greet the newcomers, and Gideon felt her body relax out of its ready-to-flee tension.

Jeannemary fell into the chair on the other side of her, looking glumly across the table at the puddle of Isaac. Dulcinea’s hand was now resting lightly on his shoulder, squeezing every so often as she made a point in conversation.

The Eighth sat themselves down primly with an empty seat between them and the rest of the group. Colum pulled the chair out for his heir before sitting down himself, and Gideon was again grateful for the cover of the glasses as she rolled her eyes. 

Captain Deuteros was looking around the room. “Who are we still waiting for?”

“Cam, Protesilaus, and Nonagesimus,” Palamedes rattled off immediately. Gideon suspected he’d been checking names off a list in his head as people came in.

The food was brought out. More fish, this time in a pale stew with some kind of yellow squash. 

Gideon tasted it, savoring. The Ninth had a modest crop of fresh food in the warmer season - cauliflower and collards and an endless supply of tasteless root vegetables - but the rest of the year every meal was a combination of stewed grain and a little dried meat. Everything else about taking the crown seemed like a shit deal, but Gideon had to admit the constant supply of fresh food was a pretty sweet perk.

“How are you feeling, Marta?” Dulcinea inquired. “You were wonderful this morning, but I was worried after yesterday’s match.”

“I’m fine,” the Second cavalier scowled, “I don’t know what the hell was wrong with me yesterday.” 

Her heir shot her a half-commiserating, half-annoyed look. “You can just admit to being human you know. We all get food poisoning once in a while.”

“It wasn’t food poisoning,” Marta snapped, “I know what that feels like. I wasn’t vomiting, I just had no energy, none at all, like something had sucked it all away.” 

“There’s a reason Cohort protocol warns against drinking raw eggs as a protein booster,” Judith said with a sniff. It had the air of a well-worn argument. 

Camilla walked in, looking rushed but less tired than she had that morning. Her normally smooth helmet of hair was kinked on one side where it had been smushed into a pillow. 

“Warden.” She greeted Palamedes and took the empty chair next to Silas, who looked disgusted at this breach of his personal space. Camilla either didn’t notice or didn’t care. 

Palamedes put down his fork and straightened up in his seat, putting on the air of someone about to give a lecture and there would be a quiz after.

“Now that Cam’s here let’s get started. The other two will just have to catch up.” 

-------------------------------------------------------

Since Gideon had spent way too long hanging around the scene of the crime, she didn’t get a ton of new information out of this meeting, but the few new details were pretty juicy. 

Cam and Palamedes started by covering, in detail, their detective routine of the previous night. Apparently the measurements between bodies and door had been part of a scheme to calculate the force with which they’d fallen, which somehow proved that they had, in fact, started their descent all the way from the top of the tower. Gideon was vaguely impressed that they could tell this, but mostly amazed at how easily Palamedes could make murder sound boring. Cam at least knew what’s-what, and cut off several of his longer winded mathematical explanations. 

According to that math and a few gory details Gideon could have lived without knowing, Abigail and Magnus had died at exactly the same time, meaning whatever caused their sudden descent had happened to both at once.

At that point the conversation devolved into snippy arguing about what exactly all these facts meant, which used up a lot of air but got them exactly nowhere. 

Harrow finally breezed into the room when Palamedes was using the fish sauce to sketch a diagram on the tablecloth, attempting to prove a point to Judith.

At the sight of her Gideon felt something relax that she hadn’t realized was clenched. There was a murder competition on after all, and Gideon was in the front of the pack in the ring - Harrow could be a target. However weird the situation was between them, Gideon would definitely prefer Harrow not be murdered. 

Which… was a weird thought. Definitely a new one, given she’d spat the exact opposite sentiment to Harrow’s face multiple times.

Gideon was still attempting to digest  this when the meeting ended.

-------------------------------------------------------

They walked back to the room in total silence.

Gideon’s brain was full of words of course, they just couldn’t seem to make their way to her mouth. 

Hey Harrow, can we talk about last night? Before all the blood and murder and the realization that we’re in serious danger, I mean.

Hmm, maybe don’t bring up the corpses that early in this conversation, kinda gets things started on the wrong foot. Try asking for what you want.

Hey Harrow, can we kiss some more? That was really nice. 

She mentally groaned at herself. Not nice. Nice was a word to describe Ortus sneaking extra sugarcubes to the Drearburh horses. Nice was what you said about a home-cooked meal that you didn’t really enjoy. Nice was what you called the weather when it reached the bare-minimum standard of ‘not terrible.’

Hey Harrow, can we kiss some more? It was kind of incredible. Well, no, it was kind of gross what with the face paint and the tears and all, but the fact that it happened was incredible, and the potential for more seems kind of amazing, and it’d be really fantastic and awesome if we did it again, golly gee it’d just be scrumdidlyumptious.

She scowled. Not that either.

She still hadn’t come up with anything good by the time they got back to their rooms, and they both went on autopilot to get ready for bed.

Gideon scrubbed extra hard at the lingering traces of paint. If there was any chance of kissing tonight, she wanted this goop off. Not that her lips were in great shape anyways - unsurprisingly, constant application and removal of thick paint caused them to chap like nobody’s business. She picked at a dry flake of skin on her bottom lip and scowled at herself in the mirror.

She didn’t like all this worrying, this walking around not-knowing. It was so much simpler a week ago, when she knew exactly where she stood in relation to Harrow. Or, she thought she had.

Harrow darted into the bathroom after her, and when she emerged a few minutes later Gideon was pleased to see that Harrow had thoroughly cleansed her face as well. Perhaps she too was hoping for more kissing?

They still weren’t talking though. 

Unlike the silence of the long carriage ride from Drearburh, when she mostly tried to pretend Harrow was just a pile of black laundry someone had left on the other seat, Gideon was keenly aware of the other woman’s presence and movement in the room. Harrow folded her cloak and carefully placed it in the dresser, then went around tidying up the room - reshelving a book here, straightening a chair there. It would have seemed like fussy busywork, except Gideon knew Harrow did this every night.

The longer they went without talking the more tense she felt, like the very air was being sharpened. All this build-up put a lot of weight onto the next words to be said, which wasn’t a comfortable feeling at all. Words had never been Gideon’s strong suit, and the idea that her chances of more kissing rested on her ability to word good did not make her happy.

Gideon sat on the edge of her bed facing away from where Harrow was puttering around, and squeezed her eyes shut. 

She breathed in - and paused - then breathed out - and paused. 

As she repeated this a few more times, her hands slowly unclenched from their death grip on the blankets, and a little of the furious buzzing feeling went out of her. 

Gideon let out another long breath and felt the bed dip as another body sank down on the far edge.

She opened her eyes but didn’t turn around. The bathroom door in front of her was ajar and the mirror showed her that Harrow had also sat facing away, her short spine rigid as it perched on the far edge of Gideon’s bed. 

“I’m sorry,” Harrow said. 

As words to break a silence go, Gideon thought those were pretty good ones. 

Harrow continued, “My behavior last night was abominable. I have no excuses. I was tired and overwhelmed, but I should have been able to control myself, and I apologize.”

The novelty of the words struck Gideon quite as hard as the sentiment did. The Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House did not, as a rule, apologize or explain herself to lesser creatures, and the raw vulnerability in her voice set loose the last of Gideon’s tension.

For the first time, Gideon wondered if maybe Harrow had also spent the entire day as an anxious wreck trying to figure out the right thing to say next.

“That’s alright,” Gideon said, and found that she meant it.

It hadn’t been alright a few minutes ago, but now that they were talking about it and Harrow had admitted to being an imperfect human with actual feelings, Gideon was willing to skip the angry lecture she’d composed in her head and get straight to the part with more kissing.

“Thank you,” Harrow sighed, relief evident in her tone, “I promise I won’t touch you again.”

Wait. What?

“Wait, what?” Gideon’s head snapped around to stare at the dark fuzz of Harrow’s shorn scalp.

Harrow turned just enough for Gideon to see the corner of an eye, confusion clear in her expression. “What do you mean, ‘what?’”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’ No, wait -” Gideon shook herself, and started over. “What do you mean you ‘won’t touch me again?’”

Harrow turned fully to face Gideon, an angry storm cloud brewing in the furrow of her brow. “What, is that not enough? You want me to humiliate myself further somehow? A public apology perhaps? Get on Teacher’s horn and announce to the entire arena that I couldn’t control my most basic impulses, that I failed at following the simplest tenets of respect?”

Harrow’s voice was rising throughout, and Gideon recognized the warning signs of a trademark Nonagesimus tantrum. 

She was also deeply, deeply confused.

Harrow continued, “I will not debase myself more than I already have, not even in atonement. I’ll find somewhere else to sleep tonight, and we can see about getting separate rooms tomorrow.”

At this she tried to stand up, but Gideon, having quite enough of being run away from in the past few days thank you, lunged across the bed to grab her arm.

Or - well, Gideon tried to grab her arm. What she actually did was smack Harrow rather hard on the shoulder, causing her to lose her balance and collapse backwards onto the bed, one bony elbow jabbing Gideon hard in the tit. 

Gideon winced but didn’t abandon her goal as Harrow, flustered and angry, attempted to shove Gideon off and get back to her feet. 

Since Gideon weighed about twice as much as Harrow this was ineffective, but she did enough furious squirming that eventually Gideon just flopped her own torso sideways over Harrow’s waist and grabbed her by the wrists, effectively pinning her to the bed. 

Harrow’s face was flushed, her glare rating upwards of a 9.0 except Gideon had never had to calculate for a glare that also featured humiliated tears in the sides of her eyes. 

“Get. Off. Me.” Harrow gritted out through clenched teeth.

“What are you apologizing for?” Gideon demanded instead. 

Harrow stared up at her in furious bewilderment. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Gideon suppressed the urge to break into hysterical laughter. “It’s really, really not. Please, just-” her frustration broke, and the last words came out rather sad and small, “just tell me.”

The change in tone stilled something in Harrow. Her arms, which had been fighting the grip of Gideon’s larger hands, fell limply back onto the bed. 

“For kissing you,” she whispered, “when you didn’t want me to.” Her voice caught on the words, and a tear broke free from her eye and rolled down into the white blankets.

The cacophony of thoughts and feelings that had been storming around Gideon’s brain all day was oddly silent. All her worries from earlier about finding the right thing to say were gone. She found, now that the moment was here, that all she had to do was say exactly what she felt.

“I don’t want you to apologize for kissing me,” she said, moving her body upwards until her face was hovering above Harrow’s. 

“I want you to apologize for running away.”

Gideon lowered down and kissed her, lips light and tender as she continued to anchor Harrow to the mattress with her body.

Harrow made a soft noise that reminded Gideon of owls and summer wind. She kissed back, gentle and hesitant, pulling back only to push forward again against Gideon’s mouth.

Their bodies were pressed together at every point, but all Gideon could feel was Harrow’s lips sliding along hers, Harrow’s nose bumping into hers, Harrow’s shaky breath mingling with hers. She realized her eyes had slipped closed and found no desire to open them.

Harrow’s paint-chapped lips parted to inhale, and Gideon captured the bottom one between her own, pulling lightly. 

“Griddle…” Harrow gasped, directly into Gideon’s mouth.

“What?” Gideon purred back, not moving away. She shivered at the feel of her mouth dragging across another as it formed the word. 

“Let me go,” Harrow whispered. 

Gideon tensed and started to pull away, terrified she’d somehow read this completely wrong. 

This fear was short-lived. As soon as her hands had lifted off Harrow’s wrists, those arms were thrown around Gideon’s back, latching onto muscle and pulling her back down. Harrow attacked her mouth with more enthusiasm than skill, lips and tongue and teeth all mashing together sloppy and raw. 

Gideon was into it. Who knew the Somnolent Queen of Rock and Ice could be this excited about - well, anything? 

For all the movement that was happening with their mouths, the rest of their bodies stayed frozen, afraid to move and ruin the moment. Eventually even Gideon’s advanced lung capacity gave out and she had to pull away to catch her breath.

They laid there, arms latched around each other, bodies pressed together, faces inches apart.

Looking at each other. Again. 

Wow, this was really starting to be a thing, huh? Was this what sexual tension was? All the stories Gideon had read never included this much silent eye contact. She should write a letter to Cohort Captains Gettin’ Cozy about how poorly their porn had prepared her for the real thing.

Harrow giggled.

Gideon stared, because of all the many things that had happened tonight, this might be the most unprecedented.

Harrow pulled her hands off of Gideon (booooo) to slap them across her own mouth, looking horrified at herself, but it didn’t stop the tiny bubbles of laughter coming out of her. 

The kissing and the weirdness and the nerves and the tournament and the murder and the everything caught up to Gideon all at once and suddenly she was starting to laugh too, and then they were both cackling like mad, absolutely snorting with mirth, and Gideon had to roll off to the side because she couldn’t breathe.

Eventually it trickled off, and they were just two teenagers who had previously been sworn enemies now lying close together on a bed after making out and suffering an attack of spontaneous hilarity.

It was weird. 

But good? 

Yeah. Weird but good. Gideon smiled dopily up at the ceiling, a feeling zipping through her similar to when she’d beaten Protesilaus in the ring earlier that day.

Harrow’s bird-like hand cupped her face and pulled it gently to the side, so they were looking at each other again. 

Harrow smiled. A tiny thing, a fragile thing, a hopeful thing. Helpless in the face of this, Gideon smiled back. 

“We should go to sleep.”

“What?” Gideon said, alarmed. “Why?”

Harrow, still smiling, replied, “You have another match tomorrow. I want you to be well rested.”

Harrow wanted Gideon to be rested. Harrow wanted Gideon to take care of herself. Harrow also wanted to kiss her more, but right then having someone who cared about Gideon’s well being was the warmest feeling of all. 

So Gideon went to sleep, Harrow a dark curlique in the bed beside her, hands entwined on the sheet between them.

Chapter Text

Protesilaus was missing.

He hadn’t shown up by the match kick off, which went unremarked on by Teacher or the crowd but was noted by the deepening furrow in Camilla’s brow.

Harrow had also been missing when Gideon woke up, the rumpled sheets the only souvenir of her night spent curled in Gideon’s bed. This was less distressing though, as Harrow had often been gone in the mornings by the time Gideon clawed her way back to consciousness.

Part of Gideon was bummed about this - a little pre-match smooching would have been just the thing to get her spirits up. Part of her was also relieved - there had been a lot (a lot) of awkward conversation to get through last night before Gideon had literally wrestled Harrow to the bed and extracted her true feelings by force. Gideon wouldn’t put it past the Queen of Repressed Emotion to start every day by resetting to a baseline of awkwardness and spite. 

Some kissing would have been nice though. What a way to start a day.

Teacher’s voice droned on as he explained the rules (again! Why did they re-do this part every morning?) and Gideon’s brain started to drift.

Harrow ran up to her outside the champions prep tent, face flushed and panting. “I had to see you before you went in,” she said. 

“Oh yeah?” Gideon smirked, flexing her sizable bicep as she leaned casually against the door. Her other hand stroked lazily across the pommel of her greatsword, and Harrow’s eyes darted distractedly between the two. 

“Yeah,” sighed the tiny cult leader, “I just - I had to see you.”

“Well, doll,” drawled Gideon. “Now that you’ve seen me, how about using some of your other senses too?” and she grabbed Harrow by the waist and pulled her down into a dip, kissing the heated breath out of her. 

Gideon rolled her eyes at herself. Harrow might (somehow!) be interested in locking lips with Gideon (!), but that scenario was getting a little too far into skin mag territory. Harrow would probably stab her right in the eye socket for calling her ‘doll.’

Speaking of, where was her Night Mistress?

Gideon scanned the stands around Teacher, and frowned. No sign of anyone in skull paint, and the only hint of black clothing under the bright sun was the velvet half cape worn by the tall skinny general. 

The grand white throne in the middle was still empty, no one but the Emperor being allowed to sit there, but the two military leaders were seated in plush chairs to either side. There was only 6 feet or so of empty air between them, but they were both turned away and looked committed to pretending the other didn’t exist. The shorter, long-haired one (Merryweather? Melanie? Gideon couldn’t remember the name) was explaining something to a starry-eyed Coronabeth, while the one in the impractically hot cape (Julienne? Febru-something? Damnit, it had been month-y, whatever it was) had all his limbs crossed and was staring out at the field with a heavy frown.

Dulcinea was next to him, her face worried. Something in Gideon tugged at the sight of that sunny face warped by sadness, and her thoughts returned to Protesilaus. 

Where was he? 

Teacher finally ended his recitation, and announced the day’s matches - Gideon was last, against Colum.

Good, she thought, that gives Harrow plenty of time to get here, and then immediately pinched herself, hard. Gideon didn’t need no woman to watch her fight! She’d be confident and awesome and victorious anyways.

-------------------------------------------------------

Harrow still hadn’t arrived by the time they broke for lunch before Gideon’s fight, and Gideon had given up on being stoic and was starting to get proper worried. 

The first two rounds had gone quickly: Marta gently but firmly disarming a still-grief-stricken Jeannemary, and Camilla un-gently and very firmly sending Naberius sprawling on his ass in the dust. 

Gideon had felt a thrill run through her at the sight, and it wasn’t because the pretty-boy Third champion had gotten mud all over his perfectly tailored leggings (well - not only because of that).

Even if she lost to Colum today, she’d already won enough points that she’d be advancing to the semi-final with Camilla. She could win this thing. 

Her eyes automatically went back to the stands, which were still lacking a certain gothic noble.

A memory flashed unwillingly across her mind, blood creeping out in eerily straight lines between the tile underneath Magnus and Abigail’s bodies. Gideon squeezed her eyes shut behind the dark glasses, trying to block out the image of it being Harrow’s body lying broken at the bottom of the stairs.

Harrow was sure to show up any moment, looking smug and aloof. 

And if not, well, she’d just kick Colum’s ass quickly so she could go hunt her lady liege down herself. 

-------------------------------------------------------

It was late afternoon by the time Gideon took the field against the Eighth cavalier, and the sun was blazingingly bright. Gideon was thankful for her dark glasses, and even more thankful that the woman who made them had finally appeared over lunch. Harrow’s gloomy cloak and white face (still painted just like Gideon’s, a decision that had become less confusing and more endearing as of late) haunted the upper corner of the stands. 

Harrow must be sweating her tits off in that getup in the full sun, but Gideon felt something deep inside her own breast relax at the sight of the dreary pile of fabric. There was a murderer about, after all, and they were already one heir down.

Colum stood across from her, waiting for the starting signal, and squinting into the sun. Sucks for you, thought Gideon, should’ve gotten your heir to make you some sun-blocking glasses. Somehow, she couldn’t see Octakiseron’s stuck-up face spending much time bent over a workbench. 

Colum was fidgety, tugging the straps of his leather armor, shifting from side to side, never keeping his gaze in one place for long. His rapier was still sheathed, and - she squinted - on his other hip, a small dagger was likewise sheathed, something Gideon hadn’t noticed before. She hadn’t witnessed either of his previous fights, but nothing she’d heard about them had mentioned use of a secondary weapon. It was perfectly allowed to bring an offhand weapon and not use it, of course, but it was weird. 

Teacher called for the combatants to get ready, and Colum drew his rapier while Gideon raised her broadsword and settled into her stance. The dagger stayed in his belt, and Gideon made a mental note to keep an eye on his offhand - maybe his plan was to introduce a second weapon when she was distracted. 

The start was called, and for the next few minutes Gideon lost herself in the ebb and flow of swordplay. Circle, jab, parry, step, circle again - the rhythm thrummed in her bones and she felt her mind settle deeper into focus, even as every clash of metal on metal sent a spike of fresh energy through her. 

God she loved this.

She might hate the Ninth house, might take any opportunity presented to leave its pitch black halls and frozen rooms behind, but at least it held Aiglamene, and Aiglamene had taken it into her heavily scarred hands to introduce a sad hyperactive orphan to the ways of the blade. 

So when Colum finally brought that dagger into play, she was ready. 

He did it well, she’d give him that. They’d been deep into an extended series of touches, swords clashing and pushing and shoving. Gideon had pulled upwards out of a lock with his sword and pivoted sideways to bring her blade down from overhead. Colum had reacted quickly, turning to the side and moving in towards her body, leaving his rapier uselessly behind him to be turned away by her strike, but freeing his offhand to grab at his belt. 

Gideon saw it - of course she did - and pushed against the momentum of her strike to throw herself away from his jab. 

Not completely away, though - the small blade nicked her exposed forearm, sending a tiny bit of blood to mingle with her sweat. A fairly normal match injury, even if it did sting like a motherfucker.

Hah! she thought, triumphant, and grinned cockily across at her opponent, who, oddly, was grinning cockily back.

Fucking weirdo, she thought, and went on the attack again, now careful to stay out of his offhand reach, often forcing him to use the dagger along with the rapier to block her powerful strikes.

She dodged a swipe from the rapier, shifting her full weight onto her back foot to support the awkward angle of her body, and - 

Her back leg gave out, folding back, landing her ass-first in the dust of the ring.

What the fuck?? 

She scrambled away from Colum’s attempt to take advantage of her fall, waving her sword protectively with one hand while the other shoved her way back to standing.

What. The Fuck. Was that??? Come on Nav, get it together!

She shook her head to get the sweat out of her eyes and mentally slapped herself. 

Colum pressed his advantage, swinging hard, jabbing with the dagger to force her into a defensive stance, sending her retreating across the pitch.

Fuck this, she thought, and ducked under his next swing rather than stepping back. She took another slice on the arm from the dagger but it left her close enough to effectively counter attack, bringing her heavy sword up in a swing that should, at the least, have deflected his rapier far across his body, if not outright knocked it out of his hand. 

Colum batted aside her strike with ease. 

…what? 

Gideon blinked furiously, the sweat pouring down her face. She took several steps back, falling into a defensive stance with both hands on her sword securely out in front of her. 

Was her sword… wiggling? 

No, worse - it was her arms that were wiggling, shaking like she’d just finished her 10th lap of Aiglamene’s stalagmite obstacle course. 

She blinked, and her eyelids felt sticky as they came back up. Colum came at her and she didn’t even attempt to parry, leaping out of the way and stumbling on the landing, going down hard on her side.

Something’s wrong.

Gideon was panting, lungs straining. Sweat coated her torso, soaking the black linen of her tunic and stinging the cuts on her arms. Her muscles felt exhausted, her eyelids were drooping and she had to squint to bring the approaching figure of Colum back into focus.

Some kind of commotion was happening on the side of the pitch, people yelling and scuffling, but she couldn’t risk looking away from Colum to investigate. 

She didn’t know what to do - didn’t know what was happening to her - didn’t know if she should, or even could, forfeit before she got seriously hurt.

The Eighth cavalier approached, almost lazily. His sword swung out, sending hers tumbling out of her hand and flying off into the dust. She was down, she was weak, and now she was unarmed.

There was a shout from behind her, and the sound of someone running across the packed earth.

Colum tossed his own sword away and moved the dagger to his main hand. He lowered himself on one knee beside her and raised it high. 

Through Gideon’s blurred vision she guessed he was aiming for her shoulder. A dick move, but it wasn’t fatal, so it was technically allowed - and it would knock her out of the rest of the competition for sure, clearing the way for Colum to reach the semi-final. Gideon tried to push herself up and out of the way, but her hand only flailed against the sand.

Fuck, this is gonna hurt.

Colum brought the dagger down, and - 

CLANG.

Something heavy landed on Gideon’s abdomen, driving all the breath out of her in a weak “oof”, her vision going dark as the whatever-it-was blocked the sun.

She coughed, weakly, getting her breath back and squinting up at whatever had landed on her. 

It was Harrow.

It was Harrow??????!?!

It was Harrow!#@$)*$*#(*$%(*W$(~!@I~#(!kfsdlkjsdfldfjkdfk

It was Harrow. Harrowhark Nonagesimus, pampered mistress of Drearburh, 90 pounds soaking wet, too short to reach the top shelf, was sprawled across Gideon’s body with her arms crossed above her, blocking Colum’s dagger. 

She seemed to have some kind of vambrace under her robes, and she had caught the blade in the ‘x’ of her forearms like the busty cav on the front cover of ‘Heroic Hotties of the Fourth House.’ (though Gideon much preferred the high-production-value narrative sequel, ‘A Lady’s Last Stand’)

“What…. The fuck….” breathed Gideon weakly, thoroughly discomposed. (not least because her brain seemed to be connecting her current near-injury situation directly to porn)

Harrow threw her arms to the side, sending Colum’s blade sliding uselessly away, and the man stumbled back several paces.

“HE’S CHEATING!” bellowed Harrow at the top of her (puny) voice, and everything dissolved into pure chaos.

Gideon, having had enough of this, went ahead and passed out.

-------------------------------------------------------

She awoke to the deeply unpleasant experience of someone pouring water over her face, and the equally unpleasant sight of Ianthe’s anemic face hovering above her own.

“Augh, phffffff, yuck”, Gideon groaned, in response to both of these things.

“Welcome back, Gideon Nav,” purred the Third twin, “Happy to see me?”

“Hyuuuuck,” replied Gideon, coughing up more of the water.

“Tridentarius, just do what I told you,” came the biting, no-nonsense voice of Palamedes Sextus from somewhere to the side.

“I always knew the Sixth were no fun,” sighed Ianthe, “Fine.” She grabbed Gideon’s chin to tilt her face back and peered intently into her eyes. Gideon glared, but as her eyelids still couldn’t fully open, it didn’t have much strength.

“Pupils unequal,” recited Ianthe, “eyelids drooping, reactions -” she quickly snapped her fingers in front of Gideons face, “ - present but delayed. Her spirit’s still there, judging by how she seems to be trying to glare at me.” (Gideon tried to glare harder. Ianthe smirked.)

“Good,” said Palamedes, sounding relieved. “That means she didn’t get enough of the neurotoxin in her blood to begin the synapse failure cascade. She’ll be fine in a few hours.”

Gideon wrenched her chin out of Ianthe’s hand and flopped her head towards his voice. The Sixth heir was standing next to Harrow, both peering at Colum’s dagger, now held in Palamedes’ gloved hands. Colum himself was standing off to the side, being very obviously guarded by Camilla and a furious-looking Marta Dyas. 

“Well, Nonagesimus, you were right,” said Sextus, a combination of words that never failed to make Gideon cringe. “Judging by her symptoms and the sheen on this blade, I’d say it’s coated with undiluted night viper venom. It causes exhaustion and muscle weakness in small amounts, and death due to widespread neural overload if you get a large dose.”

“If, for example, one were stabbed with a dagger covered in it?” Harrow snapped out. She was doing the thing where her pronunciation got extremely correct and every syllable ended with a bite. This usually brought chills to Gideon’s blood because it meant she was both furious and about to bring a spiked hammer down on someone in retribution.

Harrow was glaring at Colum, and Gideon didn’t have a level on the Glare Scale to properly convey the death beams she seemed to be trying to shoot out of her eyes.

“Yes,” replied Sextus, grimly. “That would certainly be enough to kill.”

“Teacher,” said Harrow grimly, and the man must have been loitering close by because he popped up in front of Harrow as if by magic.

“I move to disqualify the Eighth house from this competition, on grounds of making an intentionally fatal attempted strike on my cavalier while in the ring. And also -” Harrow paused, her eyes flicking to Marta standing rigidly by Colum’s side, “- poisoning Marta Dyas during their match in Round 2.”

Marta looked smug. Judith looked furious.

Teacher looked very awkward. “Well - technically, using a poisoned blade isn’t against the rules. But - “ he continued hastily as both Harrow and Sextus opened their mouths to challenge him, “ - but, yes, no intentionally fatal attempts in the ring is one of the few rules this competition has, so, well, um, yes.”

He turned towards the Eighth heir, who was striding over in a short, pale, angry huff. “I’m afraid you and your cavalier are disqualified from this competition, Octakiseron.”

“This is preposterous,” stormed Silas, “the Eighth house has done nothing to warrant this disrespect.”

“Except try to kill the Ninth cavalier during a match,” said Palamedes, coolly.

“I see no proof of that,” sneered Silas, gesturing to Gideon’s prone body. “You said yourself she’ll be fine in a few hours, and Colum was clearly going for the shoulder. She’d have been out for the finals, but there was no chance of death.” 

Marta seemed unable to keep herself from jumping in. “You deny it was poisoned then?” She spat at Silas, “You deny poisoning me two days ago?” 

“Certainly not,” said Silas. Gideon knew she wouldn’t have been able to sound as calm as he did if she’d been admitting to poisoning the Second Cavalier right to her red, angry face. 

“The rules said my cavalier could have two weapons, and he did. The fact that one of them was enhanced isn’t against the rules, as Teacher has already said. You seem fine now,” Silas added, casting a dismissive glance up and down Marta’s tense form before turning away from her.

“You tried to kill my cavalier,” said Harrow, in her iciest voice (and boy, did the Ninth know ice). “Both Marta and Gideon were heavily affected by small cuts from that dagger - a full stab, like Colum attempted, would have been enough to end her.”

Silas crossed his arms. “You have no proof of that.”

“Ok then,” said Palamedes, stepping quickly in front of Harrow to head off whatever violence she’d been about to commit on the Eighth.

He handed the dagger, handle-first, towards Silas. “Stab yourself. If you live, you stay in the competition and we call this match for the Eighth.”

Silas made no move to take the knife. “I’m not going to stab myself,” he rolled his eyes, “I’m the Master Templar of the Eighth House, I’d have to abdicate if I intentionally polluted my own body.”

Palamedes continued holding the knife out. “So stab him,” he said angrily, gesturing to Colum. “He’s in as good a shape as Marta or Gideon. He’ll recover just like they did… as long as the poison isn’t fatal.” His eyes were cool, grey, and full of fiery challenge behind the over-large glasses.

Silas… paused. He seemed to be considering this.

No way, thought Gideon, still just a sack of meat on the ground. 

Colum, who up till now had remained as stoic and grey as the rock of Drearburh castle, paled a little.

Silas slowly reached out and took the dagger. 

No fucking way, thought Gideon, horrified. She was sure Sextus was right, that (ugh) Harrow was right, that a full-contact wound from the dagger would be fatal. She was also sure that Sextus was trying to call the Eighth’s bluff, force him into admitting the lethal dose to avoid hurting his own cavalier.

Silas looked at the blade. He looked at Colum. Colum’s eyes were wide and he seemed to be trembling a little, but he made no move to break away, or say anything to stop Silas. 

A long, long moment passed, in which Gideon could swear she saw the cold calculations being made behind Silas’ eyes. 

He walked forward and stopped in front of Colum, locking eyes with his cavalier. There was almost a foot difference in their heights, but it was clear who held the power between these two.

“Qui magna spectant, debent ministrare" intoned Silas, into the dead silence that had taken hold of the ring. His surprisingly deep voice had the ritual sepulchral quality of the holiest of Locked Tomb services.

Colum was shaking even more now, but he had eyes only for his heir and replied, in an equally ritualistic voice, “Omnes una manet nox.”

Silas struck. The dagger went easily in between Colum’s gorget and pauldron, right into the spot on the shoulder that Colum had been aiming for on Gideon. 

Colum winced, but made no other reaction.

Silas pulled the dagger out (rather hastily, Gideon noted) and stepped back.

The assembled crowd of House nobles, tournament champions, Imperial generals, and Teacher, watched and held their breath. 

Colum slumped. His eyes drooped, clearly struggling to stay open. The sweaty patches of his tunic, cooled after the break from the match, started showing fresh wetness. He swayed where he stood, and Camilla caught him and laid him out on the ground.

For a few minutes, it seemed Silas might have got away with it - Colum showed nothing but the same signs of exhaustion and stress that Marta and Gideon had, and a look of grim sorrow and relief came across Silas’ face.

But then - Colum twitched. 

And spasmed, and twitched again, and then he was full on shaking, torso juddering, limbs thrashing over the ground, his back arched up as if every vertebrate had just clamped together. 

Palamedes shoved Silas out of the way and went down to the ground beside the seizing man. 

“Cam, get my bag,” he shouted. “Marta, help me get him on his side.”

Camilla shot off towards the tents, and the remaining pair rolled Colum quickly onto his side. Palamedes shoved a hastily torn and rolled strip of fabric between Colum’s teeth. They held him stable as he continued to spasm on the ground, the rattling of his armor a sound that would stick in Gideon’s mind for years.

Coronabeth stepped tentatively forward. “Master Warden, can we help?”

“No,” said Palamedes grimly, not taking his eyes off Colum. “If it is night viper venom -” he cast a look at Silas, but Silas didn’t return it, “ - then I have a small antivenom sample in my bag. It’s not a guaranteed cure, but it’s the only thing that might help.”

Cam pounded back up, large bag in hand, and held it open while Palamedes efficiently dug out a small vial, loaded a syringe, and injected it into Colum’s neck while both Marta and Camilla held the shaking man as still as possible.

Slowly, achingly, the seizure eased, until Colum lay on the ground, panting and unconscious but blessedly still. 

“Take him back to his room,” Palamedes instructed the two cavaliers, “all he can do now is rest.” He stood up, and grimly faced the silent, watching crowd. “It looks like he’ll live, but there will likely be some residual brain damage. We won’t know how much until he wakes.”

He looked directly at Silas, who was standing there staring as Colum was carried away, fists clenched and a horrible bitter expression on his face. 

“Your gamble failed, Master Templar,” said Palamedes. “Teacher, “ he turned to face the little man, “I re-state the Ninth’s petition to disqualify the Eighth house from this tournament.”

“Approved,” whispered Teacher, and for once the verbose orator had nothing else to say.

It seemed finally time for Gideon to slip blissfully back into sleep and let her own body rest to purge the venom and process the sheer awfulness of what had just happened. She was very much looking forward to it. But then -

Naberius Tern stepped forward.

“Teacher,” he said, in a grandiose voice that carried throughout the field, “the Third house petitions to disqualify the Ninth house from this tournament.”

“What?” said Coronabeth, shocked. “Babs -” but her sister shushed her by the expedient method of putting a hand over her mouth.

“On what grounds?” demanded Jeannemary from somewhere Gideon couldn’t see.

Harrow said nothing, just relocated her Epic Death Glare™ from Silas towards Naberius.

Naberius tossed his head and crossed his arms, his mouth in a hard line but his eyes smiling smugly. “On the grounds that the Ninth heir violated the other cardinal rule of this tournament - no outside interference during a match.”

A clamor of voices rose at this.

“Oh, come on you twat -”
“ - hardly the point - “

“ - not interference if - “

“Teacher?” said Camilla loudly, breaking through the din.

All eyes went to Teacher as the diminutive man cleared his throat.

“Yes… I suppose, technically, the Ninth heir ran onto the field during an active match, which is a violation of the rules for this tournament.”

The clamor started again.

“ - hardly expect her to - “

“ - it was to save her cav - “

“ - not the point  - “

“Oh, for the love of all the Houses,“ came a loud angry female voice from outside Gideon’s view.

The apricot-haired general strode commandingly into the middle of the fighting nobles, shutting their squabbling up immediately. Gideon had to admire the way her coat snapped dramatically around her as she stopped and placed her hands on her hips.

“This is insane!!” the general declared, “The Ninth heir was clearly interfering to save her cavalier from someone who was already breaking the rules. In no universe is that grounds for disqualification.”

“Actually,” said a deeper voice, breaking in. The second general appeared on the other side of Gideon’s view and came up to face the first. He planted his cane out in front of him and stood with both hands on the carved handle. 

From Gideon’s low viewpoint of, you know, the ground, it looked like an epic supervillain standoff. She made a mental note to remember this if she ever needed to design a book cover. Also - she might still be a little loopy from the venom, hmmm.

The new arrival continued, “I think you’ll find, dearest Mercy, that the Emperor was very clear on the rules for this tournament, and made absolutely no exceptions for circumstances. Context, I’m afraid, is unimportant in this moment.”

The first general (Mercy? Gideon couldn’t decide if that name was weird or badass for a military leader. Maybe both.) shot back “I know you think following rules is more important than saving the life of your cavalier, Augustine, but I assure you John would disagree.”

John? Did… Did that general just first name the Emperor? These people were so weird. Gideon wouldn’t have even known the actual name of His Imperial Majesty if it wasn’t carved on the bottom of his portrait in the Drearburh chapel, aka the only non-religious piece of text her eyes could stare at during services. She didn’t think she’d ever heard it spoken aloud.

Augustine gave a bitter smile. “I’m not sure which example you’re thinking of, but you should care to remember that cows have best friends and complex social relationships.”

Mercy threw her hands in the air.  “Fine!!” she snapped, “I’m tired of this. John was clear about the rules, but he wasn’t clear about what happened if you broke them - so I’ll decide. 

“You - ” she pointed at Silas “ - are disqualified. And you - “ she pointed at Harrow - “ lose one point in the tournament standings.”

She turned back to Augustine. “There. All rule breakers punished. Can we be done now?!”

Augustine bowed to her with an excessive amount of flourish. “Yes, my lady, I am satisfied.”

“God I hate you,” muttered Mercy, as the pair started to leave. 

Augustine swept right by Gideon and was gone, but Mercy stopped, crouching down next to her head. 

“You alright, kid?” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

Gideon, who seemed to have regained most of her muscle control by this point, nodded. 

Mercy’s eyes scanned in quick appraisal over Gideon’s cuts and sweaty pile of a body, then came to rest on her face, still shielded by the glasses. She cocked her head and frowned, staring at Gideon as if there was something not-quite-right about her. 

Well. At the moment there were several somethings not-quite-right about Gideon, starting with the snake poison, moving right on through her participation in this ridiculous murder tournament, and ending with her budding sexual feelings for her former nemesis, so take your pick, lady.

In the end the general just said “Good,” gave Gideon a thump on the arm, and walked off.