I raised my gun at the same time Saradon did. A wave of mutters flowed out from the spectators. Cowardly Galactic, right.

  The twin threads of force danced in my mind, a helix of warm and cold, tugging on Saradon's bullet and my primer.

  I was suddenly glad that magic was so despised among the Dromoni. A single mage, even an untrained dirt mage or warder, could have disrupted the threads, making me lose focus, or triggering my primer.

  The ward on my primer cap was crude. It was also broken. When my thread infused it, it would shatter, cracking into the firing cap.

  Just like a firing pin.

  Saradon raised his gun higher, the muzzle pointing at the hall's black dome. I copied his motion, letting the muzzle sweep slowly down, down, down. My arm started to ache with the strain, my muzzle wobbling slightly.

  Saradon fired.

  His shot punched me in my mind, the thread of force wrapped around his bullet yanking on my intertwined one, striking the ward, cracking the primer.

  My gun shoved and coughed flame.

  With a crack that echoed over the firing, our bullets collided in mid-air, sending fragments raining over the barriers.

  The Dromoni screamed, a wave of emotion like nothing I'd ever heard. No close race, no planetary competition could have matched the feelings in that moment. Several thousand people standing and screaming all at once, eyes bulging, cheeks coloring, hands slapping open mouths or tearing at their hair.

  We'd done it. We'd held a duel, striking true without causing harm to each other.

  I felt drained.

  Standing in the center of the wave of sound was like standing in the eye of a hurricane about to sweep over me. Belatedly, I remembered to fire my gun, and let the hammer fall on my spent casing in the chamber.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Nobody noticed. They were too busy shouting at each other, the Trevalon side in joy, hugging and grabbing each other's hands, the Akula side shouting at their allies that departed without even the pretense of going to visit someone, a wave of support rushing around the barriers and across the plaza to join the Trevalon side.

  I felt a slap on my shoulder and turned, already raising my gun to use as a club. Traz's grinning face stopped me.

  "Good work," he said. "Very good work."

  He clasped my hand, pulling me close.

  "You did destroy the wards?" he whispered.

  "Yes," I said, my mouth pressed close to his ear.

  "Good," said Traz. "Some of the more traditional factions might disapprove."

  "Not you?" I said.

  "No," said Traz. "We figured it would be something like that, seeing how you are a warder. Master Saradon is quite open to outside influences, as is Master Martens. I told you, not everyone is like Master Draud."

  "I remembered," I said.

  The commotion around us had flowed away, toward Saradon on the other side of the plaza. Only Traz and a few silver-clad servants remained by me.

  And Riina.

  "I didn’t die," I said.

  "So I noticed," she replied. "Good work."

  Small words. Big meaning. Very big.

  "Thank you," I said.

  I was about to ask about our chances to gain some help for the Belithain when I spotted a familiar, unwelcome face making its way toward me.

  Draud strode through the thinning throng like a ship falling through a gas giant, a bubble of empty space materializing around him.

  His perfect trap had failed. His standing in the mercurial game of Dromoni politics must have crashed.

  Yet Draud's steps were measured, his posture straight and controlled. Only his red face and clenched fists betrayed his true feelings.

  When he reached us, the empty bubble expanded to encompass me, Traz, and Riina.

  And Maia, following along in Draud's wake, as if drawn by an invisible string.

  Which she most likely was. Protégé. A virtual slave.

  Her words in the night flowed through my mind. I made a mistake. I tied my standing to the wrong master. Who would offer?

  "I will break you," Draud said, in a very pleasant voice, as if discussing the taste of an intriguing desert. "Do not think I will forget how you foiled me."

  I half-turned away from him, ignoring him, focusing on Maia and the blue-yellow bruise on her cheek.

  "Mistress Maia," I said, remembering Draud's words to me earlier. "Does the protégé wish to sign into service with a new master?"

  It was as if I'd turned off the volume on a vid. Every conversation around us stopped.

  Maia glanced at Draud, glanced at me, at Riina.

  "I do," she said.

  Draud exploded, his composure shattering, curses spilling from his mouth.

  "I will void-loving crush you," he screamed. "I will rip asunder your crud house. I will kill you with my bare hands."

  Kill me? I started to laugh, which angered him more, raising a murmur around us. I waved it into silence.

  "Master Draud," I said. "I accept."

  Who said I couldn't learn?