Five seconds pass. Ten. He stands still in the echo of her words, seemingly unable to move, unable to blink, unable to breathe.
Just as Claudia is about to pull away, Cassius snaps.
His hands are in her hair, his body is closer and hotter than it has ever been, and finally, his lips crash into hers.
Immediately, his fear floods her mouth, and a vision plays across her mind:
She sees Odette’s body. Her sweat-soaked blond hair, her twisted face. Cassius was right—she died afraid.
Then, next to her, is Claudia’s body, bruised at the neck.
Then, Marcherie. Alistair. Angel. Triche.
Everyone here whom he cares about—all dead, all lying in a perfect circle. Cassius stands in the center of all of them, blood dripping from his hands and a dagger protruding from his chest.
I couldn’t protect them, he cries.
This is his greatest fear—losing everyone he loves.
Claudia and Cassius stand at their respective podiums, pretending they didn’t just rip themselves apart from each other. Pretending they don’t want to run off and finish what they started. Pretending they aren’t trembling with need beneath their robes. As the other students settle in their seats, Claudia watches only Cassius. He keeps his gaze forward, careful not to look at her. His lips are swollen. His breathing is labored.
He’s flustered. He’s off his game.
Claudia turns away, for if she looks at him for one more second, she’ll become a mess, too. She has to focus. She has so much more riding on this debate than he does. There are still whispers that she doesn’t belong, still occasional glares in the halls. This is her chance to prove them all wrong.
Professor Olivier walks onto the stage and stands between the rivals.
“Scholars, welcome to the first debate of our second semester. Today’s opponents are Mr. Cassius MacLeod, arguing for godly impunity, and Miss Claudia Jolicoeur, arguing against. Both students have crafted opening statements, and as always, we will begin with pro. Mr. MacLeod, state your case.”
As soon as his time begins, a wash of calm runs over his face. His eyes turn cold, his body tense. It’s almost mechanical the way he shifts into a new mode of being.
“As a class, we have defined good to be anything desirable for its own sake that is pursued as a common aim among those of virtuous and sound mind. But that definition is inherently inapplicable to gods, for we know that a contingency of godhood is divine madness. For us, a sound mind is a precedent for goodness. For gods, a sound mind is a relinquishment for divinity. We remain incapable of comprehending the nature of godly action. What we deem as a transgression could very well be an integral step in a higher plan. Just because an act is beyond our ethical framework, it doesn’t necessarily equate to evil. Thus, I argue that there is no divine good or evil—only balance andimbalance, and both are too vast and arcane for us to understand. We cannot pass judgment on what we do not comprehend, and we cannot implement punishment on that we cannot appropriately judge.” He takes a pause, letting the gravity of his statement sink into the audience’s bones. Claudia’s breathing is sharp and rapid.
He’s doing well. Too well.
The taste of his tongue still lingers in her mouth. He wants her, she knows, but not enough to let himself lose.
Bracing his hands on either side of the podium, he says, “The notion that mere mortals could punish gods is incredibly arrogant, showing a complete lack of understanding of mortal insignificance in the face of such power. To assume that we can measure a divine act upon the mortal spectrum of good and evil, and to further assume we can create a just punishment for the divine, is hubris.”
His argument is so good that Claudia expects the room to erupt in thunderous applause as soon as he’s done, but they are respectfully silent and every gaze in the room now moves to her.
“Miss Jolicoeur, begin.”
She winces and flattens her notes on the podium, noticing the fierce shake in her fingers. Clearing her throat, she begins with, “The gods were all once mortal. They have an indisputable, vast understanding of human nature because it is the basis of their own.”
Her voice is shaking. She sounds like she’s about to cry. She looks at her notes, then over to Cassius, her eyes filled with relentless, pitiful nerves.
“Breathe,” he mouths. “You’re good.”
She nods, taking a deep breath and balling her hands at her sides. When she stares at her notes in the echo of Cassius’s opening statement, a better, stronger argument forms in her mind.
It hinges on a technicality, but it just might work.
It’s like Lamour says about the constellations in celestialspells—meaning is malleable. Anything can mean anything if you can make a perfect argument for it.
“But I am not here to discuss the mortal spectrum of good and evil,” she says firmly, projecting her voice. “The question here is not whether or not mortals should be able to punish gods. The question is: Should gods be able to act with impunity? Meaning, can the gods punishone another? And I argue that they can, they do, and they must.”
She looks around the room to see if her case, even now at this preliminary stage in her statement, is being accepted. Professor Olivier gives the slightest, softest nod, and a ghost of a smile dances across her face.
