Day 11 of the War
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“What a tragic fight…” Isla said, tidying up Ayla’s clothes chest in the corner. “They were so much in love…”
Ayla stared at her bowl of lentil soup, debating whether or not she wanted to shove it down fast to get past her gag reflex or if she wanted to eat it slowly to try to savor the meal. She scraped her spoon against the bottom of the bowl, pushing against lentils, onions, red peppers, and parsley. She wanted her maids to leave so she could try to sneak over to Loran’s room.
Sure, he’d be angry, but she had to know why he kissed her. Her chest tightened. Did he like her or was it supposed to be a goodbye kiss? She didn’t know what answer she preferred. If it was the first, then things between them would change. Ayla wasn’t ready for things to change. If it was the second, then the kiss hadn’t meant anything.
Deep down, Ayla wanted it to mean something. She didn’t know what.
Kaya sighed, sitting in one of the armchairs across from Ayla’s bed. “I wonder who else will be sacrificed…” She leaned over, resting her elbows on her knees and setting her chin in her hands. Her coal eyes glinted. “I was looking forward to the War, but I’m…”
“It’s not so fun, is it?” Bahra asked, sitting in the chair next to her, sipping at a cup of coffee. Her hand possessed a gentle shake. “Death should never be entertainment.”
“Then why do we have these wars?” Isla asked, finishing her task and closing the lid to the chest. She sat on top of it, crossing her legs, and blowing a piece of hair out of her face.
A knock on the door interrupted Bahra’s answer. “Ayla,” the voice said, a quiver catching the last syllable of her name. It was Ashor.
Ayla stood and carried her tray to the desk. She opened the door and Ashor tried to smile, reaching down and kissing her wrist. His lips trembled against her skin, his stubble rough. Ayla turned to her maids.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but could you leave early?” She grabbed Ashor’s hand as he straightened and tugged him inside.
Isla, Kaya, and Bahra all bowed before filing out of the door and shutting it behind them. Ayla guided Ashor to the chair Kaya had been sitting in, next to her tall bookcase, and returned to her desk. She poured him some coffee into a spare cup and offered to him.
“Thanks…” He took it with both hands. He closed his eyes as he drank, tipping his head back as he swallowed gulp after gulp. When he finished the cup, he returned his eyes to her. The mossy color they’d had during Loran’s fight appeared laced with brown. “Asked Loran to come, too. Should be here soon.”
Her heart thudded into her ribs. “Oh.” She swallowed and reached for his cup. “Let me get you more.” She walked across her room and poured another cup while she glanced back at him. “How’d you… ask him?”
“Snuck into the infirmary and sent a note in English. Heard you use it earlier.” He smiled, although it was faint. “It was smart.”
She felt a blush creep onto her cheeks from the warm lump in her throat as she handed him the cup again. “Thank you.”
He took the cup from her again, this time staring down into the dark liquid. “I don’t know if I can win, Ayla.”
“You’ve been saying that since you got here…” she said, putting a hand on his messy hair. It’d grown since she’d arrived in Esagila.
“That’s because I still don’t think I can win.” He continued to stare into the cup. “I’ve never beaten Banipal or Sanhareb in a fight. I beat Nemrud two-out-of-three times. Yabil usually beat me two-out-of-three—”
“Stop comparing yourself,” she interrupted. “You’re not fighting against any of those therians. You’re fighting against Medya and Vejen.”
“Vejen is as good as Loran.” His eyes shifted to hers. He already looked defeated. “It’ll be a miracle if I can beat him, let alone the girl. Loran had a hard time because he was up against two people who wanted nothing more than to kill him. It won’t be any different for me…”
Loran walked through the door, not bothering to knock. “Let’s strategize, Ashor.” He shut the door behind him and took a seat in her desk’s chair. He eyed the half-eaten food, but turned away from it. “You’ve been acting like you’ve already lost for a week.”
Ashor frowned, sitting up. “I have not.”
Ayla pulled away from Ashor, her heart twisting. Did Loran not knock on purpose—because he’d have to kiss her wrist in front of Ashor? She took a seat in the other armchair, leaning against the armrest.
“Yes, you have.” Loran tilted his head, his bangs brushing against his forehead and out of his eyes. “All those mageians who’ve… who’ve lost, they had no clue how to fight a therian.”
“And you do,” Ayla finished for him, a determined edge to her voice. She wouldn’t think about Loran or the kiss. She’d focus on Ashor—and she’d be fine. “You know how to fight a therian.”
“I’ve been sneaking around with my neck on the line for a week to train with you,” Loran continued. “Vejen fights like normal therians. He has no idea how to fight against a mageian who actually knows what to expect. Trust me. You have the upper hand here.”
“Just believe in yourself, will you?” Ayla asked, leaning over and trying to catch his eye. “Stop hiding in Zalyn’s shadow—”
“I do not hide in his shadow,” Ashor growled, his eyes snapping to hers. Their color brightened. The smell of fresh alder wood burst into her room. “It’s just been safer for me.” He drank his coffee and sat it down by his feet before he rubbed his hands over his face. “You have no idea, Ayla, how hard it was for me when I moved from Ekarkara.”
Loran glanced at her, but shifted his eyes away. He poured himself a cup of coffee, using the cup she’d been using earlier. Her heart skipped around in her chest while her stomach dropped to her feet. Avoiding her gaze, yet using her cup? What was she even supposed to do with that?
She let out a breath, closing her eyes for a moment. “I don’t, you’re right.” She wanted to be mad at him for assuming his life was so much harder than hers—but what could she say? Yes, her parents were murdered, but his were, too. She’d been able to enjoy the comfort of her own home with her own father for her entire life, while he had been hauled to Esagila when he was young.
He probably had to endure the same rumors as Loran. She knew, in the back of her mind, she’d only been spared from the accusation because her father had been the winner and because her uncle was a Cardinal.
Maybe… She swallowed against the lump in her throat. Maybe she had the easiest life out of all of them.
“Tell me,” she said, her voice soft as it escaped past the ball of emotions in her neck. “Tell me what it was like.”
Ashor sighed and leaned back in the chair. “The first thing I remember after being sick is waking up drenched in sweat, wheezing against the humidity on silky sheets with the sun beaming into my eyes from my window. The first time my family allowed me to leave the estate was to attend some stupid lunch with the other competitors. They ignored me, teased me—how could someone with Ninhursag’s magic get sick—and they wondered where I’d been living before I got here.”
Ayla swallowed and closed her eyes, putting her fingers on her temples as she hunched over. She’d had it so easy. No one had ever questioned her. Had they even dared?
“Rumors started spreading that I’d been in Ekarkara and that I was a traitor,” he spat. “The first time my Grandfather allowed me to leave the inner city, they fucking followed me and shoved me into some back alley. I thought they’d torture me, but Zalyn jumped down from the roof like some kind of hero.” He groaned. His clothes shifted against the chair as he slouched. “And he told them off. He walked me to the market like a fucking bodyguard and helped me buy what I needed, then escorted me all the way back home.”
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“Sorry.” Ayla buried her head in her hands. So that had been why Zalyn made a point to be nice to her at their first lunch, and why he’d told the others off for mocking her. She’d be so wrong to judge him.
“No reason to be sorry.” His voice sounded dry. He cleared his throat. “But that’s why it’s safer. I’m not hiding, I’m being loyal.”
“He can’t save you in the arena,” Loran said, his voice rough. “It’s going to be you and them. I know I wasn’t there for you—” His voice cut out. “—when you probably needed me the most, but I’m here now. I’m not going to lose you now, Ashor. Faya would kill me.”
Ashor let out a low, sadistic laugh. “Faya.”
“Still remember her, right?” Loran asked, that rough quality laced into his husky voice still. “The last thing she said to me before I left was that you better make it out a live and that you better go back to her.”
“Thought she’d forget,” Ashor whispered.
Ayla didn’t know what they were talking about, but she went with it. “If you want to live and visit her, you’ll have to win tomorrow.”
“Yes.” He stopped himself. “I know the why, I just don’t know the how.”
“I’ve got that covered,” Loran said. He pointed to the bowl of lentil soup on the tray. “Can I have this? It smells so good.”
“No,” she said. It felt like little pine needles stabbed into her heart as he retracted his hand from the food. “I’m still hungry.” And if he was going to pretend they hadn’t kissed at all, there was no reason he could drink from her cup and eat her food.
Right?
“You probably need the food more than I do,” he said, a half-smile lifting his cheeks for a moment. “So, the plan. Medya’s going to do whatever Vejen says so she can catch him off-guard while he’s fighting you. She’ll probably cover him, but she’ll be distracted. You need to take her out first.”
Ashor groaned, slouching deeper into the chair, his lean legs sprawling half the distance to her bed. “But I hate fighting girls.”
“Just picture her as a guy,” Ayla said.
He threw her a look. “Excuse me? She’s gorgeous and I’m supposed to picture her as a boy?”
“Who cares if she’s pretty or not?” Ayla frowned at him, displeased with his stupid boy-logic. “She’s going to try to kill you. That alone should make her rather hideous in your eyes.”
Loran laughed. It sounded so easy and carefree that it twinged at Ayla’s insides. “Faya would kill you if she heard you say that.”
Ashor turned pink. “Then I guess it’d save the therians some trouble.”
“Ashor,” Ayla said, determined to make him concentrate. “Take this seriously, will you? I don’t want to lose you, either. You and Loran are all I have.”
“Don’t forget Zalyn,” Ashor said, his voice low and mocking.
She held back her insult. “If you came here to whine, then you might as well leave.”
“No, no.” Ashor sighed. “I didn’t. I came here for encouragement, for a plan, for support… to be around my friends.”
“We’re here for you,” Loran said. “It’ll only take one of your punches to knock Medya out. Then you can focus on Vejen. He’s cocky, but he’s good. He’ll underestimate you, especially if you only knock Medya unconscious. Just fight like you, and I promise you’ll be fine.”
“I know you’re right.” He weaved his fingers together on his stomach. “I know you’re both right, I just… I’m just scared to walk into the arena confident and then… and then let everyone watch it all fall apart.”
“You’re not Banipal or Sanhareb,” Ayla said. “You are Ashor Sayad.”
“The Fifty-Seventh,” he added with warm smile tugging at his lips.
“You’ll always just be Ashor to me,” she said.
Loran stood and crossed the room, offering Ashor his arm. “I’ll take you to see Faya if you win. Deal?”
Ashor lifted an eyebrow, taking his wrist and helping himself out of his slouch and onto his feet. “I have no idea how you’ll do that, but deal.”
#
Ohorshina doll-like face looked etched in stone as she gestured for the arena to silence. “The three competitors created by Ninhursag, the mother goddess of the earth, will fight today for the honor of wielding her treasured weapon, the Strong Mace. The battle will begin at high sun.”
Ayla let out a thin breath. Her legs twitched, her whole body shaking with adrenalin and anxiety. Loran sat on the other side of the arena, his face hardened as he squinted at the door Ashor would step out from. Ayla watched the doors on the therian side for the forms of Medya and Vejen.
Zalyn rested a hand on her thigh. Her leg stopped bouncing, his skin warming hers through her grey velvet pants. He gave her a tight smile, which faded as he turned back to the arena.
“Ashor will win,” he said. “I know he will.”
Ayla put her hand on his, slipping her fingers between the valleys of his knuckles. “Yes, he will.” She swallowed her heart down her throat and smiled like a maniac. “He’ll win!” Her cheer sent a white cloud twirling up into the grey skies.
Zalyn gripped her thigh, his fingers pressing into her muscles. “I couldn’t agree more.” A biting smirk lifted the corners of his mouth. “You did give him a kiss for good luck, right?”
“A what?”
Cheers interrupted Zalyn as the doors to the waiting rooms grinded as they opened. Ohorshina announced Medya Tovi, and then Ashor Sayad, followed by a smirking Vejen Akreyi.
Medya wore deep emerald pants at her hips, swaying around her thighs as she walked and narrow under knees to her bare feet. A short shirt fell above her torso, revealing the dark, creamy skin of her midriff. Vejen wore no shoes and evergreen colored pants low on his hips like Loran and the other therian men.
Ashor stepped in front of them wearing loose pants and a long-sleeved shirt light green velvet. It rippled across his back in the wind. His shoulders tightened as he clenched his fists against the chill. She let out a breath, hoping to calm herself down. She had to believe in Ashor, especially if he believed in himself.
As the sun reached its peak in the sky, Ohorshina said, “May Ninhursag be with you.”
Both sides of the stadium erupted, but it sounded like a distant waterfall to Ayla. She concentrated on Ashor’s back, on every muscle hidden by his attire. He faced the two therians for a moment, surveying them and preparing himself, before he released a sigh and dropped into his fighting stance and hopping between his feet.
Vejen chuckled and darted at him first, his legs ripping his pants below the knee as they formed into grizzly bear claws as if they were giant fur boots. His foot lashed out at Ashor, but he blocked the first. He stumbled back, his guard absorbing the blow, as Vejen stepped forward and kicked him again. Ashor swatted it away with his forearm and a grunt.
“Fuck,” Zalyn said in a hoarse whisper. “He’s good.”
“He’ll be fine.” Ayla tightened her hand around Zalyn’s. “Ashor can handle him.”
Medya stayed back in her fighting stance, waiting for the perfect time to strike like an eagle waiting for salmon. Ashor tore into Vejen with a brutal punch, the therian groaning and stepping into Ashor’s body with a low punch to his gut. A large white breath escaped Ashor’s lips, climbing to the sky.
Ashor swung toward Vejen’s open head, but the therian kicked him in the ankle and darted backward. Ashor winced and shook his ankle, probably resetting the bone so it could heal, as Medya raced toward him. Her legs reshaped under her pants, her ankles spotted brown over golden fur.
She kicked at his ribs, but he blocked it and stepped in quick, driving his fist into her face. Medya grunted, staggered back, and then toppled over. Vejen charged him, as if excited by Ashor’s one-hit knockout. Ashor raised his guard as Vejen’s fists flew at him in a set of three punches, followed by a high kick to the face.
Ashor’s guard broke, but he dashed forward with a punch. They landed this to the other’s cheek before Ashor jabbed him with an uppercut. Vejen landed a swift punch to his nose and another to his temple as Ashor reeled backward.
Vejen followed him, nailing him in the head again and again until Ashor managed to rebuild his block. The therian went low, aiming to trip him up by catching the back of his knee with his foot, but Ashor lunged forward and hammered his fist into his nose. Vejen grunted, nose breaking, and stumbled to regain his balance while his vision swam. Ashor lifted his leg to catch him in the temple, but Vejen blocked it in time with a single arm.
Ashor stepped forward and punched him in the nose again. Blood sprayed against the pristine blanket of snow as Vejen swung wide, nailing Ashor in the temple. They parted, waiting to catch their breath and for their vision to clear.
Ayla’s chest ached as Ashor spit blood to the ground. Her heart raced, her breath thinner than water. She swallowed as she slid her fingertips to her throat, massaging the lump resting near her vocal chords.
“This is it,” Zalyn whispered, watching as Ashor and Vejen rushed each other again.
Ayla felt a whimper crawl up her throat as they kicked each other in the jaw. Vejen’s foot touched back on the ground quicker as he stepped forward and crushed his fist into Ashor’s forehead. Ashor stumbled back, hunching over from the impact. Vejen slammed his fist again into the back of his head as he fell.
“No…” She dropped her hand to her heart, pounding in her chest like a rockslide.
The therians roared. Vejen rose his hands, standing over Ashor’s body. His limp form rose on his hands. Blood stained the snow under him as he tried to stand.
No.
Vejen bent over, taking Ashor’s head in his hands, and twisted. The crack jolted through her body and the thump hailed down on her as he let Ashor’s body fall back into the snow.
She stood as her eyes blurred, and lurched forward, hoping the therian wasn’t trying to mock her by killing him the same way Loran had almost done to him. Zalyn grabbed her arm and tugged her into his body.
“What’re you thinking?” he hissed. His body quivered against her, hot like an inferno with anger and hatred. It burned in her heart.
“The winner is Vejen Akreyi.”
Her body shook as she ripped away from him, hopping over the railing. She padded her legs with magic as she landed in the packed snow. The therian’s cheers grew angry, but they didn’t bother her. She needed to see Ashor.
Nurses ran from the southern quarter with a stretcher as she raced toward his fallen body. The wind ripped at her face and burned her eyes. She dropped next to him, covering her lips with trembling hands.
“A-Ashor…” She pressed shaking fingers to his throat and closed her eyes, held her breath—but she knew she’d feel nothing. No pulse. No life under her fingertips. A whine grated against her throat. “No…”
The nurses pushed her away with glares, rolling his limp body onto a stretcher. Blood stained the snow where he’d been. Zalyn grabbed her from behind and pressed her into his chest as her eyes prickled.
He shushed her with a soft whisper. “You can’t cry,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “It’s considered a sign of weakness.”
Ayla hung her head, forcing her eyelids to shut over her tears as the nurses fussed over Ashor’s body. She bit her lip against a sob as Zalyn hugged her, guiding her back toward the western quarter. Snow crunched under Ohorshina’s footsteps as she crossed the arena to deliver Vejen his prize for killing Ayla’s best friend.