Three days before the War
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Ayla only had enough time to change into formal clothes when she got to her new home—apparently she couldn’t wear pants to lunch. She hurried down the stairs to the foyer and spotted Naramsin waiting for her with his arms over his chest.
“We’re already late,” Naramsin said with a dry look. “Can you move any slower?”
She scoffed, took the dress in her hands, and hiked it up. Pooling magic into her legs, she jumped the last twenty stairs, landing softly on a single sandaled foot.
“Better,” Naramsin said, an amused glitter in his eyes.
Her trainer escorted her toward the temple in the middle of the city, a few thinly dressed mageians carrying baskets filtering down the street. When she was close enough to truly estimate its height, she swallowed. It had to be three times the size of the temple in Ekarkara, and it sparkled in the sunlight as if diamonds were inlaid in the tan bricks.
“What’s this lunch for?” she asked as they climbed up the stairs.
“Formality,” Naramsin said. “The earth goddess wants to meet everyone.”
The guards let them pass through the high archway after checking the mark on their wrists.
“So all of the mageian competitors will be there?” She mentally groaned. Secretly, she’d been hoping she wouldn’t have to meet or talk to any of them. Her stomach boiled at the idea of meeting a bunch of stiff mageians who thought the world belonged to them. Ugh.
“Yes. Don’t let the chance go to waste, either.” He sounded annoyed, as if he somehow knew she had hoped to avoid them all. “Any information you learn about them will be invaluable.”
“I know.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be attentive, I promise.”
A cool, misty humidity pressed against her skin as Naramsin led her straight up the grand staircase and through an arch two stories high, ivy crawling on either side toward the ceiling. Inside, tree bark covered the walls and the ground molded to her feet like the moist soil of the forest she knew back home.
“I am not allowed inside,” Naramsin whispered, stopping her in front of large wooden double doors. Torches on either side lit the dim hallway. “I’ll be waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs.”
“How long will this thing take?” she whispered back, glancing at the doors.
“Depends,” he said. The firelight lit his cheeks as he smirked. “Have fun.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and then turned away. As if she’d have fun with these people. Probably all boys. Sweaty, overly aggressive, and obnoxious. None of them were going to be a thing like Loran. Not that Loran was perfect, but at least he had manners.
She pushed the door open after she heard Naramsin’s footsteps heading down the stairs. Its ancient hinges creaked. A wooden table stretched out in front of her to the other side of the room, shadowed faces sitting on cushions all the way down. At the front of the table sat a beautiful woman with a warm smile and eyes the color of evergreens in the summer sun. It could only be Ninhursag, the goddess who created this city.
Ayla knew she was staring, but she’d never eaten lunch with a goddess. Ereshkigal did not count. She wasn’t one of the seven creation gods, the ones who created the competitors.
“Welcome,” Ninhursag said, her happy face round and healthy. Her hand gestured toward the middle of the table, a single spot left among the nine others sitting at the low table. “Please take a seat. We finally have everyone.”
The doors behind her shut with a soft thump, the room darkening. Candles sat on the table below a low, candle chandelier lighting the room with a soft glow. Ayla swallowed, moving from the foot of the table past two dark heads and sat on the only open silver pillow.
“Perfect,” Ninhursag said as she clapped her hands together with a soft pat. Her earthy, tousled curls swayed around her face. “I hope everyone’s hungry. There’s plenty of food.”
A door opened in each of the far corners of the room, hidden by the brown and green draperies drawn together with golden tassels along the walls. Servants marched into the room with plates on their shoulders in a single-file line. They placed large wooden trays in the center of the table—steaming flatbreads, fresh tangy fruits, sweet garlic sauces, aged yogurts. Everything looked absolutely delicious.
Between watching the trays, Ayla surveyed the other people sitting at the table as they helped themselves. Chatter descended upon the table as everyone ate and snuck judging glances at her. Clean hands reached for flatbreads, fruits, and spreading knives. The metal thudded against the wood bowls and plates.
Ayla took a flatbread and picked at it crumb by crumb. She missed Ekarkara—she knew everyone and everyone knew her. She wanted to go back to her wooden cabin and moss-covered trees. This War was stupid and inconvenient.
The boy next to her reached for another flatbread, light hair catching the firelight and melting into a warm bronze color. He turned to her with a charming smile. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Zalyn, your training partner.”
Her training partner. Thank the gods he wasn’t as beefy and bull-headed as some of the other mageians at the table. Instead, he was gorgeous. More of a distraction than she needed.
Zalyn grinned at her, a touch of youth in his cheeks and bright mahogany eyes. He carried a slice of apple to his round lips and took a bite.
She could already tell he was going to be annoying. The type who knew he was handsome and thought he would win the War without any problems.
Ayla smiled at his glowing features. “Naramsin mentioned you. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Are you going to eat anything?” he asked and pointed to the spread in the middle of the table. “Here…” He reached out and grabbed a few flatbreads for her.
“Zalyn,” the boy to her other side said, “I’m pretty sure she can serve herself…”
Ayla turned at the sound of his light voice and her breath hitched. His cat-shaped eyes were the same color as the olives cupped in a bowl in front of her. Her mouth opened, his name on the tip of her tongue, questions flooding her mind.
He turned to her, his green eyes issuing a warning even as he smiled. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Ashor—”
“—The fifty-seventh,” Zalyn interrupted. “Most of us call him Fifty-Seven.”
She swallowed past her dry throat. The last person she expected to be here was Ashor. He’d lived in Ekarkara before her parents were assassinated. They used to play tricks on Loran together. If he thought she’d forgotten him, he was dead wrong.
Ashor smiled, but his jaw tightened just a fraction. “Yes.” Light stubble coated his jaw line. His messy dark hair glowed in the candles. He looked the same after almost eleven years—except he had a small patch of black hair growing on his chin. That was new. “You can too, if you’d like. It’s good to meet you, either way.”
“…Hi,” she said. “It’s good to meet you.”
Ayla turned away from him and picked up a bowl of melted cheese and a small spreading knife. She took her time dressing her first flatbread with cheese, yogurt, sweet olive oil, and diced tomatoes as her mind raced. Why would he want to keep it a secret that they knew each other?
“Your dad’s kind of a legend,” Zalyn said. His eyes watched her arm and then rose to her face with a smile. “Sorry he died.”
She let out a breath. “I think a lot of us have lost someone, right?”
Zalyn blinked at his plate for a moment. “Yes.” He reached for a stack of flatbreads with a tomato paste on it and melted cheese. “Guess so.” He smiled, his cheeks lifting and his full lips parting as he took a huge bite. He chewed, dimples in his cheeks, as if he thought he was being cute.
“You’re a lot prettier than I thought you’d be,” he said after swallowing. He shoved more into his mouth. Zalyn waited for her to respond, a playful smirk winking at her whenever he didn’t have food in his mouth.
“That’s too bad.” Ayla took her first bite of her own flatbread.
He chuckled. “Not as long as you don’t distract me.”
“Don’t intimidate her, Zalyn,” Ashor said. His body leaned closer to hers as he leaned forward to see the other boy. “She just got here…”
Ayla fought the smile his defense brought to her lips. She felt like she had someone on her side, even if he didn’t want anyone to know they already knew each other. She could work around that. She wanted a friend here.
Zalyn shrugged. “If she’s going to be my training partner, she needs to know what she’s in for.” He took another huge bite, his right cheek pillowing as he chewed.
“I don’t imagine I’m in for a whole lot,” Ayla said, and then took a bite.
Ashor laughed. “It’s true.”
Zalyn frowned. “I’d just hate to ruin that pretty face of yours, that’s all. But now, not so much.” Zalyn’s face broke out in a grin. “Hopefully your daddy won’t come up from Irkalla and hurt me for it.”
“He won’t have to after I’m done with you.”
“You think you can send me to Irkalla?” Zalyn asked.
“I’d hate to ruin that pretty ego of yours, but yes.”
Zalyn laughed, tipping his head back as the happy sound filled the room. He sighed with pleasure, the smile still pasted on his face. “That was good. I’ve got the skills to back up my ego though. Not sure you’ve got the skills to back up that face.” He took the last bite of his flatbread.
Another boy who thought she couldn’t fight. Great.
“Zalyn,” Ashor said, whispered tones clipped, “that was inappropriate. You should apologize…”
He chuckled. “I don’t think she got it, Ashor.”
Ayla frowned. “What didn’t I get?”
Zalyn smirked and dabbed her nose with honey-scented yogurt, then popped his finger in his mouth. He leaned into her body and whispered, “Are you familiar with everyone at the table?”
She shook her head, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “How could I be?”
He slung an arm over her shoulder. “The boy across the table, sitting to Ninhursag’s right, his name is Banipal Balou.” Zalyn smelled like cinnamon and rosehips. “He’s a big boy, isn’t he? The really cocky looking one next to him is Sanhareb Malek.”
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Banipal crossed his burly arms over his chest as a crooked smirk lifted the corner of his mouth, his eyes black against his tan face. Sanhareb shook wavy, shoulder-length dark hair from his face, griping about unfair circumstances. Banipal chuckled and bit into a slice of orange as Sanhareb reached over, batting his large hand against Banipal’s crop-cut hair in annoyance.
“Does Sanhareb have an uncle in the Militia?” she asked.
Zalyn frowned. “How’d you know?”
A relative of that awful guard. Of course.
She bit into an apple slice. “Guess.” And proceeded to occupy her mouth with the task of chewing.
Ashor chuckled, leaning in to whisper more. “The girl sitting by Sanhareb is Diyalam Thoma. Watch out for her. Probably not a good idea for you to be her friend or anything.”
Diyalam looked the same age as her, possessing a youthful glow Ayla hadn’t expected. When the girl smiled at something Sanhareb said, her cheeks rounded into rosy spheres. Her grey eyes glanced around the table as she giggled lightly and leaned against Sanhareb’s muscled arm, whispering into his ear.
“Why not?” Ayla asked, slipping the other half of the apple slice into her mouth. The girl stood no chance in the War. Too thin and dainty.
“Just a feeling,” Ashor said, then tore a piece of flatbread lathered with melted cheese and passed it into his mouth.
“The two lovebirds sitting by her are Yabil Wyrda and Sabri Sarkis.” Zalyn’s breath ticked her ear. “Nothing to worry about there. Next to Ashor is Nemrud Mnashi. Again—not much competition.”
Yabil had a young face, big blue eyes, creamy skin, a button nose, and complete with pouty lips. His hair had been cut short like Banipal’s and a scar dived from his hairline to his forehead. He raised a thin arm and caressed Sabri’s blushing cheek. Her black hair fell over her shoulder as her sapphire eyes met Yabil’s stare, then leaned into him and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“There they go again,” Zalyn groaned under his breath. “So annoying.”
Ashor rolled his eyes. “You’re just as bad when you’ve got a girlfriend. Yours don’t last that long though, thankfully.” Ashor lowered his voice again. “On Zalyn’s other side is Sabro Summa. Wouldn’t bother him.” Ashor gave her a tight smile. The flickering candles danced with warning in his eyes.
“Why not?”
The servants retrieved the plants soon after, then placed delicate cups in front of everyone and several pots in the center of the table.
“Just wouldn’t,” Ashor answered.
Ayla wanted to know more, but she knew this wouldn’t be the time or place to ask. Both boys poured themselves a cup of the earthy, rich coffee. Thick foam formed on the top of the dark liquid. Ayla poured herself a cup of mint tea.
“I hope you enjoy the tea and coffee I have prepared for you.” Ninhursag smiled, poured herself some tea, and took a sip. “I’m glad everyone made it today.” Her voice was soft, gentle, and genuine. “I hope you all take this time to relax.” She sighed, her eyes lowering, her ageless face staring into her cup. Then she looked up, gazing around the table. “I’m about to make a little speech. Please bear with me for a moment.”
Ayla set her cup down on its saucer, as did everyone else who had been nursing their beverages. When Ninhursag had everyone’s undivided attention, she offered a warm smile.
“While as a goddess I am impartial about which species will win in the War, this year my intimate concern about the planet often leaves me favoring one over the other. In the last ten years, drastic improvements to the planet’s health have been facilitated by mageians.”
Ayla’s mind went to her uncle, who held the position of Cardinal of Foreign Affairs. He negotiated with the human nations in order to improve their quality of life. He traveled often between Esagila and the human world, attending dinners and banquets for Prime Ministers and Presidents around the world. Her dad had mentioned that Maron had assisted the development of the airavis planes, which ran on electricity harvested by water and wind power.
Ninhursag took another gentle sip and then continued. “I would like to keep it that way. It is unfortunate that the therians have remained in Eabzu, but they have not been trapped for long.”
“We were trapped for seventy years before her father won,” Banipal said, glancing sharply at Ayla. “They can stay there for another hundred if I care…”
“It was a great victory for mageians, yes,” Ninhursag said. “But it has brought great things for the environment and I would like to keep it that way.”
Ayla caught a few smiles around the table. Proud mageians. Did they have a humble bone in their body? Did these competitors even have anything to be proud about, like her uncle? She doubted it. Simply being a mageian didn’t make one special.
“For this reason, I have arranged for each of you to train both solo and with a partner.” Her gentle tone held a demanding inflection. “I have chosen the partners based on the compatibility of your magic. I believe your partner will motivate you and challenge you to do your best.” Her leafy eyes roamed the table, as if imploring everyone to listen to her.
Ayla doubted anyone ever ignored her.
“I encourage you to help each other. You are not competing as individuals, but as representatives of your species. You should help one another so the final battle has more mageian competitors than the therians can handle. Strategy, not individual bravery, will win the War.”
Ninhursag lowered her eyes again and drank her tea. Everyone sat in silence. Ayla couldn’t imagine any of them actually working together, but perhaps they’d take the goddess’ words to heart. The only problem was that the War meant glory or death. Only one person would win. And what would they win? Their own life. It was all-or-nothing. But even if one of them managed to win, life was not guaranteed. Ayla’s father learned that the hard way.
“You will not see me again until the war starts,” Ninhursag said. She replaced her cup on a saucer and then set her eyes on Ayla, pinning her to her spot.
Ayla didn’t know what to do. Why was Ninhursag looking at her? Her blood surged in her ears like a wind through a cave.
“You may all pray if you need my assistance.” Her eyes drifted to the other faces. “It was nice meeting all of you. I wish you all luck.”
The goddess gathered the bottom of her robes as she stood with a crease in her forehead. Her green robes billowed around her body, curls as she bowed only her head, then disappeared in a green mist.
For the first time since she’d heard Naramsin read her invitation, the burden of the War weighed on Ayla’s shoulders. Not just the War, but the deal she had made. She could not afford to lose. Not when it meant losing her father in addition to her own life.
Everyone finished their drinks with a few quick sips, then chatted around the table like a flock of crows in a tree. She found their social habits interesting—the quick touching and casual flirting like two mating robins, the swollen egos and proud smiles like wolves fighting for dominancy in the pack.
Eventually, most of the competitors were standing, inching toward the door in conversation. Sabri and Yabil left hand-in-hand. Nemrud followed them after shaking Ashor’s wrist with a polite smile, his cream eyes warm and blond hair softening his sharp features.
Zalyn pulled at a loose curl by Ayla’s face to draw her attention. “Want an escort home?” he asked, a charming smile on his lips. “I won’t even charge you.” He stood and offered her a hand.
“If you did,” she said, “I wouldn’t take you up on it.” She set her hand in his and he pulled her up with a gentle tug. “Thank you.”
Zalyn’s hand was warm, and it took him awhile to let go—maybe a moment too long. “No problem,” he said, smiling. His mahogany irises brightened.
Banipal cleared his throat over everyone’s conversation. His eyes were on her as he asked, “So, you’re Afrem Elias’s daughter?”
“How’s daddy?” Sabro asked, a smirk dancing on his lips.
She couldn’t tell if he held a genuine interest in how well her dad had taken to the undead lifestyle, but she didn’t like the smirk sitting under Sabro’s sharp golden eyes.
“I believe my dad’s dead, in case you missed it,” she said, moving magic into her throat to control her tone.
“It’s just a little strange,” Sabro continued. “He grew up here but after he won, he just disappeared with you. Where’d you go?”
Zalyn snatched Sabro’s loose shirt and pulled him close. “Does it make you happy to disrespect her father?” Zalyn asked, a rough quality in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “I dare you to ask another stupid question like that.”
Sabro shoved Zalyn away with a sneer, locks of shoulder-length hair falling into his face. Ayla pressed her hands into the muscles of Zalyn’s back to make sure his tall frame didn’t run her over. He growled, magic curling around his body as he tensed. She could smell a fight brewing in the air.
“How’s your daddy?” Sabro asked, a challenge in his narrowed eyes.
Zalyn took a step forward, but Banipal hopped onto the low table, taking an easy step over the porcelain dishes, and grabbed his shirt. “Where do you think you’re going?” Banipal asked, his tone full of gravel.
The two boys stared at each other before Zalyn tore away from him. Ayla tugged on his arm.
“He’s escorting me home. Thank you for your concern.” She flashed him a smile as Zalyn allowed her to lead him to the door.
“Great lunch,” Ashor said, his voice mellow but full of mirth. “Let’s do this again soon.”
“It was good to meet you, Ayla,” Diyalam said as they headed to the door. She waved a goodbye with a cute dimpled smile and walked to the door. The candlelight made her robes sparkle as they shimmied around her thin frame.
Ayla offered her a sincere smile over her shoulder. “It was good to meet you, too.”
Ashor opened the door and she pulled Zalyn through with her. He followed behind them and the door banged shut. She released Zalyn’s arm with a sigh, wondering why she’d meddled in their upper class affairs.
Zalyn leaned closer to her as they started descending the steps. “Don’t worry about the others,” he said. “Not worth it.”
“They’ll change their minds when they see you fight,” Ashor said. “Don’t feel like an outsider, because you’re not.”
“I am an outsider.” He’d been an outsider once, too—he could still be one, unless living in Esagila had changed him. “And you’ve never seen me fight. Maybe I’m terrible.”
Ashor rolled his eyes. He knew she’d trained daily with her dad and Loran. “You’re the daughter of a Winner.” He covered his slip-up. “You were born with skill.”
A smirk quirked the corner of her lip.
“Besides, just because you lived outside,” Zalyn said, “doesn’t mean you’re some kind of foreigner. You’re a mageian. You’re a competitor.”
“Please, take all day, Ayla,” Naramsin said from the bottom of the stairs. His rigid form stared at her with a raised eyebrow.
She hurried down the last few steps and opened her mouth to protest—she couldn’t have possibly been that long—but he put a hand on her head and guided her forward, away from Ashor and Zalyn.
“Goodbye, boys,” her trainer said. “We will see you tomorrow, Zalyn.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Zalyn said. “Your father promised to make it interesting.”
Naramsin groaned. “Don’t remind me. The man should’ve retired years ago.” Naramsin’s arm wrapped around Ayla’s shoulders.
She looked behind her shoulder with a smile. “Bye,” Ayla said. “See you tomorrow.”
Zalyn chuckled and waved with a big smile. Ashor only gave his classic half-smile.
Naramsin guided her back through the entryway and down the steps. She looked up at the bright sky, the sun twenty degrees from high sun. From so high, the city stretched out like a (insert sweet simile here), the Elias family estate five levels from the temple. It was easy to spot with some of the tallest towers in the inner city and elaborate designs on the domed roofs.
It didn't take long to reach the estate. Again, before allowing her inside, the guard checked her wrist. Naramsin told her he’d be calling in the morning. She walked through the front courtyard to the entryway.
“Anyone here?” she asked. An echo rose to the vaulted ceiling, dancing across a silvery mural.
“Miss Ayla,” a servant said, shuffling toward her. Her long, coal grey robes rippled against her legs. “Mister Maron has left. He asks for you to explore the house and make yourself comfortable.”
“What about my dad?”
“Your…?” The maid paused and Ayla watched her swallow. Her silver eyes glanced to the side. “Mister Afrem went as well…Mister Aprim would like you to join the family for dinner, if it pleases you.”
“Thank you. I will.” She bowed her head. The servant bent forward at the waist in a deeper bow before shuffling off.
Ayla lazed in her room until she was called for dinner. Her family sat at a long sandstone table, food covering the expanse. She noticed three empty seats in the middle of the table across from the seven-hundred-year-old man who had won the 10th Gutian War—her great-great grandfather. Her dad and her uncle still hadn’t come back.
She took a seat with her great-great grandfather’s gesture. Fifteen eyes fixated on her in a much different way than at lunch, grey eyes glittering in the flickering light. Her stomach fluttered with a thousand moths.
“So, Ayla,” her great-great grandfather said. He broke into a smile over a short grey beard, his button nose widening as his lips stretched across his face. “Do you remember your grandpapa?”
The table laughed and Ayla flushed. The flutters melted away under her body’s heat as she released a soft giggle with the table. Somehow, this felt comfortable. She had never been with so many people who called themselves her family.
“N-no,” she admitted, an embarrassed smile on her face. “I’m sorry.”
A woman sitting to his left swatted her hand. “Don’t worry about that. You were so young when you were here last.” She smiled, copper hair bright in the firelight. “You look just like Afrem and Ilesina’s daughter.” She patted Grandpapa on the arm. “Doesn’t she?”
He chuckled. “Yes. Just as I imagined.”
The woman’s face softened, the tip of her nose rounded like Grandpapa, but her lips full like her dad and Maron. “I’m your dad’s older sister, Ninwa.” She rested a hand on the shoulder of the boy to her right. “These are my sons—your cousins—Ninos and Chyna.”
The boys smirked from across the table. The boys shared the same button nose as Grandpapa, and the same nose she had. Chyna had ear-length, mahogany curls bouncing around his face and a scruffy beard. Ninos ran a hand through his shoulder-length, amber locks before resting his elbow on the table and putting his head in his head.
“If you need any help, let us know,” Chyna said. “If anyone gives you a hard time…”
A grin conquered her face, her eyes watering, but she tried to cover it with a laugh. “I can take care of myself. Thanks, though.”
“I told you she’d say that,” Ninos grumbled, ripping off a piece of flatbread with flare.
The table laughed again and Ayla grew enchanted with their effortless calm. Her aunt introduced her husband who was in the Mageian Militia. Her Grandpapa named his own children, her great aunts and uncles, and they each in turn introduced their children, her second cousins.
Everyone’s eyes danced with curiosity. They asked her about Ekarkara and therians over tea. They asked her how she’d been, if she was nervous, and if they could do anything to help her feel more comfortable.
After dinner, Ayla climbed the stairs back to her room. She fell into her low bed and stared at the vaulted ceiling. She traced the black trim with her eyes, down the walls to the dark wood door. Ayla pictured her dad barging through it with an excited grin and a hearty chuckle before falling asleep.