Day One of the War

Her favorite maids woke her up with bright smiles as the sun rose over the horizon, tying her silvery curtains to either side of her floor-to-ceiling window. They brought her breakfast in bed with a spicy coffee as they prepared a changing area, laid out an antique dress on her bed, and brought in trays of jewelry.

“Are you ready for your big day, Miss Ayla?” Isla asked, using her magic to ease the wrinkles in the dress that had been pulled for her to wear. The girl smiled wide, her russet eyes glimmering in the light of the dawn sky.

Ayla smiled, sitting cross-legged on her mattress as she sipped at the foam on her coffee. “I’m ready. I’m not very excited, though. Especially if I have to wear that thing all day.”

“This?” Kaya asked, gesturing to the sparkling dress from her seat on the floor. “It’s beautiful, though. A family heirloom.” Her eyes fell back to her lithe fingers as she untangled a beaded veil and a few bracelets.

Bahra chuckled from the armchair in the corner. “You should’ve seen what your father was made to wear,” she said, a fond smile on her face. Her graying hair matched her grey eyes. “He wasn’t very happy, either.”

“Are you almost done with your coffee?” Kaya asked. “We should start dressing you soon.” She laid out the jewelry on the silver trays and stood to examine her handiwork.

Ayla sighed and took the last remaining drinks before she stood. “Let’s get it over with. How long will it take?”

Isla laughed. “Depends on how long you can hold still, Miss Ayla.”

Kaya beckoned her over and Ayla groaned. She walked along her mattress to the older girl and allowed the maid to help her undress. Isla lowered the loose and sleeveless silky shirt over her head first. Moonstone beads covered the thin platinum silk, weaving patterns across the expanse of the material.

“It itches,” Ayla said, grimacing at the feeling against her skin.

Isla giggled and helped Ayla into the slim, flowing skirt. The young maid secured it high on her waist. The silver silk shared the same design as the shirt, but in a darker shade of fabric. The skirt hugged her hips and fell around her feet.

“You’ll get used to it,” Bahra said, her voice weathered. She stood and picked up a crystal bowl filled with silver, ceremonial paint. “Your hand, please, Miss Ayla.”

Ayla lifted a hand onto Bahra’s smooth, wrinkled forearm. She held the bowl in one hand and a slim paintbrush in the other. She dipped the tip of the brush into the shimmering liquid and began swirling it over the back of Ayla’s hand.

“It’s cold…”

“You are such a complainer, Miss Ayla,” Isla said. She moved her hands under Ayla’s arms, wrapping a thick black fabric belt around her waist over her shirt and the top of her skirt. “It’s only a dress. You’ll look beautiful.”

Ayla sighed. “Sorry. I’m not used to it, I guess.”

“She’s probably used to getting out of things she doesn’t want to do by whining,” Kaya said, her fingers braiding strands of the veil into her curls.

The maids laughed as a soft knock rapped on the wooden door. It creaked open and her father’s face peaked in. He grinned and slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

“Mister Afrem?” Bahra asked, pausing. The brush sat cold on Ayla’s skin. “You aren’t supposed to be in here…”

He shrugged and took a seat at the foot of her mattress, resting his elbows on his knees and looking up to Ayla. “I’m not meant to be alive. Does it matter?” He smiled. “I wanted to be with my daughter.”

Isla wrapped the long fabric around her waist again before pulling it tight. Ayla grunted, wincing and sucking in a breath.

Bahra sighed. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt anything. Just keep out of our way, Mister.”

Her dad chuckled. “I’ll try. She’s so pretty, though.”

Ayla scrunched her nose. “Not what I want to hear from my dad.” She’d rather hear it from anyone else.

He gave her a gaping look. “Excuse me?” His eyebrows moved into a frown. “You should only want to hear that from your dad.”

The maids laughed. Isla picked up another crystal bowl and paintbrush, moving to Ayla’s other hand and drawing an identical pattern into her skin with the silver paint.

“Sorry to be nosy, Miss Ayla, but isn’t your training partner Zalyn Yonan?” Isla asked, her eyes glancing from the paint.

Ayla nodded as Kaya finished braiding the beaded veil into her hair and fastened a sweeping necklace at the top of her spine under her hair. It draped low down her front, black pearls glistening.

“Is he as cute as the rumors say he is?” Isla asked, a faint blush running across her cheeks.

“I haven’t ever seen him. I’m curious…”

Her dad chuckled, his eyes shining with amusement. “You think she’ll answer that honestly in front of her father?”

Ayla paused, thinking about how close she’d come to him in the last week and wondered how to answer. Her dad’s scrutinizing gaze waited for her calculated answer.

“I don’t really pay attention,” Ayla said, thinking over her words carefully. “He’s kind of a punching bag for me more than anything, but he’s a friend, too. An aggressive one, but I think he’s pretty reliable.”

Her dad rolled his eyes. “You think he’s cute, don’t you?”

She felt her cheeks heat. “I don’t really pay attention to his looks when he’s trying to pound his fist into my face.”

Isla smiled. “It always starts off like that.”

Ayla frowned. “What does?”

“Love!” Kaya giggled.

Bahra dropped her hand and squatted to the floor with a knowing smile, lifting Ayla’s foot into her lap and painting around her ankles down to her toes. “Mister Afrem, have you told her about how you and Ilesina met?”

Her dad flushed for the first time Ayla had ever seen. Isla finished her other arm and picked up a separate crystal bowl filled with black paint. She started accenting the silver design on her arms. Kaya slid clinking silver bracelets onto her wrists as her dad rolled his gaze to the side, a contemplating frown on his forehead.

“Tell the story, Mister, if you don’t mind,” Kaya said, her tone excited and urging. She picked up a set of earrings and slipped them into Ayla’s ears. They dangled to her shoulders.

He cleared his throat. “I met her at the market when I was your age. Malko wanted to pick a fight with some of the outer city kids for fun.” His eyes rolled. “Robil warned us it’d be a stupid idea, but Malko ignored him. Ilesina stepped up to fight him and almost incapacitated him with a three-punch series.”

Ayla smiled to herself, picturing her mother as a sixteen-year-old girl taking down a boy who probably possessed as many muscles as Zalyn, if not more. Bahra laid Ayla’s foot down and set the other back into her lap, the paint warmer than before.

“I remember her calling us inner city trash…” Her dad grinned. “I was completely taken with her. I agreed. We were trash.”

“Why’d you think you were trash?” Ayla asked, frowning.

“Close your eyes, Miss Ayla,” Isla asked.

Ayla obeyed as Isla tapped her chin back. She flinched as cold strokes swept over her eyelash line. The maids worked in silence.

“I lived like this practically every day, Ayla,” her dad said, his tone low and fitted with an unusual annoyance. “Privileged and stupid. I didn’t understand anything and I knew it, but I was practically treated like a king. I knew no different. I didn’t know anyone was suffering until I saw the fight in her eyes.”

Ayla didn’t know how to even begin answering.

Her dad released a rugged breath. “I saw she had a reason to be fighting. What did I have? A birthright to compete. The city’s expectations. Both are nothing.”

His words whirled around her mind. He’d created an environment where she’d be raised without those expectations, practically unaffected by her obligation to compete. But he’d sacrificed so much to do that for her—his entire life.

“So, Mister Afrem, how’d you get her to like you?” Bahra asked, her aged voice warm. “Seems like she would’ve rather married a therian than marry you.”

Afrem chuckled. “You’re probably right.” He paused. “I went back to the market the next day. Robil told me she would never be interested in me, but I couldn’t get her out of my head. It took me a week to find her and when I did, I asked her name. She gave me a fake one. Something like Broula.”

Ayla laughed with the maids. Somehow, Ayla felt that was something she would’ve done in her mom’s position as well.

Bahra sighed, setting Ayla’s foot back on the ground. She stood, her old bones cracking. “That sounds just like her.”

“I was persistent, though.” His tone softened. “I figured out where she lived. Her mom eventually told me her real name. When Ilesina realized I was serious, she opened up.” He paused to let out an amused breath. “I think she just wanted to scare me off, though, in hindsight. She talked about how therians were no different than we were. You can imagine a typical mageian response to that.”

Ayla didn’t need to imagine it. “They probably thought she was crazy.”

He laughed. “Yes. I had friends who didn’t particularly like her because she was so accepting of therians. I guess she wasn’t expecting me to be so open-minded.” He paused again, smacking his lips. “You know, I probably just wanted her to like me…but the concept grew on me until things sort of fell into place. Married, escaped into the human world. You know the rest, roughly.”

Ayla smiled as Isla caressed her eyelashes with the paint. After the brush left her eyes Isla shuffled around, crystal clinking on a table.

“Sounds about right,” Bahra said. “You two had a beautiful wedding.”

“It had to be. I wanted no less for her.”

Ayla lifted her lids enough to watch the young maid pick up another bowl with silver paint. She closed her eyes again as Isla poised the brush along her eyelids and began smoothing it above the line of cold paint drying over her lashes.

“So romantic,” Kaya swooned. “I hope Miss Ayla finds a man like you, Mister Afrem.”

“We’ll see,” he said with a chuckle. She could hear the ‘not happening’ taunt in the sound.

She rolled her eyes. Finding a man didn’t seem like a priority at the moment.

“You can open your eyes, Miss Ayla,” Isla said.

Ayla opened her eyes again. Isla smiled at her as she sat the bowl down and knelt at her feet. Kaya passed her a pair of sandals, the straps alternating strings of black and grey pearls. Isla raised her feet one at a time and slipped them on with a gentle touch.

Her dad smiled at her. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he said, his voice soft. “She’d cry if she saw you like this.”

“Don’t say that…” Ayla whispered. The burden she’d been ignoring weighed on her. She glanced away from her dad, feeling her eyes water. She blinked to rid them of the stinging sensation, pleading with herself to calm down. She didn’t need to be emotional right now.

Her dad gave her a concerned look. “It’d be happy, honey.”

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

Ayla’s resolve to be strong slipped away. “No,” she said. “She’d be seeing me off into a competition she despised. Why would she be happy?” She clenched her fists, hating to admit it when she’d been trying to stay optimistic this whole time. “I’m not happy.”

A frown melted onto her dad’s face. “Ladies, would you give us some time now that you’re finished?”

“Yes, Mister Afrem,” Bahra said. She motioned at the younger maids and they followed her out. The door closed with a faint click.

Her dad stood with a gentle sigh and walked to her. He took her hands in his and kissed her forehead—probably the only part of her that wasn’t covered in decorative paint.

“You don’t have to be happy, Ayla. I know I’m not. This is the last thing I want you to do, but we have no choice, do we?” He brushed his hands over her hair, careful not to mess up Kaya’s work. “Forget about your deal with Ereshkigal, honey. All you can do is go in with a clear conscious.”

“I’m not going to forget,” she whispered, unable to control her harsh tone. Ayla stared into her dad’s stormy eyes. “I have a reason to fight just like you and mom. I want to fight so no one else ever has to. I want to fight so therians and mageians can live together in peace. I want to fight for Loran and Ashor—and Zalyn. Most of all, I want to fight for you.”

Her tears slid down her hot cheeks. She looked away from him as he pressed her head into his chest.

“You’ve been fighting for me since you were born, sweetie. It’s okay to stop.” He set his chin on the top of her head. “Just focus on staying alive. I don’t want to see you in Irkalla.”

“But then we could be a family.”

He pulled away, his hands cupping her head. His thumbs brushed at her tears. “Don’t talk about dying.” His hushed voice felt urgent. “I don’t want to hear you ever say that.”

But it was true. If she won, she’d have her father. If she died, she’d live with them both in Irkalla. Ayla swallowed and shook her head, her eyelids feeling slick and her nose burning. A whine stretched at her throat.

He kissed her forehead again and hugged her head. “I love you, Ayla. I’d do anything for you.” Her dad rocked back and forth in a calm rhythm. “Your mom and I gave up our magic so one of us could be here with you. We couldn’t let you go through this alone.”

“And I won’t be.” Ayla reached around him and grabbed his shirt, burying herself into his body. She felt her tears staining the fabric. “That’s why I made the deal with her. I can’t go through it without you.”

“You’re incredibly strong, Ayla. You’re going to do great—”

A loud knock interrupted her dad.

“Ayla, Afrem, it’s time,” Naramsin’s voice said from the other side of the door. “I’d rather not be late.”

“We’ll be out in a moment,” her dad called after clearing his voice. He pulled Ayla away and looked into her eyes. “Be strong, Ayla. I can’t escort you—”

She sucked in a shaky breath. “You’ll be there though, right?”

“Yes.”

“Front row?”

His face tightened a fraction. Her heart hummed in her chest.

“Yes, I’ll be there.” Her dad grazed her face with his fingers in tender wipes. “Your mom would kill me if she knew I made you cry…” He smiled, soft but tense.

Ayla continued to rub her wet cheeks as her dad led her out of the room. Naramsin’s arms crossed over an open, black vest laced with silver thread. He lifted an eyebrow at her watery eyes, but said nothing as he walked down the hall with them.

Isla and Kaya trailed behind her. “We’ll see you in Dilmun,” they whispered, patted her back, and disappeared in the other direction.

Bahra handed her dad his cloak as they descended the stairs. He tied it with nimble fingers and lifted the hood over his head. Maron was waiting at the front door with his arms crossed over his chest. The maids gathered in the corner of the entrance, tear streaks on their cheeks.

“Take care of her,” her dad said to Maron, his voice rough as he passed by her uncle. His cloak stormed around him like a tornado as he rushed through the courtyard and past the gates.

Maron nodded, his golden eyes lingering on her father’s back before turning to face Ayla. He wore a pair of glossy, loose pants in a deep gold and an eggplant purple belt low on his hips. A deep scar ran across his tanned chest.

“Are you ready for your big day?” he asked and then paused. “You’ve been crying.”

“Yes,” she said. “Clearly.” Ayla folded her arms across her chest, squinting past the tears on her lashes.

Maron smiled—one of the few she’d ever seen. “Your father cried on the first day, too. Family tradition, I guess.” He looked to Naramsin before touching a hand to her back. “Let’s go. You’ve got an adoring audience waiting.”

Naramsin and Maron flanked her sides as they left the estate. He was right—mageians in grey lined the street, wishing her luck. They threw grey feathers into the air with loud cheers. She tried her best to smile and thank them all without looking like a frightened rabbit. She felt like a float in parade.

On the main road, she fell in line in front of Zalyn. His crimson pants were loose around his thighs and tucked into black boots at the bottom of his knees. A black belt sat lower on his waist and veils of rubies and black diamonds rested on his shoulders like epaulettes, dangling over his bare chest. Black paint lined his upper lashes. If Isla had seen him like this, she’d surely think he was one of the best looking mageians in the city. Ayla wouldn’t be able to disagree.

Zalyn smiled at her, an uptight edge to his demeanor. Robil gave Naramsin a solid pat on the shoulder. Zalyn’s mother stood at his other side, her hair pulled into a high bun on the crown of her head. Her tight-fitting dress sashayed in a violent shade of blood.

Diyalam walked in line ahead, her dark grey dress pooled into a train behind her tall, thin frame. The girl glanced at Ayla from over her shoulder, the neckline of her sleeveless top dipping into her silver belt. She seemed to smile, but her dad grabbed her elbow. Diyalam winced and turned ahead again, her curly hair moving across her back as she held her head high.

Cheers, feathers and roses filled the space between her door and the arena. Naramsin and Maron parted from her at the entrance, a maid escorting them to a waiting room to the left on the southern portion of the arena. They were asked to remain in the room until high sun, when Ninhursag would call them out in order.

Ayla turned to face Zalyn’s warm smile and a typical half-smile from Ashor. Ashor’s emerald green pants fell to his knees loose around his legs, revealing aged bronze armor strapped to his shins.

“You look really pretty, Ayla,” Ashor said. A petulant look tightened his forehead. “Why did I get stuck with the ancient garb?”

“You look good.” Ayla smoothed out the deep green shawl draped over his shoulder and tucked into the bronze plate around his waist. An epaulette of emeralds capped his other open shoulder. “What’re you talking about?”

“Your eyes are red…” Ashor tipped her head back and leaned in, examining her eyes. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” she said, feeling her cheeks flush. She hated lying. “I just got a bit sentimental, thinking of my dad getting ready just like I did…”

Ashor stepped away, pursing his lips. He probably didn’t know what to say to comfort her. Zalyn hugged her to his body with one arm. Ayla swallowed, feeling his warm skin press against her.

“I thought about it, too.” He squeezed. “I know how you feel. Just put it in the back of your head.”

She nodded as he pulled away with a grin. “I’ll try. Thank you.”

“It’s starting,” Diyalam whispered to them. She rubbed Banipal’s arm, his upper half hidden by black diamond encrusted armor.

His jaw clenched as Ninhursag’s voice rang over the arena, calling him forward. He pulled away from Sanhareb and walked, his black skirt swaying, to the large sandstone doors leading to the arena. The servants pushed them aside and he disappeared into the sun.

The doors thudded to a close.

Sanhareb faced them. “We’ll bring a win to the mageians again,” he said, his voice solid with certainty. “We will need strategy.”

Zalyn crossed his arms over his chest. “To outsmart the therians?” He scoffed.

Diyalam shook her head. “No, we need a strategy to make sure a mageian wins as many first-round battles as possible. We need to have the majority going into the finale.”

“What’s your suggestion?” the only other girl asked, her eyes pools of tropic water.

“In the first round battles, some of us will have to work together. Banipal and I will work together to kill our therian competitor. Then who will make it to the finale will be between just him and me. We have two other opportunities for a sure win.”

“Ayla and I will fight against a single therian.” Diyalam turned to Ayla. “Do you mind teaming with me until we can fight one-on-one?”

Ayla frowned. She didn’t like the thought of killing. “That sounds like cheating. It’s a three-way battle, why treat it two-against-one?”

“Because we’re smart,” Sanhareb said, a challenge to his voice. “How you win doesn’t matter as long as you win. The odds are against us—eleven therians to ten mageians. We need to play up our strong points. Isn’t that why Ninhursag paired us up?”

A few of the other competitors nodded, agreeing.

“Then it’s settled.”

Ninhursag called Sanhareb’s name, her loud voice vibrating in Ayla’s ears.

“Don’t mess it up. Nemrud, Ashor, Zalyn, and Sabro—one of you has to win on your own to get the majority into the final battle.”

“Leave it to me,” Zalyn said. “There’s no way I’ll lose.”

Ashor said nothing.

Sanhareb smirked, his regal features looking almost animalistic. “We’ll be counting on you then, hopeful.” He turned away, his black cape snapping behind him as he made his armored way to the door. The others followed one-by-one.

Ayla hugged Ashor when Ninhursag summoned him to the arena. It felt like she was saying goodbye, but she knew she’d see him in Dilmun. Diyalam left soon after.

When Ninhursag called her name, Zalyn pressed a kiss to her temple. She moved away from him, feeling her eyes burning again. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of thousands of mageians who expected her to be strong like her dad.

She stepped out onto the sand covered arena, the doors closing behind her. She squinted against the sun as it barreled heat across her bare skin. The full stadium cheered, the noise almost crushing compared to the silence of the waiting room. Ninhursag stood in the middle next to a wooden door five-stories tall. A polite smile covered her fresh face.

Naramsin stood on the other side of the door, the silver thread in his black vest glimmering in the sunlight. A slim smirk sat on his lips as if proud of her.

Ninhursag gestured toward her. “The third and final competitor for Nanna, Ayla Elias, daughter of Afrem Elias, and her trainer, Naramsin Karam, son of competitor Athra Karam.”

The crowd exploded. Feathers danced in the air as they fell from the sky. Sand crunched under her sandals until she stopped in front of the door, her heart pounding in her head. She couldn’t find her father’s face among the bright colors in the stands. Her heart raced.

“We hoped you enjoyed your week in Esagila,” Ninhursag said. Her voice carried over the crowd. “Now it is time for you to join the others in Dilmun where you will face your therian opponents. Bring us home a win!”

The doors opened. Ayla frantically searched for her father as Naramsin joined her in front of the wooden frame. He walked her through into another waiting room, outfitted with silvery grey decorations all around.

“Quickly, the furs,” Isla said.

Ayla shivered, grabbing her arms to keep warm. Her dad had been there, right? She just couldn’t find him. That was her fault. She could’ve sworn—she should’ve tried to use her magic to see the faces clearer. She should’ve walked slower.

Her breath lifted into the air in a frosty cloud. Naramsin parted from her, two men draping a fur cloak over his shoulders and tying the front as another man slipped his feet into large, fur boots.

“Welcome to Dilmun,” he said, a light sneer on his pink lips. The reflection of the icy floor gave him a paler complexion. “The city of ice.”

Ayla groaned. “Does it have to be so cold…?” She wanted to hurry out into the stadium. Maybe her dad would be waiting for her, watching from the front row somewhere.

Kaya slipped Ayla’s arms into the sleeves of a fur robe with a giggle as Bahra tied the front across her collarbone and again across her chest.

“You’ll get used to it, Miss Ayla,” Isla said, pulling Ayla’s hair out of the robe and fluffing the curls. Her magic radiated heat around. “This is so exciting…”

“I’m not sure it’s so exciting for Miss Ayla,” Kaya said, slipping off her sandals and replacing them with fur boots that covered her legs until her knees.

“She’ll do well,” Isla said. She moved her hands over Ayla’s cheeks, warming them from the chill in the air. “She’s going to win. That’s exciting.”

Naramsin waved his servants away. They left up the staircase, lighted with fire. He walked past her to a solid ice door, his arms crossed over his chest. “Hurry, ladies. We will be called soon to step into the arena.”

Bahra smoothed her wrinkled hands over the fur. “We’re done, Mister Naramsin.”

Isla and Kaya stepped away, smiling. Bahra fell back with them and waved as the door rose into the ceiling. Naramsin offered her a hand, a stern look on his face. Ayla walked with cautious steps over the ice until she adjusted her magic to help her balance. She swallowed before putting her hand in Naramsin’s palm.

He escorted her into another cheering arena, this one twice the size of the one in Esagila. Icy towers soared behind four domed forebuildings with open windows facing the arena, surrounding the stadium in distinct quarters. The fresh snow reflected the pink of the setting sun, the sky a royal blue with a dusting of pastel clouds. Each footstep crunched as the snow packed together under her weight.

“Our defending champions,” a crystal voice resounded over the deafening cheers. The possessor of the voice stood in the middle of the arena, a beautiful lady with pale skin and long, shining black hair. “The mageians.”

The crowd behind them roared like a heavy winter storm. Banners waved in the air with their names in bold letters—even her name. Ayla fell in line between Zalyn and Diyalam with Naramsin behind her. Robil smiled at her from behind Zalyn like a five-year-old seeing snow for the first time. Yono Karoukian glowered behind Diyalam like a seasoned veteran, facing the therian side of the arena.

She squinted against the magic tingling in her eyes as she focused on the faces in the crowd behind her, picking apart each face for her father’s sharp nose and full lips. Maybe her father was running late.

“And the challengers,” the lady continued, gesturing to the eastern side of the arena. Her purple velvet robe swayed with the motion. Her white fur cape blew in the wind. Her voice rose as eleven ice doors rose. “The therians.”

Each therian walked out with their trainer, dark looks on their faces. All of them but one. Loran walked in even paces next to a man with a wolfish grin and a full, scraggly beard. The thin wintry air stopped in her lungs as a harsh reality rushed over her.

Loran’s eyes lifted and surveyed the mageian line-up. He paused on her. The pained look contorting his face sent daggers into her heart. Her knees weakened and her eyes watered. She glanced up at the darkening sky and the flashing stars.

What was she going to do?

She let out a shuddering breath. She knew Loran would compete. She knew she’d see him in the arena. What she hadn’t realized was he’d be on the other side.

Their crunching footsteps stopped fifteen paced away. Loran’s trainer slapped his hands down on Loran’s shoulders as he fell in line, facing the open space between Ayla and Diyalam. His eyes looked like clear blue river rapids as he dropped her gaze. He glanced at Ashor and tried to smile, but it just didn’t work. It looked like he’d been dreading this moment for a long time. It hurt Ayla to see.

“We will be holding seven three-way battles starting next week. On Elunu 16th, the competitors created by Anu will fight for his treasured weapon.” She lifted both arms, gesturing the three men forward. “Mageian Banipal Balou, mageian Sanhareb Malek, and therian Ardan Zebari will meet a week from today in this arena. One will be left standing.”

Ayla sucked in a breath, looking at stiff forms Banipal and Sanhareb. Which would make it? Would either of them have what it takes? The three men stepped back. The therian Ardan grinned with a thick coat of facial hair on his jaw, chin, cheeks, and along his upper lip over his deep tan.

“The following day, the competitors created by Enlil will fight for his treasured weapon.” One mageian stepped forward at the same time two therians, the girl one of the three female therians. “Mageian Nemrud Mnashi, therian Eyaz Rozaki, and therian Ajna Mutki will meet on the second day in the arena.”

Nemrud's light brown hair fell around his face in soft curls. His rounded jaw clenched as his creamy eyes studied the therians. Eyaz's thin lips smirked, hopping from foot-to-foot with his long curls flopping from side to side. The girl ran a hand through her long, wavy locks, light eyes glowing. Which would be in the final seven?

They stepped back as the woman continued the introductions. “On the third day, the competitors created by Enki--therian Loran Amedi, mageian Sabri Sarkis, and mageian Yabil Wyrda—will fight.”

Loran stepped forward, his feet the only pair among the line of therians covered in fur boots. He looked pale as he locked eyes with Ayla. She couldn’t control her heart as it thumped in her chest. His hands clenched at his sides against his fur coat. His hot breath rose in light clouds to the darkening sky.

Why did Loran have to be on the other side?