Day 13 of the War
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Her maids cleaned her up and fed her well before she changed into her fighting attire of silver velvet pants, shirt, and a black belt around her waist. Isla dried and secured her hair in a tight bun at the top of her head, brushing a few stray curls out of her face.
“Good luck today,” she whispered, setting a heavy white fur cloak on her shoulders. “We’ll be rooting for you.” The young maid gave Ayla a quick hug while Bahra wasn’t looking to avoid punishment.
Ayla smiled as best as she could. “Thank you,” she whispered back.
They left her with time to spare. She collapsed back onto her bed as her eyes watered. Ashor wouldn’t be walking with her to lunch today. He wouldn’t be sitting next to her at the table. She’d never see him again.
And for whatever reason, she wasn’t even allowed to publicly mourn his death. It was weak. Weak? She growled into her pillow and then sat up, punching her fist into the feathers. Crying was not weak. She punched again, tears spilling over her lower eyelashes and creeping down her cheeks.
Her parents had died fighting against therians. They’d surrounded their house in Ekarkara like a pack of hungry lions. Her dad had been downstairs as her mom read her a bedtime story about Gilgamesh. They broke into the house and her dad had told her mom to run. She remembered being in her mom’s arms as she ran down the steps and glimpsing her father with Nanna’s scythe as a big, black wolf lunged for him.
Her mom took the back door, running into forest. The therians followed her as she headed toward the door to the human world, where they’d be safe. One of them caught up and leaped toward them through the pine trees. His mane flowed like water around his face. Her mom groaned as his weight and his claws crashed into her. She planted her feet and bit her lip, pressing against the lion’s immense weight with everything she had.
Ayla had watched her mom’s eyes dull from their slate grey color to a murky brown as her magic drained under the oppressing weight of the lion. She urged Ayla to run—“Do it for mommy and daddy. You’re a big girl, Ayla. Mommy’ll take care of the therian. Got it?”
She remembered the panic that had settled into her five-year-old heart. She hadn’t wanted to leave her mom or go into the forest alone, but her mom pleaded. She ran without looking back, her cheeks hot and her heart drilling into her throat, but the therians eventually caught up.
The first thing she heard had been the lion’s scream in the quiet forest and then wings flapping over head. A howl erupted against a rush of leaves a short distance away. She’d ducked under a fallen tree as the spotted print of Pejna, transformed into a jaguar, jumped above her head and hissed warningly. Ayla had kept running.
The cold night air and the dark forest had felt suffocating as she ran, loud growls at her heals as Pejna fought off the other therian. She ran into a warm body, a hand covering her mouth to cover her impulse to scream. Her knees buckled and she had fallen hard to the ground.
She’d dug a hand into the dirt and grabbed a mess of twigs and leaves and dirt to throw out in front of her until she heard Loran’s voice—“ Ayla! It’s Loran!”—His hand had moved to hers and she’d dropped the chunk of soil and decaying leaves as he told her to calm down.
But she couldn’t—she couldn’t tell if it really was Loran or not. She’d tried to rip her hand away, but he held onto her with a firm grip, begging her to trace the scar on his forearm. He struggled with her hand until she felt warm flesh under her palm. Her fingers relaxed into his skin. She felt smooth, raised skin and traced by touch a symbol she knew.
Even still, even thought she’d been too young to understand what had just happened, she knew her parents were dead. If she’d lived in Esagila, would it have been weak of her to cry then? For her own parents?
Ayla drove her fist into her pillow one last time before slumping over with a sob. Now her dad was gone again, taken by a stupid goddess who wanted to mess around with her life. She knew she’d been lucky to have him this long, but she needed her dad. He would’ve known what to say to help Ashor. He would’ve known what to tell her right now, as she faced the day of her own fight.
Therians had taken her parents from her. They’d taken Ashor from her. She was not going to let them take her life, too, or get in the way of her deal with Ereshkigal. Everything would be fixed—normal—once she had her dad back.
She just had to win.
Ayla wiped her face and allowed her chilly hands to soothe her swollen eyes before she went to lunch. She tried to ignore the empty green cushion to her right as the servants served lunch. The therians laughed and joked in a group while the mageians remained silent as they ate. Ayla fought her urge to walk over and slam her fist into Vejen’s face.
After the table had been cleared and teapots and cups sat along the table, Ohorshina tapped her glass.
“Today is Elunu 20th and the day Nanna’s competitors Fero, Diyalam, and Ayla will fight for his Wise Scythe, forged from the moon. Its last wielder was winner Afrem Elias.” Ohorshina glanced down into her cup and pursed her lips, as if a part of her didn’t want to continue. “Please meet in the arena at high sun. As always, you’re welcome to stay until the battle begins.”
Ayla stood, but Zalyn reached for her wrist and tugged her back down with gentle strength. He leaned in close to her, putting his hand on her cheek and his lips at her ear. He smelled like rosehips and spice.
“I know you can win,” he whispered. “Don’t let yesterday affect you right now—it has nothing to do with your fight. Just fight for you in there, okay? I don’t want the therians to take my other best friend.” He pulled away, his smell lingering around her, and his hand still on her cheek.
“…Best friend?” she asked, her heart somersaulting.
A smile lifted on his lips, dimples piercing his ruddy cheeks. “Maybe you’re a bit more than that, but you see me for me…not the son of Malko Yonan, or the city’s hopeful. You see me.”
Her skin tingled from her neck to her cheeks as if hummingbirds were flapping their wings across her face. Her magic lingered on her skin—staying, this time, instead of escaping from his warm touch.
“Ashor told me how you helped him,” Ayla whispered back. She continued after he pulled away, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “I want to do it for him again.” She swallowed. “I want to rescue his pride, and that means I need to win today. So I will.”
Zalyn locked eyes with her and then leaned in. She froze—was he going to kiss her? Did she want him to? What would Loran think? Would Loran even care?
His lips landed on the corner of hers, pressing into her skin like a hesitant cat. They lingered, tasted like cinnamon, until he pulled away and smiled. “Good luck kiss.”
She swallowed, feeling insane to think he’d want to actually kiss her. That must’ve been what Loran had wanted, too. Good luck.
“T-thank you.” She tried to smile. “I won’t need it, though.”
The boyish quality of his laugh reminded Ayla of her dad. She watched his eyes close, his head tip back, and his Adam’s apple dance along the column of his neck. It sounded like home.
“Ayla,” Diyalam said, standing and weaving her fingers behind her back, “would you like to walk with me?”
Ayla stood, ignoring the uncertain look in Zalyn’s eye at her proposal. “Yes.”
They left the room together, Ayla in white fur and Diyalam in gray. Her hair had been braided down her back. Diyalam walked with measured steps, her legs elegant like a dancer.
She turned to Ayla, a smile on her face threatening to fall. “Fifteen years ago, it’d been my older brother and your father who walked this way.”
Ayla admired the swirls moving through the icy floor. She opened the door for the older girl and she breezed through, waiting for Ayla on the other side. Ayla’s stomach rumbled with doubt. Her uncle told her to be careful of Diyalam, but did she have to be?
“I don’t want this to end the wrong way,” Diyalam continued.
“I don’t either,” Ayla admitted. “I don’t want to kill anyone, let alone you.”
Diyalam’s smile lifted into balls on her rosy cheeks for a moment before it wilted. “I don’t want to kill you either…” Her eyes watered and shifted away from Ayla. Her hands clasped on another over her heart. “I don’t want to. Let’s be the two to end our family’s feud. I-I’m not angry… about my brother…”
They both stopped walking at the fourth door, the one that led to Diyalam’s waiting room. Did Diyalam think her dad had killed her brother on purpose? Ayla knew her dad hadn’t killed anyone except for Evraz, and that had been an accident, a mistake.
“Ayla.” Diyalam stepped forward, placing her hands on Ayla’s shoulders. “Let’s be bigger than our families, this once. Please?”
“Yes,” Ayla said, but she had to fight the frown threatening to pull her eyebrows together. The Elias’ weren’t known to be a violent family.
Diyalam released a shaky breath and hugged Ayla. She stepped away and giggled, waving, before opening the door and disappearing down the steps. The door clunked shut. Ayla opened the next door over to her own waiting room. Silver draperies pulled together with black tassels lined the walls. A chandelier of candles hung over a large, round cushioned couch in the center of the room.
She let the door thump closed as she crossed the room.
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“Not even going to say hello?”
She spun around to the sound of Loran’s deep voice, her heart jumping into her mouth. “E-excuse me? What’re you doing here?”
He leaned away from the wall by the door, unfolding his arms across his chest. “I wanted to wish you luck.” His long strides carried him to her in a moment and he enveloped her in his arms, resting his chin on her head. “Are you nervous?”
She wanted to do three things: tell him she didn’t need his stupid luck, ask him why he’d been avoiding the fact that he’d kissed her, and burrow into the soft black fur of his cape. She didn’t do any of those things.
“Maybe a little bit.” She kept her hands at her sides, fists clenched, and hoped he couldn’t feel how hard her heart pumped in her chest. “The only therian I’ve fought is you.”
“Just fight like you.” He pulled away, his fingers sinking into her upper arms as he studied her face. “You’re good, Ayla.”
“That’s what we told Ashor. To just fight like him.” Her eyes started to sting. She pulled away from him and swore, rubbing her knuckles into her eyes.
He jumped to her side, his hand resting on her shoulder blade and guiding her to the couch. He sat her down by his side, his arm wrapping around her back and resting on her hip. His other hand pressed her head into his shoulder.
“You can cry, Ayla,” he said, his voice soft.
She fought her tears back anyway. Crying now wouldn’t help her win. “I’m sick of death. I don’t want anyone to die. And I don’t want to die.”
“You won’t,” he said. His hand petted her hair in long strokes. “Fero will try to put on a show against you. Play along with him until you get a clean shot.”
She tried not to focus on the feeling of his arms or his skin or how he smelled like freshly fallen snow. She took a long breath, the chilly air attempting to freeze her lungs, and then released it.
“Loran.”
He pulled away enough to catch her gaze, but remained close enough for her to see the little wrinkles along his lower lip and the tuff of hair he missed while shaving under his chin.
“Why’d you kiss me?”
His eyes widened until he darted his gaze away from her. He scrunched his eyes together and hung his head, before snapping it up again and looking at the door. “I think your trainer is coming.” He stood and she followed him.
Her heart hung on a thread. “So, what, you’re not going to answer me?”
He turned and she bumped into him. He embraced her, inhaling deeply against her body. “If you didn’t like it, you can just forget about it, okay?” He pulled away and willed his magic to reshape his limbs.
Forget?
White fur spread across his limbs, his tall frame shrinking and hunching over into the long and slender body of an ermine. Ears perched on the top of his head, peaking over his fur like a tiny leaf from a viola flower. His lengthy whiskers twitched around his pink nose at her feet, beady blue eyes staring at her.
“Be safe,” he said.
Her heart crushed against her ribcage. “I will.”
A knock echoed through the room as Naramsin called her name. She closed her eyes as she crossed the room. How could she just forget it happened? She didn’t know if she liked it or not—deep down, she knew she’d wanted it—but he was Loran. Could she… could she like him again, here and now?
What if she lost him, like her dad and like Ashor?
She opened the door and Loran scurried through the crack unnoticed. A frown sat on Naramsin's eyebrows, his lips tight together with his arms crossed over his black fur cloak.
“I do not have all day,” he said. “Let’s talk about your strategy with the remaining time we have to spare.” He took her wrist and pressed his lips to her skin before storming in. “Did Diyalam try to talk to you?”
“Yes.” She closed the door after he stepped in. “She—”
“Whatever it is she told you, forget it,” he said. His look darkened under the flickering candles. “The Thomas are liars, crafty deceivers. She’s setting you up. Just rely on you. You do want to win, don’t you?”
Ohorshina started her speech and Ayla stiffened. She didn’t want to forget her promise with Diyalam, just like she didn’t want to forget her kiss with Loran. She dug her fingernails into her palms. The crowds roared again as if trying to outdo the other.
“Play smart, Ayla,” Naramsin said. He guided her toward the door to the arena and squeezed her shoulder. “When you step out there, put everything else in the back of your head. Your father. Your mother. Ashor. Even yourself. All you need to do is win.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the doors started to grind as they opened. Ohorshina called for the therian first, and then Diyalam. As the priestess presented Ayla, she stepped away from Naramsin and left everything with him.
All you need to do is win.
She squinted against the sun’s rays reflecting off of the brilliant white snow. Her boots crunched with every step as she walked toward the center of the arena, toward the therian approaching from the other side. His muscles rippled as he waved to the audience.
Diyalam stepped up next to her as Ohorshina asked for them to meet in the middle of the stadium. They stopped ten paces away from each other, with Diyalam at her side. Ayla didn’t see faces in the crowd or hear their cheers. She saw Fero and Diyalam—heard their every breath, their hearts pounding in their chest—felt them moving.
Fero’s bangs swayed against his forehead in the gentle breeze, the rest of his hair tied up. Thin strands caressed his thick neck and the bulging muscles of his shoulders. His body shape reminded her of Banipal—hardened with years of training. Stubble covered his rectangular jaw around his animalistic grin.
“May Nanna be with you.”
The therian hopped between his feet, creating a rhythm that reminded her of a snake entrancing its victim. Diyalam flew forward, her fist driving toward the space between his two forearms guarding his face. His arms enlarged, russet fur wrapping around paws down to his elbows, as he blocked her punch.
He swiped forward at Diyalam’s face and Ayla slapped his claws away and slammed her foot into his chest. Diyalam stumbled backward. A wolfish grin broke across his face as he raced toward Ayla, his foot planting into the snow as he swung his body toward her, his arm and his fist extending past her leg.
She pooled magic across her arms and absorbed the blow. He stepped forward and punched her again, lower, but she dropped her guard down. Fero laughed like a crow, slamming his fist into her face. She grunted, wincing at the feeling of his claws digging into her skin more than the impact. He caught her thigh with his foot and her knee buckled.
She fell to the snow, digging her hands into the frost and forcing her magic to heal the cuts on her face before they froze over. Fero cracked his neck and glanced at Diyalam, who stood unmoving a few steps away. Her breath came out in short, quick white clouds.
“Are you fine?” she whispered across the distance, her eyes wide as she surveyed Ayla’s face.
Fero chuckled and leapt toward Ayla with his bare foot. She rolled to the right and jumped onto her feet as his foot burrowed into the snow. Ayla turned on her heal, lifting her leg and slamming her heal into the back of his head. He jerked forward with a low growl as Ayla stepped back to create distance.
Fero licked his lips, turned toward her. “Nice hit, mageian,” he spat, a smirk on his lips as his eyes wondered the stands and then fell back to her eyes. “Going to need more than that to kill me, though.”
He charged forward, spinning and lifting his leg. She blocked his kick and then his straight hook. His foot pounded against her thigh before his other fist soared toward her face. Her magic absorbed the blow, but she stumbled back to leave distance between them again.
“I expected so much more from you,” he snarled with a mocking edge to his voice, closing in on her again.
He kicked low, catching her hip. She stumbled back, recognizing the technique, as he darted toward her and slammed his fist into her head. She grunted, forcing her magic to take most of the impact. Her eyes fell on his face—open for a hit. Ayla drove her fist forward, wrapping her magic around her knuckles and burrowing into her muscles and her bloodstream.
“You’ll get over it,” she said as her fist connected with his nose. She felt her bones crush into his, felt the crack vibrate down her arm.
He hunched forward in pain, his vision swimming as his hands flew to his face. Ayla ripped her foot into his ribs and his body threatened to crumble to the ground as he lowered his hand to check the damage. She raised her fist and nailed him in the temple with her teeth gritting.
Fero’s body collapsed to the side, snow masking the hard fall with a soft thump. His human form melted into dark hair, four legs, and a limp tail. Her chest heaved as she fought for a decent breath of air. She swallowed against the pride swelling in her chest. She hadn’t won yet.
Diyalam walked to her side and stared down at the therian. “You’re going to leave him like that?” she asked. She didn’t give Ayla time to answer, walking to him and driving her fist into his head.
Ayla cringed against the crack. “He—you didn’t need to kill him.”
Diyalam turned to her. “I’d rather be safe than sorry.” She smiled. “Good job, Ayla. Now it’s just you and me. You can relax now. I’m not going to hurt you.” She eased into her fighting stance. “We’ll just pretend we’re training. First to three?”
Ayla’s stomach churned against the dull edge in Diyalam’s eyes. “First to three,” she agreed, lowering into her own fighting position. The sound of Fero’s head cracking under her fist crawled down her spine.
Diyalam flew toward her, lifting her knee for a quick snap kick to Ayla’s chest. Ayla punched it away with magic coating her hand, swinging her other fist into the girl’s head. She recoiled, reeling from the blow, and Ayla hammered her fist up into the girl’s chin, knocking her head back.
Diyalam grunted, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, and held up her guard while she tumbled back a few steps. Her eyes flashed, her eyes narrowing at Ayla as if betrayed.
“That was two,” Ayla said, keeping her voice soft, hoping that Diyalam would keep her word.
The girl growled and raced forward. Ayla’s stomach dropped, her throat clamping shut as Diyalam threw her fist toward her head. Ayla blocked it, shrinking backward, as Diyalam stepped forward into her and pounded her other fist into her temple before nailing her in the head with her foot.
Ayla stumbled back, vision swimming, mind racing. She scrunched her eyes closed, leaving her block up in case Diyalam wanted to continue beating down on her. She didn’t want to do this anymore.
“I’m sorry, Ayla,” Diyalam said, shaking. She lowered her voice. “I have to win. My dad’s counting on me…”
“At least your dad’s alive!” Ayla lowered her guard, eyes snapping open. Hot tears froze down her face. She growled, “Mine is trapped in Irkalla for eternity.”
The color drained from Diyalam’s face. “My brother’s there. My brother.”
“You are not the only one who’s lost someone because of this War,” Ayla hissed. “You just killed someone else’s brother. You just killed someone’s friend, someone’s son. And you don’t even care.”
Diyalam’s face twitched into a frown and then moved into a deeper scowl. “Who cares about a dirty therian? They are no one’s brother, friend, or son. They are filthy animals that steal our magic. They’re thieves, scum, trash! And you!” she shrieked. “You most of all should know that!”
Diyalam rushed forward, wind brushing against Ayla’s face as she swung her fist forward with the full force of her magic. Ayla lifted her guard and grunted against it, praying her magic would absorb all of it. The older girl pulled away, stepping in to hammer her fist past Ayla’s guard, but Ayla ducked and swung her foot into the girl’s liver.
Diyalam grunted and raised her guard as Ayla came forward. All she had to do was win. All she had to do was knock her out. She gathered all of her magic into her arm, deep into her blood, into the sinew of her muscles, and bubbling around her skin as her fist raced toward Diyalam’s face. It broke through her guard, Diyalam’s arms flying apart as Ayla’s knuckles slammed into her jaw.
The girl groaned, staggering, as Ayla landed another punch to her stomach. Diyalam doubled over, her hands falling to her stomach, and Ayla swung her foot into her temple. She flew across the arena, landing twenty paces away and skidding to a stop in the snow.
Her heart lurched as the noise of the crowd thundered in her ears. Blood stained the snow around Fero’s limp form, his pink tongue hanging from his snout across sharp teeth. Diyalam’s frame lay like a broken doll.
“The winner is Ayla Elias,” Ohorshina said from her perch under the seven sparkling towers of the northern quarter. She descended to the arena, taking a moissanite scythe from the hands of the guard.
The scythe stood two heads taller than Ohorshina as she walked through the snow. The dark grey blade glinted in the light, running the length of an arm and curving to a fine point at the end. Her breath caught in her throat as the priestess took the handle in two hands and kneeled.
Ohorshina raised it up, lowering her head. “I present to you the Wise Scythe.”
Ayla stepped forward, taking it in both of her hands. The familiarity of it ran through her like lightening. Power surged through her blood like an icicle. She held it to her side, the bottom of the pole touching down into the snow by her feet. It felt like her dad was standing next to her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Ohorshina smiled as she stood. The mageians cheered, raising banners and throwing silver cloth into the air. Zalyn smiled, standing up with his fists raised for her.
She’d won, but she didn’t feel like it.