Day 11 of the War

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Ayla sipped at her tea and relished the burn running down her throat. Ohorshina tapped her glass and Ayla drew in a shaky breath. The priestess’ soft face held a solemn edge to it today. Ayla wanted to believe it was because four people were missing from the room—three mageians and one therian.

They’d never be seen again.

“Today on Elunu 18th,” Ohorshina said, “Enki’s competitors Loran, Sabri, and Yabil will fight for his Smooth Daggers, forged from the raging waters of the Ocean.” Ohorshina folded her hands together in her lap.

Ashor glanced at her as he set his cup down with a clink, still full. He wiped his forehead, beads of sweat resting on his temples like sparkling snow. Across the room, for the first time since they’d been in Dilmun, the therians smiled at Loran in confidence. Her stomach churned.

“Please meet in the arena at high sun. You’re welcome to stay and finish your tea until the battle begins.” Ohorshina lifted her cup to her lips, closing her chatoyant eyes as she drank a small sip. Her tongue licked her lips as she set it down with a soft clink against the table. “I do recommend those competing today to join their trainers in their waiting rooms soon.”

The therians sat nine strong, leaning forward to catch glimpses of Loran. Vejen sat his elbows on the table, his leafy eyes glaring at Loran. His puce-colored lips moving as he whispered. Ayla darted her eyes to the table, concentrating on moving her magic to her ears.

“No,” Loran whispered back, his tones clipped and tight.

“Why not?” Vejen sneered back in a low whisper. “You scared?”

“No.” Loran’s voice gained volume, but controlled enough to be quiet still. “I won’t kill them, Vejen. No matter what the fuck you say, that’s not going to change.”

Vejen growled, a low and humming noise from his throat. “Suit yourself, traitor. I bet your dad would be disappointed.”

Ayla snapped her eyes up to Loran as he tore his gaze to her. He froze, a frown tightening his eyebrows. He clenched his jaw and shifted his gaze away from her. Why did they have to give him such a hard time? He’d done nothing to them.

Her heart tripped forward, banging into her chest. She wanted to walk over and sit next to him. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to talk to him—make him promise he’ll be fine.

She set her hands on the table and started to stand, determined to find a way to talk to Loran in private. Her sleeve knocked into her cup and it tipped over, spilling her tea across the table.

“Shit,” she whispered, kneeling down and reaching for the white napkin she’d set her stirring spoon on. How could she be so clumsy and waste her precious time? Ayla swept the napkin along the spill, but it’d already froze on the granite surface.

Zalyn wrapped his fingers around her wrist. “Something wrong?” he asked, his eyes piercing into hers. “You never swear.”

“I just spilled my tea.” Her grip on the napkin loosened under his warm touch. She couldn’t tell him the truth, and she hated it.

“That isn’t a problem,” Sabri said in a cool voice. Her long black hair fell across the table as she leaned over across Nemrud’s empty seat, brushing Zalyn and Ayla’s hands away, and over the spill. The ice chipped and melted as she swirled her hand over the frozen tea. It collected in a puddle. “Move the cup over.”

Zalyn released her wrist and Ayla picked up the cup, setting it near Sabri’s pale hand. The girl cupped the liquid into her palms and then poured it back into the cup. Her cerulean eyes lifted to Ayla, and then she looked down at the table as she retracted her hand.

“Thank you,” Ayla said, studying the girl’s features. The girl had never once attempted to speak to her, but maybe she was shy. “That was nice…”

Sabri’s eyes darted back to Ayla, narrowed under her straight eyebrows. “I am nice. Do you think we’re all assholes here? We’re not.” A blush crept to her cheeks as she crossed her arms over her chest, her pink lips pressed together.

Ayla shrank, her eyes unfocusing. It hit her hard. She’d come to Esagila expecting them all to be obnoxious and self-centered. She never gave any of them a chance and, worst of all, her dad had tried to warn her. Ayla felt no better than the mageians who assumed themselves better than therians.

Yabil’s arm stretched over to Sabri, wrapping around her waist from behind. He pulled her into the side of his lanky frame. “Let’s go.” His voice was calm as he moved away from her to stand, offering her a large hand.

She bit her bottom lip, but placed her dainty hand in his as she stood. Their fingers weaved together as they breezed toward the door. The top of her head reached his shoulder. Sapphires glinted in Yabil’s ears against the black stubble on his head. Neither of them looked old enough to be facing death.

Ayla stood again once the door closed behind them, determination rekindling within her. “I’m going to get a breath of fresh air.”

Zalyn tugged on the bottom of her cape, tipping his head back to look at her. “Do you want company?”

Why did he look so genuine? She wanted to say yes, because it was Zalyn. His hand lifted and his fingernail brushed across her fingertips. Her heart jolted at the touch, her magic leaping from her skin. Ashor rolled his eyes over his cup.

“No, I’ll be back soon.” She put on her best smile and his hand moved away. She wanted it back. “Can you wait for me?”

He smiled. “I’ll wait.”

She released a breath and headed toward the door, sneaking a glance at Loran. He watched her out of the corner of his eyes. Her mind worked fast, trying to figure out a way to get him to talk to her. She had to speak with him before his fight or she’d regret it for the rest of her life, however uncertain it was.

“Talk now.” The English sounded completely muddled and wrong even to her own ears, but Loran’s eyes narrowed and his head nodded enough to let her know he understood.

The doors closed with a bang behind her. The guards stationed at every pole faced the small stream of people making their way into the stadium. Not one turned in her direction. She figured the guards dressed in black probably had a lot to do with that.

Loran followed her soon after, slipping his hand over hers and pulling her toward the therian side at a quick strut. His calloused hands pressed against her palm like the bark of a madrone tree. Her magic tingled against her skin like butterflies as her stomach fluttered.

Why hadn’t they ever held hands before?

He glanced at her, a tiny smirk in the corner of his mouth. “I can feel your magic, Ayla.”

“It’s your fault,” she shot back.

He pressed a finger to his lips as he pushed open the door to the therian side and guided her toward the fourth door on the left. They descended down the stairs to his waiting room. The blue draperies rippled like water against the walls, candles lining the perimeter of the room. A round, cushioned couch in dark blue sat in the center of the icy floor.

“Isn’t your trainer going to come in?” she asked, pausing at the door.

He pulled her with a gentle tug, turning on his heels to face her and backpedal toward the couch. “He won’t bother.” A grin danced onto face against the flickering lights. “What did you want to ‘talk now’ about?” He released her hand and put his hands on her shoulders to guide her to the chair.

She sat with a thump. He stood over her, his eyes piercing into her, a slight part between his lips. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead and grazed one of his eyebrows. She felt an urge to brush it out of his face.

“I just wanted…” she swallowed, looking away, “…to talk to you, I guess. Is that stupid?”

He shrugged and moved away from her, running his hands through his hair as he started pacing. The room felt no bigger than the room in her cabin, only a ten-step width. His long legs covered the ground with a graceful ease.

“No, not stupid.” He glanced at her as he scratched the back of his neck. His black fur cloak opened to reveal a pair of wool pants, dyed blue, resting low on his lips. His narrow waist curved into angular hip bones. “I wanted to talk to you, too.”

She didn’t want to stare at his body, but she remembered the crush she had on him when she was eleven. That wasn’t long ago, but she couldn’t remember why she had decided to stop liking him.

…Had she ever stopped?

“I might die,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you in case that happened.”

Her back straightened as her eyes snapped to his. “What’re you talking about?” she asked. “None of the mageians know how to fight a therian.”

“But they’re going in the arena to kill. I know you overheard my conversation with Vejen.” He stopped pacing in front of her and put his hands at his waist, his cloak opening in the front. He stared under his thick eyelashes as if chiding her for eavesdropping.

She forced herself to hold his gaze. “So?”

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He rolled his eyes as he turned away from her again. “It’s hard to fight against people who want to kill you, Ayla, when you have no intention of even hurting them.”

“They’re nice people,” Ayla said. She swallowed and bit her lip, closing her eyes although she could feel his gaze. “I didn’t think they were. I guess I thought all mageians were going to be annoying and stupid, but I think I was wrong.” She opened her eyes and followed Loran’s feet as he continued pacing. “None of the mageians are expecting them to win. I know you’re stronger than they are. They’ll be too preoccupied with helping each other.”

A frown crossed over his features. “If I was in the arena with you by my side, I’d kill whoever was against us.” He folded his arms over his chest, observing the finality of his own words.

Ayla’s heart careened to a stop. “Why?” She found it hard to breath. Her body warmed as if she was back in the desert. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you had to kill because of me.”

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you were hurt because my own inaction.”

“W-well…” She put a hand to her forehead, hoping the chill of her fingers would cool her face. “We’re not on the same side.”

He released a ragged sigh. “No, not yet.” His hands flew through his hair, ruffling his locks into a mess. “I fucking hate it. I can’t stand that you’ll be in that arena without me.”

A small knife dug into her chest. “Promise me you’ll make it to the finals, Loran…” She heard her voice shake. “I don’t want to—I can’t lose you, too.”

Cheers erupted outside of the room, past the ice door behind her. Ohorshina waited for the noise to simmer until she spoke. “Today, three competitors created by Enki, the god of water and the master shaper of the world, will fight for the honor of wielding his treasured weapon, the Swift Daggers. At high sun, the battle will begin.”

The cheering exploded again. Ayla kept her eyes on Loran, his body frozen and listening to the stadium.

“Loran, please…” She stood and walked the distance between them, grabbing one of his hands with her own. His bony knuckles felt like mountains and his joints like pebbles under the skin of his long fingers. “Promise me.”

He leaned toward her. His free hand lifted to rest on the side of her neck, his thumb on her jaw. She felt his breath on her lips and then his lips on hers. Her eyes fluttered to a close, pressing her lips into his. Heat surrounded her, but magic did nothing as if for once satisfied with the fire taking over her limbs.

It felt like kissing the ocean—tasted like droplets of spring water caressing her lips. His magic rippled against her like raindrops against a puddle as his body pushed into her. His tongue licked across the part between her lips and his hand moved into her hair at the back of her head.

He pulled away with a sudden breath. It was her first kiss and she could’ve kissed him forever. His eyes darkened to the color of the petals of an iris as he looked at her, his eyes shifting side to side as he surveyed her.

“I promise, Ayla.” He leaned in again. His lips brushed against hers as he spoke, “Now, promise me you will be there, too.”

“I promise.” She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted him to crush his lips against hers. She wanted to feel his body pressing into her. Her heart hammered in her chest like a stampede of stallions. She could hear his like rain against a window pane.

The door started to grind open behind her. Light flooded into the room. She could feel his jaw tense as a heavy breath choked in his throat. A deep frown creased his forehead under his hair, his lips thinning as he pursed them together.

“Presenting therian Loran Amedi.”

He tugged her into the shadows. She watched his back retreat into the stadium until the sunlight devoured his silhouette. Her breath came in short wisps as she ran from the waiting room, up the stairs to the therian’s common room, and toward the booth for the mageian competitors. Ohorshina continued her call of the competitors. Her stomach churned at Sabri and Yabil’s names.

Zalyn stood by the doors of the dining room. Her heart soared into her throat as he turned toward her and smiled, letting out a rough chuckle. Her body still felt too warm for comfort, but for once she didn’t care. She was glad to see his familiar face, but a part of her wondered if he’d seen her depart from the therian side.

“A breath?” he asked. “That was more than a breath.” He stepped into her as she stopped in front of him, wrapping his arms around her. His body pressed against hers, hard like rock and contoured like bricks.

“S-sorry… I-I lost track of time.” Why did his hug feel so good? A tingle crept up her back. He wouldn’t hug her if he’d seen her leave from the therian’s common room. “What’s the hug for?”

“I missed you.” He grinned and released her, bending over to kiss her cheek.

She couldn’t have been more aware of the feeling of his lips on her skin like a lick of the hottest flame and smooth like dried rose petals. His grin sparkled in his eyes, a deeply red mahogany of crisp fall leaves.

His hand dropped to hers, weaving his fingers between her own. They fit like patchwork, his hands smooth like granite and hot like fire. “We’re probably missing everything.”

Her concentration shifted between trying to reclaim the chill of her magic and the feeling of Zalyn’s strong hand guiding her—his muscled arm pressed against her, his body’s warmth seeping through hers kin. And that kiss. Why had Loran kissed her?

Zalyn escorted her to the stadium. They took a seat between Ashor and Sabro. Diyalam sat on Sabro’s other side, holding his hand in her lap. A frown contorted Ashor’s face, deep worry wrinkling his forehead.

In the arena, Loran’s cape lay discarded near the door of his waiting room. He wore fur boots, the first therian to enter the arena in shoes. A thick, light blue belt sat above his pants at his hips. His broad shoulders squared against Yabil. Muscles rippled down his short torso. Veins ran like roads down his forearms.

“Miss anything?” Zalyn asked, releasing her hand.

“No,” Sabro answered. “Yabil stepped up first and the therian… is good.” His voice tightened as he watched Sabri and Yabil stand together in matching blue robes.

Ashor glanced at her, leaning over to whisper. “Did you talk to him?”

“Almost knocked him out with his first punch,” Sabro continued, “but Sabri pulled him back and helped heal him. The therian stayed back.”

She nodded, curling her lips into her mouth as she remembered their kiss again. A curl of heat washed over her, covering her cheeks, suffocating her lungs, seeping into her heart, and dropping into the pit of her stomach. Out of all the times he could’ve kissed her—the countless days she visited him in Ekarkara—why had he chose to kiss her then?

Sabro’s voice lowered, darkened. “Probably the proud type who doesn’t want to take down someone injured, if that’s even possible for a therian.”

Zalyn grunted and shifted, his leg resting against Ayla’s as he folded his arms over his chest. “Hopefully those two can use that against him.”

Ashor’s chest lifted as he gulped down a lungful of winter air. He coughed, puffs of frosted breath released into the blue sky. “Yes,” he said, his voice dry. “Hopefully.”

She ignored the warmth of Zalyn’s touch permeating through her velvety pants. Loran watched Sabri and Yabil as they surveyed him in return. His button nose had turned a rosy color in the cold, his small lips parted as he breathed in white puffs. Sabri's straight eyebrows dipped over her eyelashes in a scowl. The mageians and therians were growing impatient, wanting action and blood and death.

“He hasn’t transformed once,” Diyalam said, her voice weak. “So arrogant.”

Ayla bit her tongue. Sabri darted forward, Yabil calling her name as she raced toward Loran. She spun, lifting her foot to nail him in the temple with her heel, but he blocked it like an ancient, sturdy tree against a quiet breeze. He stepped forward, lifting his fist. It soared toward her as Yabil sprinted forward, and crushed into Sabri’s forehead.

She staggered back. Yabil caught her thin frame as she fell. Loran hopped between his feet, watching Yabil set her down and check for her pulse against her long neck. His head snapped toward Loran and he rose.

“She must be dead,” Diyalam said, her voice a faint and shaky whisper.

“I—I don’t think he hit hard enough,” Ayla said, swallowing the lump in her throat. She felt their eyes on her, staring hard. Her mind worked, weaving an explanation to defend her defense. “Therians can’t use magic like us. We can enhance our strength, but they just have what they’re born with…” She lost her concentration, squinting as she watched Loran’s lips move in the distance. What was he saying?

“If she was using her magic right,” Ashor continued, his tone strong, “then it would’ve absorbed most of the impact. It couldn’t have been fatal.”

Ayla willed her magic into her ears as Yabil stood. A man twenty rows above her coughed, another woman sneezed. She heard children shifting in their seats, bags of food crackling as they opened. Yabil’s shoes crunched against the snow as he stepped away from Sabri’s body. The girl’s breath sounded like a wheezing baby.

“Why didn’t you kill her?” he asked, his voice laced with hatred.

“I promised my dad I’d never kill anyone,” Loran replied.

Yabil growled and dashed toward Loran. “Your dad killed Sabri’s sister.”

Ayla sucked in a breath and clasped a hand over her mouth as Yabil’s punch ripped through Loran’s guard. She struggled to keep her cry of pain from escaping her throat. Loran grunted and staggered back as Yabil threw another series of punches at him, holding his block to the barrage.

The mageians cheered and Zalyn hollered for Yabil. Ashor stiffened next to her, his hand reaching over and clasping her knee. Her eyes threatened to blur over with tears prickling in the corners of her eyes.

He promised.

Loran dodged Yabil’s next punch and blocked his low kick before landing a punch square in Yabil’s chest. He grunted, but recollected his block in a mere moment. They separated ten steps, hopping from foot to foot as the crowds rallied them on. Yabil charged in, throwing his foot forward. Loran slapped it away with his forearm and drove his other fist into his face.

Yabil staggered, reeling for a moment. Loran waited like a patient cheetah until the mageian darted forward. He kicked through Loran’s guard like a board of wood, his heel smashing into Loran’s nose. Blood trickled over his lips, and he licked it away. Ayla gasped through her fingers as Loran retaliated with a kick to the side, which Yabil blocked with his arm.

Ashor tightened his grip on her knee. Zalyn edged forward in his seat, gripping the rail with white knuckles as Yabil kicked at Loran’s thigh and Loran’s knee buckled. Yabil kicked higher, aiming for his temple, but Loran blocked it and dived forward with his fist.

Yabil’s guard broke apart and Loran hammered in another punch. He stumbled backward and the therians rose, cheering for Loran, urging him for a kill. Loran hopped between his feet, watching Yabil sway until he found his balance again. Yabil glared, beads of sweat rolling down his face. Loran’s chest glistened, a dusting of hair on his chest.

“Asshole’s just playing with him, isn’t he…” Zalyn moved back into his seat, a dark look in his eyes. “He’s had three chances. And he hasn’t taken one. What the fuck is with that.”

Ashor opened his mouth to defend Loran, but Ayla bumped her knee into his. His eyes snapped to hers, their green color like moss. His face wilted before he turned back to the snow-covered arena floor.

“The therians are mocking us…” Diyalam said, her voice husky. “They’ve won two in a row already. They think we’re weak.”

Yabil charged again, but Loran swung first. His second punch nailed Yabil in the nose, blood following an awful crack. Yabil swung high to catch his head, but Loran ducked under and went in for an uppercut. Yabil blocked it with a grunt, lifting into the air with the force.

When his feet touched down, he drove his foot toward Loran’s face. He ducked under it like a panther, came up, and whipped his foot into the side of Yabil’s face. He lurched sideways and fell with a thump. Loran waited, hopping between his feet, for Yabil to rise. He didn’t.

The therians bellowed their cheers, chants, and hollers into an unintelligible roar. Ashor removed his hand from her knee and slouched, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Zalyn swore, slamming his fist against the rail. Relief cooled her skin like the morning dew.

Loran was alive. He looked up to the mageian side, his eyes falling on her. The fire against of Zalyn’s leg against hers was the only reason she didn’t cheer with the therians. His anger burned into her skin.

“The winner is Loran—”

The therians roared over her before she could even finish. They rocked in the stands, drumming against the ice with their feet against their cheers. Ohorshina descended and lifted a thin, sapphire embroidered belt with two scabbards attached to either side from the guard.

The hilt of the daggers looked like a simple rod with a teardrop-shaped ornament rested on the top, mirroring the bottom of the blue ebony scabbard. Water floated along the surface its casing, catching the sunlight like the waves of the ocean.

Ohorshina ignored the unconscious bodies of Sabri and Yabil, kneeling on a knee in front of Loran’s tall frame and lifting the daggers to him. “I present to you the Swift Daggers.”

Loran took them and the therians cheered louder. He mumbled something—probably a thanks—before he turned on his heel and marched toward his waiting room.

Ayla would’ve given anything to congratulate him.