Two days before the War
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When Ayla and Naramsin reached the arena, Zalyn stood waiting for her with his trainer. The older man smiled and waved, his deep chuckle floating over the heat waves.
“Ayla, this is my father, Robil,” Naramsin said. “He’s Zalyn’s trainer.”
She smiled at him, squinting against the sun. “Hello, I’m Ayla.” She offered her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” She could see the similarities in their lips, eyes, and eyebrows. The man wore his curly hair long, half tied behind his head.
Robil chuckled again and grinned wider. They shook. “Afrem’s daughter. Damn, you look just like your mother. He’d be happy to know.” He patted her arm.
“Has my son been nice to you?” he asked with a playful scowl. “He can be an asshole, but I promise he’s a great trainer. You’ll be in superb hands. He idolized your father, so I doubt he’d mess up your training too badly.”
Naramsin scoffed. “Stop touching my pupil.” He yanked Ayla from his father’s touch. “You will contaminate her.”
Robil continued to grin. “With what, my boyishly good looks?”
Naramsin returned his question with a glare, and Robil laughed. He reminded Ayla of her own dad, and that made her smile.
Zalyn shielded his eyes with a hand and a smirk on his lips. His dark blond hair glinted white in the sun’s rays. “Robil was thinking we’d train separately and then have a small fight toward the end. Do you think you can handle that?”
“I think I can,” Ayla said. She lifted an eyebrow and put her weight on one foot. “Thanks for your concern.”
Zalyn chuckled while Robil grinned.
“Good luck, Ayla,” the older man said. He patted her on the shoulder again—so touchy. “You’ll need it.”
“I appreciate it.” She shrugged, reaching up to make sure her bun would stay secure. “My dad taught me to take whatever luck I can get, even if I clearly don’t need it.”
Naramsin smirked with her and pulled her to one side of the arena. They started with her demonstrating how well she could work with magic and showing him what her father had taught her about fighting. He seemed impressed enough, but spent a lot of time correcting everything from her posture to her expression.
It was great fun.
When the sun had almost moved fifteen degrees, Naramsin and Robil talked for awhile in the middle of the arena. Ayla took the time to look over Zalyn’s lean, athletic body with a scrutinizing eye. It helped that he’d decided to go shirtless. Compared to Loran’s lean frame, he was ripped, but he didn’t look like he’d be too agile.
She could beat him. Definitely.
“First to five,” Robil said, motioning both of them to come to the middle of the arena. “Try not to break any bones. Sound good, Ayla?”
Sand swirled in front of Zalyn. He smirked at her from twenty steps away, sweating under the hot sun. She hopped from foot to foot, loosening her muscles.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll try.”
Naramsin and Robil walked to the wall separating the stands from the field, about fifty steps away.
“Show her what you’ve got, Zalyn!” Robil called out.
“I will.” He chuckled, his smirk growing. His eyes reddened with magic. “You ready?”
She didn’t need any more incentive than that deriding chuckle. Her fingers curled into fists. “Yes. What're you going to show me? You're already shirtless.”
His smirk fell. He narrowed his eyes.
“I’d recommend keeping your pants on, though.” She flashed him a smile.
“Thanks for the recommendation,” he said as he charged.
Ayla kicked him square in the knee with magic charged into her legs like her father had taught her. He staggered backward like a fawn on new legs.
“Clever.” His smirk didn’t falter as he retrieved his balance. He rubbed his knee. “Naramsin taught you that, didn’t he?”
“My dad did.”
His eyebrows squeezed together. Ayla let out a small laugh and darted toward him, magic laced into her blood. He blocked her first punch and kicked her lower thigh. She forced her magic to absorb the blow and closed the distance between them to punch him again. A sly grin sat on his lips as he caught her punch and pulled her even closer.
She stumbled against his muscled body.
“How could he teach you when he’s dead?” he asked.
Ayla used him to balance herself, ignoring how his skin felt hot and slick against her palm. “Do the math.” She shot her free fist into his lower abdomen. Magic coiled in the muscles of her arms and ripped her hand out of his grip. “I was five.”
He hunched over, the wind knocked out of him. She kicked him in the ribs with a grunt and then hammered her fist into his skull— that’d teach him to try to catch her punches. The smell of roses flooded the stadium.
He’d absorbed the impact of her kick and punch with his magic. His magic rippled against her skin.
Zalyn shook his head before lifting his coppery eyes to her. “I’ve been training since I was two.”
She wanted to growl or sneer at him. Maybe it wasn’t going to be so easy to beat him after all, but at least her punch had been strong enough to make his burly body falter a few steps.
Ayla rolled her eyes and hopped between her feet. “You’ve got little to show for it.” She held up her guard and waited for his next move.
He raced toward her, one moment standing fifteen paces away, the next moment two away from punching her. She flinched as his fist rocketed toward her face. Her magic responded formed a shield around her nose to absorb the blow.
But the impact still sent her flying.
She swore, remembering that wall between the stadium and the stands. She’d hit it. And it’d hurt—a lot. Magic skittered across her skin, rampant with panic. She tried to control it, tried to will it to shape into a protective layer to absorb the impact of the impending blow. Come on, come on.
Zalyn’s sturdy arms wrapped around her waist, a determined frown tight on his brow as he turned his body toward the wall behind them. The wall breaked against his back with a sharp crack and a loud rumble and tipped backward. She fell on him hard, teeth clinking together.
“I would’ve been fine,” she hissed, pulling away from his seated body with a flush on her cheeks.
Zalyn flashed a charming smile at her, dimples included, and eased his arms from her body so she could stand. His eyes followed her. “Almost hurt you there, sorry.”
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you punched me in the face.”
He leaned on his elbows, seated like a king among the rubble of the wall. “We were fighting, though. You want me to fight you like I normally would, right?”
Was he implying he’d been going easy on her this whole time? Magic fluttered from her skin as her jaw slackened, anger coiling in her stomach. Ayla cleared her mind. He wouldn’t get away with that—at least not without consequences.
“Guess I could start fighting normally, too,” she said. She offered him a hand and he took it.
His magic collided with her. Compared to the heat his magic radiated, the hot day was cooler than ice cream.
He heaved himself up. “Can you fight normally with me? You’re flushed.” He touched her cheek with a fingertip.
She swatted it away. “I’m embarrassed for you.” She narrowed her eyes.
He smirked. “You don’t need to be.”
“Zalyn!” Robil called from the other side of the stadium. “Are you hurt?”
“No!” Zalyn waved to him.
“Time’s almost up,” his trainer continued. “Ayla’s winning four-to-one. Apparently she didn’t need that luck after all.”
Zalyn looked back to her. Ayla drew magic all over her body, mirrored that smirk he had earlier as best she could. Just one more. She’d use everything she’d been taught.
Zalyn laughed as he raced toward her. She lowered her stance, dodging his first punch and laying one of her own. He blocked it and threw a punch to her other side. She grunted as her magic moved to absorb the blow, then kicked him low. His thigh tensed in shock from the impact, a groan escaping his lips. Magic surged around him like flames licking her skin.
Ugh. His stupid magic!
He used her distraction to drive another punch at her face. She dodged and threw a fist straight to his torso. He jumped back, but she followed him, magic singing in her blood, her steps quick, and cemented her left foot in front of him to anchor her sure one-hit knock out.
Ayla ground her teeth together as her fist flew. She put all of her body weight into it, magic rushing into her muscles, but his block held strong. She would break that block if it was the last thing she did. She’d show him she was good. Didn’t need to be treated like some porcelain doll. Didn’t need him to save her from a stupid wall.
The chill of her magic pulsed in her muscles as she continued to drill her fist into his forearms. He grunted at the force, then his arms flew apart, the rose smell of his magic waning. Her heart surged in her chest with adrenaline—opportunity staring her in the face with ruby eyes. She drilled her other fist into his face before he could raise his block again.
No crack of bones. No grunt of pain. Not even a flinch.
Ayla kicked him in the chest with her heel. He grunted but didn’t move. His hand caught her retreating ankle, then slid up her leg as he moved forward, tracing every contour until he pressed against her.
Heat rushed over her skin as she stared at him. Where was his hand going? It moved from the back of her upper thigh to her hip bone, then snaked around to the small of her back. Her foot tapped back down to the ground.
“I’m not a punching bag, Ayla,” he said. “I’m your training partner.”
She let out a shaky breath. She didn’t like what his touch did to her. It lit her skin on fire. Her magic seemed to flee at his presence. “Do you always fight like this?” she said, a foreign tightness in her voice. Ayla moved her hands to his chest, pushing him away.
“No. I thought you might like it.” His body molded into hers.
Ayla tried to control her breathing. “What gave you that impression?” She allowed her icy magic to seep out of her hands against his chest. It added a biting quality to her voice. “I don’t think a therian’s going to bother fighting me like that.”
He grimaced at her cold touch and backed away. A little bit. She’d freeze his entire body if it made him leave her alone.
“All right, kids! Time’s over!”
She pushed him harder, and he turned away from her. He reached a hand to the back of his head, wiping sweat from his neck and heaving a long breath as they headed toward Robil and Naramsin.
Ayla dug her fingernails into her palms. Her gaze examined the glistening muscles in his back. She could tell he’d been training since he was two just by his well-defined build. How was she going to deal with him?
A hawk soared across the vibrant blue sky, not even a cloud in sight. She wiped her forehead. Loran had never trained with her like that. It’d always been serious, trying to teach her a therian would use any method to kill her. Zalyn seemed more interested in seeing the ways in which his body could fit against hers.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
She was not interested in such pursuits.
Next to Robil and Naramsin, Sanhareb and Banipal stood next to their trainers in black training clothes. She remembered Sanhareb’s regal features and Banipal’s burly form from lunch as she sized them up. Ayla crossed her arms over her chest. What were they doing here?
Zalyn waved to the older boys. “Well, hello. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Please do not take such a casual tone with me.” Sanhareb’s voice sounded rough, like pinecones.
Banipal patted his partner’s shoulder with a weighty hand, a grin spreading across his face as his eyes moved from Zalyn to Ayla. “Has he been good to you? I see you’re in one piece.”
Why wouldn’t she be?
Zalyn lifted a casual arm over her shoulders. “I’ve behaved. What fun would she be all mangled up?” The smell of pomegranate wafted around him. “How’s your training coming along?”
“Could be better.” Sanhareb folded his arms over his chest, eyes black like two bottomless holes. “You’re cutting into our time.”
“Not by much,” she said. Mageians. So annoying.
Zalyn scoffed. “If a degree worth of time gets you killed in the War, than I bet you deserved it anyway.”
“Hopefully it wasn’t a degree’s worth of wasted training that killed your father.”
Her body froze.
Robil turned to Sanhareb in a heartbeat with his face contorted. “It certainly wasn’t a degree that killed your uncles, Malek. Watch your mouth. We have all lost someone.”
“Keep your calm, Robil,” Sanhareb’s trainer said. He could’ve been Sanhareb’s father. They had the same regal look and conceited air.
Did they know what it was like to lose someone like a father?
Robil turned to the man, his back stiff and shoulders square. “I am calm.”
Naramsin put a giant hand on Ayla’s head and pulled her away from Zalyn. “We’ll be taking our leave. Have a fruitful practice, Asarhadon and Sanhareb, Nisen and Banipal.” He turned away from him, guiding Ayla toward the exit. “You probably will need it,” he said under his breath in a growl.
Naramsin lifted his hand from her head and folded them across his chest. Zalyn and Robil followed next to her. Their anger licked her back. She echoed their emotions like waves to the moon. Ayla closed her eyes, trying to forget Sanhareb’s words.
Robil grunted as they exited the stadium, squeezing Zalyn’s shoulder for a moment. “I was in such a good mood, too.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Zalyn said. “They don’t have a chance against me.”
That wasn’t arrogance. Her lungs filled with air. It was anger, a type she understood. Robil said they’d all lost someone. During lunch, when Sabro had brought up her father, Zalyn had seemed so offended. Who had he lost?
“I’ll drop Zalyn off and meet you at home,” Robil said to Naramsin. He lifted a hand to wave, his other hand guiding Zalyn toward the seventh cross street.
Naramsin nodded, turning to continue up the main road to take her home.
“Ayla,” Zalyn called out.
She looked over her shoulder. Fire sparked in his gaze.
“Have you ever visited your father’s grave?” he asked.
“What?”
He grinned, amused. “His grave. In the Graveyard just outside of the city.”
Visit her dad’s grave and remember he’d died, been buried? That he’d once wandered the consuming darkness of the underworld rotting, wretched, and emotionless?
He cleared his voice and rocked backward onto his heels. “Ashor and I wanted to visit before the War started. Thought maybe you’d want to visit, too?”
Robil chuckled and started heading down the street with slow steps, leaving Zalyn to stand in an awkward wonder in front of her.
Ayla checked her bun for stray hair. She swallowed and then nodded. “I do.”
He smiled. “We’ll get in you in seven degrees.”
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The guards wished Ayla and Zalyn a safe return as they passed into the outer city. After the third cross street, privacy disappeared. Doors were left open or entirely missing. Sand billowed in the air as horses plodded along, their owners delivering fresh produce and hand-crafted clothes.
Compared to Ayla’s late night expedition with her father the night before, the streets buzzed with life. People chattered with ease, ballads and opuses carried lofty notes past the oppressing heat, vivid blue and magenta and yellow silks swirled around bodies and tied around heads.
Amidst the chaos, Zalyn slipped an arm around Ayla’s shoulders and turned her towards a doorway hidden in a small wall. “Ready for our adventure?”
“Adventu—?”
The noise of the market hit her like thunder. Dark heads crowded together along the road, swarming from one cart to another. Vendors shouted their bargains against the crowd. Ekarkara’s market paled in comparison. Ayla had thought that a hard thing to do.
“Welcome to the Mageian Marketplace,” Zalyn whispered by her ear. His breath tickled her curls against her skin.
Colorful dresses and scarves lined the walls of the buildings, waving in the wind like flags from a tall pole. The soft, almost celebratory jingle of bracelets drifted from stall to stall as nimble hands shuffled through the assorted racks.
“Wow. There’s a lot of dresses.” Too many. Way, way too many.
“And that’s why you’re going to get one.” Zalyn walked down the middle of the street and weaved through the crowd with Ashor and Ayla following behind.
“I didn’t bring any money.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Zalyn said, flashing a charming smile. “Whatever you want, you get.”
She shook her head, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. “That’s ridiculous. I’ll pay you back, at least.” Although she had no intention of buying any of these monstrosities. She had enough sitting in the bottom of her clothes chest already, unusable. She couldn’t fight in a dumb mageian dress.
“I mean it.” Zalyn laughed. “We’re showing you around today so we’re going to make sure you have a good time! Let’s get her some clothes, Fifty-Seven.”
Ashor gave a small laugh—probably the most genuine she’d heard from him since she’d seen him at lunch. It reminded her of the Ashor she knew when she was younger. The Ashor who should have been on her side.
She sent him a glare—which he ignored by staring at the thin, dirty sheets swaying in the breeze over the second-story windows.
“Hopefully you like dresses.” Zalyn grinned.
She put on a tight smile, one she hoped looked fit for a shark. “Yes. Love them.”
Ashor grimaced, a silent apology in his eyes. “I told you she probably didn’t want to go dress shopping.”
Zalyn laughed with an unruffled shrug. “I’m still going to buy her one.” He turned to Ayla. “And you’re going to like it.”
“Doesn’t mean I’ll wear it,” she said. She allowed an innocent curiosity to cover it. “Where’re the boy clothes? Down at the end…?” She quickened her pace, but Zalyn wrapped his fingers around her wrist.
“Secret.”
He tugged her toward a booth with beautiful silvery tunics and thumbed through. His hand held her, burning on her skin until she slipped hers away to sweep it across a silky dress with white embroidery instead. She remembered her mom wearing a similar dress when she was younger. When her mom had been alive.
For a moment, she thought maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to buy just one.
“Going to buy something?” the woman behind the booth said with a wavering drawl, then paused as the storm conjured within the depths of her eyes settled on Ayla.
“Yes,” Zalyn said. “What’re the prices for these things?”
The lady stared long at Ayla. The wrinkles in her face seemed to darken with each passing moment. She turned to Zalyn with a hard gaze. “It’ll cost you 8,000 zuzu.”
“That’s way too much,” Ayla said. Did this lady think they were made of money or did she think they were stupid? Dresses in Ekarkara were half that price. “If you really want to buy me a dress, we should look somewhere else.”
“You like this one though, right?” Zalyn lifted a finger toward the silk shining on the rack.
Did he not know anything about getting a bargain? She shrugged the memory of her mother’s dress from her mind. “It’s just a dress. I’ve got a million just like it.”
Zalyn arched an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Just because I don’t wear them doesn’t mean I don’t have them.”
The lady hobbled out of the booth, not taller than a twelve-year-old boy. She reached to the dress Ayla had been looking at and took it down, then she held it out to Ayla.
“10,000 zuzu.”
Ayla’s jaw dropped. She raised it two-thousand zuzu? If Zalyn bartered with her, he had to be the dumbest shopper she’d ever seen.
Zalyn frowned at the lady with his arms across his chest. “6,000 zuzu.” He held his chin high and stared at her.
”9,000.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out seven silver coins. “7,000.”
“Deal.” The woman reached her wrinkly, tanned hand to scoop up the money.
“No deal,” Ayla said, grabbing his elbow and dragging him from the booth with Ashor at her side. Zalyn was the dumbest shopper she’d ever seen, and she wasn’t about to let him spend such a ridiculous amount on a stupid dress—one she’d never wear.
“But—” He tugged on her hold, but she charged through the crowd without a glance back. Dresses, dresses, more dresses filled every rack—were the boy clothes really hidden somewhere?
“Why don’t we get some food?” Ashor proposed. He gave a small prod toward a coagulating crowd at the intersection ahead. “It’s on our way to the Graveyard.”
Ayla didn’t see the harm in filling her stomach and neither did Zalyn.
The intersection ahead was marked with a giant statue of Ninhursag carved out of white wood, curls stained dark. A modest robe of leaves, bright like the cedars and pines in Ekarkara, covered her curves. At the statue’s golden base, a boy threw small pieces of parchment paper into the crowd.
“See off the competitors on Elunu the eighth at the arena in the inner city!” he shouted as he shoved a handful to a few teenage boys passing by. “See the daughter of our last winner! See our city’s most hopeful!”
“Is it always this busy?” Ayla asked, trying to talk over the loud swarm. She bumped into a tall boy with dark hair who sent her a nasty sneer when she tried to apologize.
“Yes.” Zalyn slung an arm over her shoulder and pulled Ayla close. He ducked his head as they passed the mass of mageians and the statue of the city’s creator. “Keep your head down.”
Ashor leaned into her, his woodsy smell distinct even among the powerful stench of sweat lingering. He smelled like the forest by her house. It reminded her of Loran. Questions surged through her mind, so she grabbed Ashor’s hand and squeezed. He glanced at her, the muscles above his eyebrows wrinkled together.
She kept her voice low as she whispered, “We need to talk later.”
“I agree,” he whispered back. “Sorry, Ayla. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”
She released his hand as Zalyn weaved them through the crowd. Sweat and wood was soon replaced with allspice and cardamom. Vendors offered samples of potato soup, rich with garlic and cilantro, and thick yogurt with fresh fruits.
A whole pig dangled from a butcher shop’s booth, and the cart next to it sold grilled meats. A falafel cart serviced a permanent crowd. Ayla insisted they visit each stand. By the time they passed the last carts on the street, her stomach wanted to explode, but her tongue had no regrets.
The sun had moved twenty degrees by the time Ayla saw the first gravestone raised in the sand. The Graveyard of the Gilded seemed to stretched as endlessly as the Pacific Ocean, a sea of golden tombstone knives cleaving tan waves. Among the vast markers, a line of fourteen soaring statues stood like bleached driftwood on a stranded beach. The last was her father.
Zalyn’s warm hand weighed on her shoulder. “Take your time.” He pointed to his left with his thumb. “My father’s grave is over there. I’ll find you once I’ve said hello.”
Ashor nodded. “My parents are over there.” He squinted an eye and pointed an index finger a little to the left of the line of Winners. “Call if you need me.”
Ayla could barely offer them a smile. Her voice was a hefty rock in her throat. Despite the stifling heat of the evening, bumps spread across her bare arms. A shiver shot down her back, electric in her toes.
Her attention focused on the white stone statue of her dad, but her limbs dragged. The sharp features showed a man fifteen years younger than the father she knew, a broad smile on his face. Yet he possessed the same cropped hair, the same angled chin carrying a triangle of facial hair, the same rounded cheeks as he grinned, lips puckered over straight teeth.
Sand hid half of the solid gold base under his bare feet, but his engraved name remained visible with an epithet and a timestamp.
The 14th Winner
Afrem the Affable
Elunu 1, 4299 – Ayyaru 21, 4328
And her mother.
Ilesina Elias, his wife
Arahsamnu 7, 4298 – Ayyaru 21, 4328
Her heart threatened to leap from her chest as she knelt before her father’s statue. She grabbed a bit of her shirt in her hand as if it’d help her keep her emotions together. She traced the letters of her mother’s name and hissed. The golden surface blistered her fingertip after years of constant heat.
She’d never thought about her parents' bodies lying in a cemetery. It must be awful. Cold and damp under mountains of infinite sand.
Ayla wiped a tear from her cheek. Her mother didn’t deserve this. She knew her dad felt tortured knowing she was still in Irkalla, but they’d both made the sacrifice.
Ayla tapped her forehead to the sand in front of the statue and then stood. She spotted Ashor nearby and headed to him, entwining her fingers between his when she stepped to his side.
“Hi,” he said, his voice subdued. A soft smile touched his lips. “It’s funny seeing their graves here.”
Ayla squeezed his hand. She understood, a little.
“You wanted to know what happened.” His green eyes glanced at her.
“I do.” She held his gaze until he looked away, sizing up the tall gravestones shadowing him twice over. They were killed six months before her parents.
“My mom and dad were well known members of the Illutu. They were killed by therians to send a message.” Ashor made a quiet choked noise. “Your dad made sure I was well taken care of in Ekarkara, but I got sick anyway. That’s why I left. My aunt took me here so I could see the Sayad family physician.”
“You’re better now, right?” she asked, careful to keep her voice low as Zalyn pressed a hand to one of the tombstones in the distance and leaned his weight onto the sandstone. Even as his shoulders slumped, defeat corroding his posture, she had to be careful he didn’t hear.
“I’m healthy, yes,” he said in a whisper, “but it’s because of my magic. I’d be dead if I didn’t have it.”
Ayla examined his parents’ graves.. “I missed you. Maron wouldn’t let me return to the main Ekarkara settlement until I was eight,” she lied. Her dad had forbidden it. “You were gone. Loran didn’t know why.”
“How’s Loran?” he asked in a whisper, studying her.
She grasped for an answer. How was Loran? She remembered the last time she’d seen him, the stiff goodbye, the no See you tomorrow as usual.
“Loran’s doing well.” Ayla smiled through her uncertainty and searched for something more to tell him, to set him at ease about his long-ago best friend. “We trained almost every day. I got to see him before I left, too. I miss him a little bit, but that’s because I’m so used to seeing him all the time.” She gave him a weak laugh.
He smiled back at her. “If you need a friend, I’m here for you.”
“I know. I appreciate it.”
“It’s getting late,” Ashor said, glancing at the setting sun. “We should get home before curfew.”
Zalyn gestured them over. Ashor took one last look at his mom and dad’s grave before he pulled her toward Zalyn.
The sunlight flashed across the surface of the golden grave markers. The bright yellow sun melted into night from a dark blue to a rich crimson and a heady orange. Stars swept across the expanse, the half-moon smiling in the east.
She read every name she could find as she passed the tall tombstones. Ashurian, Hasso, Sarkis, Elias—her family, grandparents, cousins long past—Summa.
Competitors in the 10th Gutian War, the 7th Akkadian War, the 3rd Gutian War. Karam, 6th Gutian War—Athra Karam in the 14th Gutian War. Naramsin's mother. Robil's wife.
Next, the Malek family. A Winner in 1723, the 2nd Gutian War, another in 1962 in the 3rd Gutian War. Twins competed in the 14th Gutian War, 4323. Must have been Sanhareb’s uncles.
The Thomas. Dimet Thoma, born 4307, died 4323. He was her age. He must've been Diyalam's brother, or cousin. How old had Diyalam been? How close had she been with him?
When she reached her training partner, she searched for his father’s name.
Competitor in the 14th Gutian War
Malko Yonan
Elunu 1, 4300 – Elunu 27, 4323
Ayla wondered if he was in Irkalla, too. It would have been nice if he was keeping her mom company down there, but there was no such thing as ‘company’ in the underworld. She crossed an arm over her torso and grabbed her elbow as her stomach twisted.
Zalyn set a hand on her head. “Are you ready to leave?” he asked, tone soft.
“Wait…” Ashor raised a hand to his eyebrow, studying the horizon.
Ayla looked past him to the sand dunes. She focused her magic into her eyes, sending it burrowing into her retina. Her vision sharpened.
A figure rose up the side of the dune and trudged down, another appearing behind him. Then, like tanned ants in the sand, several more emerged, marching toward the Graveyard in a single-file line.
“The groundskeepers,” Ashor said beside her.
“Or a search party?” she asked.
He groaned. “I hope it’s the groundskeepers. I’d even be happy if they were walking dead coming back from a daily stroll.”
“Too young,” Zalyn said, eyes evaluating the distance as the light slipped further beneath the horizon. “They’re our age.” He placed a hand on her back and eased her closer. “And it looks like they’ve spotted us.”
What was that supposed to mean?
The figures started to race across the sand. A dozen boys with dirty faces, cropped hair, wrinkled pants low at their waists, and shirtless. Ashor swore and Zalyn’s shoulders stiffened. Her body grew cold.
“We should leave,” Ashor said.
“Too late,” Zalyn said. “They came for a fight. I’ll give them one.”