Day 7 of the War

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Ayla’s maids shuffled in at dawn, pulling back her curtains and setting down a noisy tray at her side. She kept her eyes closed as they started their morning routine. Maybe they’d leave her alone and she could sneak off earlier. Her meeting the day before with the gods forced her to realize one thing: she needed to find her dad before her time ran out.

“Miss Ayla, it’s time to wake up,” Isla whispered, rubbing Ayla’s arm with a soft, warm touch.

“If she’s sleeping,” Kaya said from the corner as the clothes chest creaked open, “I think we should let her… She hasn’t been getting much recently.” She rummaged through the clothes, folding them over the other. “What do you think, Bahra?”

“She’s not sleeping,” the older maid said, a soft chuckle in her voice. “She’s trying, though. Your father couldn’t sleep the first week, either.”

Ayla clenched her teeth and bolted upright. Did Bahra always have to mention her father? She swallowed against the lump rising in her throat. “I can’t find my dad. I’ve looked everywhere.”

Isla handed her a cup of hot stew. “We know you have, Miss.” Her young face frowned, sympathetic. “We’re sure he’ll turn up. He wouldn’t miss your first fight for anything.” She handed Ayla a wide, silver spoon. “Please eat, you’ve been losing weight.”

Ayla took it and dipped it into the cup. She stared down at the wheat-thickened broth, feeling her desperate stomach trying to claw its way out of her torso to get to the food. It smelled like sweet chicken and spicy onions, garnished with chili and a sprig of mint.

“We should get you into the bath, too,” Kaya said, moving from the clothes chest with a dress folded over her arm. “It’ll warm you up and relax you.”

Ayla watched her with narrowed eyes over her steaming cup. “I’m not wearing a dress.”

Kaya stopped mid-step and rolled her eyes as she turned on her heel. “Fine. You win again.” She pouted, stuffing the dress back into the chest and pulling out a pair of heavy training clothes and a silvery cloak.

“Miss Ayla,” Isla said, folding her arms over her chest. Her russet eyes lightened.

“I’m going to be really worried about you if you don’t eat breakfast.”

“I’ll eat,” she said, spooning out a mouthful of soup. “See, watch.” She put the spoon in her mouth, the broth warm against her tongue. Cumin and coriander tickled the back of her throat as she swallowed.

Isla smiled and stood. “I’ll go warm your bath water. I hope you’re finished with the food when we come to retrieve you.”

Bahra laughed with a rasp, taking Isla’s place by Ayla’s side. “Do you think Mister Afrem is in the castle or outside in the city?”

Ayla shook her head, carrying spoonful after spoonful to her lips. The garlic hit the tip of her tongue as her stomach rumbled, still punishing her for waiting so long to eat.

She swallowed, pausing between bites. “I—I can’t check outside of the castle, though. You’d think Maron would keep him around Naramsin and Robil to be safe.”

“Perhaps Mister Maron wasn’t able to sneak him into the castle.”

Ayla froze, her last spoonful poised at her mouth. Hiding outside of the castle? She gulped it down as Bahra took the cup and replaced it with a plate of quartered flatbreads alongside small cups of feta cheese, butter, jam, honey, and cream. Ayla groaned—more food?

“Might as well get you all fed up now that you’re eating,” Bahra said, wrinkles by her eyes as she smiled.

Ayla had finished half the flatbreads when Kaya and Isla stepped out of the washroom to retrieve her. While the two older maids helped her undress, Isla allowed her magic to seep to keep the wintry room warm. After Ayla washed, Kaya untangled her hair with a silver comb.

She stepped out and the girls helped her redress, slipping into the velvet pants with a wiggle. Her arms slid into the tight sleeves of her shirt. Kaya tugged down the shirt over her pants and wrapped her belt at her hips before lowering the cloak on her shoulders.

Isla worked on drying her hair with heated hands, working the curls into manageable ringlets. “I wish I had your hair, Miss Ayla,” she said, following it with a small sigh.

“You don’t,” Ayla said. “I wish I’d gotten Mom’s hair. Nice, long, straight, black. Normal.”

“You got her freckles,” Bahra said.

Ayla suppressed another groan, remembering Zalyn’s compliment. Isla finished and stepped back to examine her handiwork, jutting her hip out and folding her arms over her chest, a dainty eyebrow cocked into her smooth forehead.

“Do you not like your freckles?” Kaya asked, draining the silver bathtub.

“I do…” Or at least, she used to. “I used to count Mom’s freckles when I was younger. She had fifty-six. I have thirty-four. I remember asking my dad how I could get more, so I could look like her.” Ayla paused, feeling her throat seize up. “Sometimes I think I’ve forgotten what she looks like…”

Bahra frowned. “At least you’ve had Mister Afrem with you, right?” She pulled Ayla into a tight squeeze, concern wrinkling her graying eyebrows.

“But now he’s gone.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Kaya said, moving to her side and rubbing her back. “Have you checked everywhere?”

“I’ve been in every room in the western and southern quarters. It’s impossible to check the eastern quarter.” She felt her options slipping away. “The only place left I could try is the northern quarter.”

“Why don’t Kaya and I accompany you, Miss?” Isla asked. She stepped by Bahra, clasping her hands in front of her. “Three sets of eyes are better than one.

“We’d love to get out and see the rest of the castle,” Kaya added. “Allow us to help you.”

There wasn’t a rule that said she couldn’t browse the halls at her own leisure—and there certainly wasn’t one that said she couldn’t take her maids with her.

“Fine.” She’d been planning on searching for him after breakfast. Maybe she wouldn’t have to skip lunch with extra help.

The maids smiled. Bahra said she’d finish cleaning up, so Ayla took the younger maids out of the common room. She pulled open the silent door and breezed through, checking behind her shoulder before closing it behind them. The empty entryway promised a small probability of getting caught.

“We can take the upper floors,” Isla said in a quiet voice. She turned to Kaya. “I’ll take the east wing, you take the west wing?”

Kaya nodded and then smiled at Ayla. “We’ll find him, Miss. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Ayla whispered back, giving them each a quick squeeze before parting. She watched the two girls climb the grand staircase and then hurried to the first room on her left.

The door opened to an empty ballroom, the floor shining under a dozen chandeliers. She hurried through along the pillars lining the edges of the dance floor and moved to the door in the corner. A barren hallway connected the ballroom to the kitchen, which—despite the dirty plates left out in the sinks—looked deserted.

Ayla ran a hand along a counter, picking up a trail of dust. Ten cooking stations with ovens, stove tops, pans hanging from the ceiling, blocks of knives, jars of wooden spoons and spatulas, and shelves of bowls overhead filled the large room in aisles. She crossed the room to another door and opened it to a pantry.

“Did you think we’d hide your father in the pantry?” Nanna asked from behind her, his pristine voice catching an echo in the room.

She jumped and spun around to the coolness of his voice. Her heart squeezed up into a rock the size of chestnut as she stared at his smooth face and his silver eyes.

“Sorry to startle you.” A small smirk moved into the corner of his lips as he folded his arms over his chest. “What possessed you to check the kitchen?”

She let out a long breath, shutting the pantry door and leaning against it. “Isla and Kaya…” She closed her eyes for a moment, swearing at herself, and dug her fingernails into the door. She shouldn’t get them caught along with her. Why’d his presence fluster her so much?

“Yes, your maids are upstairs, checking each room dutifully.” He rocked on his feet as if bored. “They’re rather fond of you, aren’t they?”

“I’d hope so.” The insides of her stomach curled like smoke. “I’m rather fond of them, too.” She removed her hands from the door, moving her arms under her cloak. The fur caressed her arms as it folded over her body.

He gave a gentle smile. “You’re nervous.”

Her skin set on fire. “I— Why wouldn’t I be? You’re… my creator.” She swallowed, grabbing the material of her pants at her sides. “I want you to like me.”

Nanna chuckled, taking two long steps to her. He slid her under his arm and began walking with her to the far door. “So honest.” He opened it and led her through. “I’m sorry, but your father isn’t here… We don’t tend to give rooms to the dead.” The cold of his touch seeped through the fur and the velvet, calming her heart and flushing her system with magic.

She worked up the courage to ask the one question she hadn’t been able to at her meeting the day before. “Where is he, then?” she asked. “He said he’d be here…”

“Not everyone can keep their promises, Ayla,” he said in an even tenor. “Your father is no exception.”

Her heart dropped like a pinecone, but remained a constant, faint thump in her chest. Her eyes unfocused as he posited her at the door leading back to the mageian common room.

“Ohorshina will be upset if you miss her lunch.”

Ayla nodded, feeling numb even after his touch left her shoulder. A grey smoke caressed her face as he disappeared. Loud footsteps hurried down the stairs.

“Miss Ayla,” Isla called. She stopped, breathless, at Ayla’s side. “We didn’t find him…”

Kaya stopped at Ayla’s other side. “We’re sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ayla said, her voice airy. “Not all promises can be kept.” She swallowed, looking down at the floor. “I need to get to lunch. I’ll see you two for dinner. Thank you for helping me.”

Ayla hurried through the doors, leaving her two maids in the northern quarter. Zalyn waved as she entered the dining room and she forced herself to return it with a small smile. When she took a seat, she stared over at Loran’s spot at the therian table.

It was empty.

She glanced at Ashor and he gave a discreet shrug. She hoped nothing had happened to him.

Ayla divided her attention between eating and glancing at the seat Loran should’ve been sitting in. After the servants replaced the plates of food with pots and cups, Ohorshina tapped her teacup with her spoon, drawing everyone’s attention with each clink.

“I hope everyone has enjoyed their sixth meal in Dilmun,” she said, her smile as kind as always. “Today Inanna requests to see her competitors, Alaz Sindi, Xerxan Baradost…” She gestured first to a therian with a bird-like nose, a frown, and messy black hair before pointing to another, this one with a pointed nose and chin-length chocolate hair. “…and Zalyn Yonan.”

Stolen novel; please report.

Zalyn raised his cup with a smirk toward the two therians. Beside him, Nemrud chuckled and patted his back. Across the room, the two therians grinned at Zalyn as if they’d been issued a laughable challenge.

“As always,” Ohorshina continued, “be prepared to answer their questions. Feel free to leave when you’re finished with your drinks. I’ll be here until everyone has left in case one of you has a question. I look forward to seeing you all tomorrow, as well.”

Alaz’s blood-red eyes burned across the table, his frown deepening along his thick eyebrows as he stared. Xerzan cracked his neck and ran a hand through his rough stubble and his long locks. He picked up his cup and took a long drink, revealing an animalistic smirk as it left his lips, his rose-colored eyes shifting to Zalyn.

“Someone looks ready for a fight,” Ayla said after finishing her tea.

Zalyn rolled his eyes, but continued surveying the other competitor. “I’m always ready for a fight.” His eyes slid from the therians to give a quick smile to Ayla.

“I doubt they need any more reason to attack you on your way to meet the gods,” Ashor said, then paused. “Unless you want them to. You would do something like that.” The sharp edge in his voice seemed misplaced.

“They wouldn’t do that,” Zalyn said, leaning against Ayla to stare down Ashor.

“What makes you say that?” Ashor countered. “It’s not against the rules. If I was them, I’d probably kill you in a heartbeat.” He took an innocent sip of tea, but his eyes looked dark over his cup.

Ayla nursed her tea while listening to the clipped tones in Ashor’s voice and watching his eyebrows twitch into a frown. What was going on with him?

“You say it so affectionately.” Zalyn gave a quick chortle. “There’d be no fun in killing me early. They can fight me in the arena. With an audience. Much more exciting that way.”

Ashor gave a rough sigh as if Zalyn’s typical, cocky mageian attitude finally reached its annoying limit. She rubbed his knee under the table. He glanced at her with a hard look, taking another calculated drink. She retracted her hand, frowning.

“Where were you earlier, Ayla?” Zalyn asked, turning toward her and ignoring Ashor. Had they gotten into a fight?

She searched for a quick lie. “I showed my maids a bit of the castle.” Her eyes slide to Ashor for a moment. “Did you two wait for me?”

“Zalyn insisted,” Ashor said, not even looking over to them.

Something had to be wrong with him.

The younger boy shrugged. “Didn’t want to leave you behind or anything.” A charming smile fell onto his lips as dimples pressed into his cheeks. “You look stunning today.”

“I really doubt that, but thanks.” She couldn’t look stunning with bags under her eyes. That happened when she cried all night without her good friend Sleep. “Even Diyalam said I looked tired.”

“Are you having bad dreams or something?” Ashor asked. “Or do you just look like someone hit you over the head with a mace on purpose?”

She sneered at him, biting her tongue to keep from doing more. “Too cold to sleep. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” His response was too quick for Ayla to believe him. Ashor sighed and set his cup down, not looking at her. “That was rude, sorry. Ignore it.”

“Do you need an extra body?” Zalyn put his head in his hand, fluttering his lashes like some girl. “I make both a good punching bag and a good pillow…”

Ayla lingered on Ashor for a moment before she gave Zalyn a playful shove on the shoulder. “I’m declining.”

Ashor stared down into his cup as if it could tell him his future, his angled eyebrows scrunched together in the middle of his forehead. His eyelashes netted together over his green eyes as he squinted.

“What about training?” Zalyn asked.

Ayla paused, wrapping her fingers around her cup to warm them. “Sure. Before or after your meeting?”

“After. I’ll give you a knock.” He took one of her hands in his and brought it to his mouth. His breath caressed her skin. “I forgot to ask how yours went yesterday.”

“I think they hate me.” Her magic bubbled around his lips.

Ashor glanced at her, his eyebrows coming together in concern. “There’s no way they could hate you …”

She swallowed, chewing the inside of her lip. “Plenty of ways…”

Ashor’s concern deepened on his forehead. “Unless you did something stupid like insult them…” His green eyes burn but usually I wouldn’t peg you for that…”

“They kept asking me questions I didn’t want to answer.” She took a big breath. She hated skirting around the truth—especially when she wanted someone to know. Ayla looked down at her cup.

“And…?” Zalyn asked, waiting for her to continue.

“So I asked them why they let my father die.” She pulled her other hand from her cup and placed it in her lap, letting her nails dig into her thigh. “I don’t think that’s quite the question they wanted to answer. Too bad they can’t disqualify me for being a little brat.”

They should at least disqualify her for being a liar. It felt like second nature to tell half-truths now. She wanted to tell the whole truth—to Ashor, to Loran, to someone who could understand what it was like to lose their father.

Zalyn pressed his soft lips to the back of her hand. Her magic evaded his warm touch. His eyes closed and a crease marred his forehead. Her heart wanted to reach over and smooth it out, but her magic trickled away as she stared at his anguished expression.

“It’s not a problem.” She searched for what she could say to make the look on his face disappear. Her hand lifted with a subtle shake and she swallowed, setting her fingertips on his forehead and moving her thumb across the wrinkle. “It just slipped out. I don’t think they cared that much…”

“You’re lying.” Zalyn pulled his lips away—her magic with them as he stared into her eyes, the copper burning right down to her heart. “I was going to ask them about my father, too.”

Zalyn knew what it was like, too. She’d forgotten.

Ayla let out a thin breath, her skin tingling. “Your—”

“—I miss my father, Ayla. You aren’t the only one.” Zalyn pressed his cup to his lips and drank the rest of his coffee in one gulp. “I’ll see you later.” He kissed her temple, stood, and left.

Ashor glanced at her. “He’s not obvious at all.”

Ayla scrunched her face, trying to forget the feeling of his lips. “Do you know anything about his dad?” she asked, trying to keep her voice down so the other mageians couldn’t hear.

Ashor’s face smoothed into a small frown. “His father? Intimidating.” He looked down into his cup again and lowered his voice. “You’d think he was some kind of hero with the way Zalyn talks about him.”

Ayla bit her bottom lip. She didn’t want to hear that his father hadn’t been a good guy. “Why do you say that?” she whispered back. She hoped he’d at least been a good father to Zalyn—raised him so Zalyn would never hate her like Malko had learned to hate her dad. “What’d he do?”

“He killed people.” Ashor looked at her with a scowl on his face. It looked like this was the last thing he wanted to talk about. “He killed Aithotha Ashurian in his first fight. Right out of the gate. Just because she was in the Illutu.”

Ayla let out a shaky breath, leaning forward and clasping her boots with stiff, trembling arms. Why did she care so much about what kind of man Zalyn’s dad was?

“Then, he killed Naramsin’s mother—he was seven. Marched right into her room. Didn’t even care.” Ashor turned his attention back to his tea. “He killed two therian competitors the next night.”

“How’d he die?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer. What if her dad had killed him?

“He tried to kill Evraz, but Evraz ended up killing him.”

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Naramsin rolled away from her as Zalyn barged through the door and clambered down the stairs with a frown.

“I knocked. Stood there for ever.”

“Naramsin left me a note,” she said, wiping her brow of sweat and heaving a breath. “I figured you’d find me.” Plus, she wanted to get out of her room and burn off her emotions.

Zalyn scoffed. “At least you’ve warmed up for me.” He shrugged his cape off and threw it in the corner, rolled his neck, and cracked his back. “Give me a few. I don’t want you to get any more opportunities than you deserve.”

Naramsin rolled his eyes, dropping his stance again and hopping from foot to foot. “We’ll continue, then,” he said. “You still haven’t gotten it.”

Ayla sighed, getting into her own fighting stance and raising her guard. “I’m not perfect, I get it. Explain it to me again.” It didn’t help when he expected her to pick things up like some prodigy.

“You need to wrap your magic around your fist,” he said. “As if you’re going to absorb a blow or block a punch” It sounded like he was talking to a five-year-old. “Therians are stronger—you could punch them wrong once and break your fist.”

She repeated it in her head, trying to make sure it sank in this time. She didn’t want to look challenged in front of Zalyn. “I think I’ve got it. Let’s go again.” She hoped she got it because if she didn’t, Naramsin would make her look like an amateur.

“Chin up,” Naramsin said as he darted forward, magic deep into his blood to quicken his reflexes. “We’ll see if you’ve got it or not.”

Ayla blocked his first punch with a grunt, wrapping her forearms in magic to absorb the impact. His fist came at her again and she dodged, kicking him in the side.

“No—cover your foot,” he said with a rough hoarse. “With your magic. Do it every time, Ayla. And you said you’d got it.”

“I do—” She let out an exasperated breath, bringing her guard down to block his kick. A groan escaped her lips, his kick vibrating through her bones and lifting her feet from the ground for a moment.

“See?” his voice rose in annoyance.

She growled, narrowing her eyes at him as she worked her magic to mend the fracture in her forearm. “Yes, because I can see your magic, Naramsin.”

“It’s not my fault you’re the slowest student I’ve ever had.” He whipped toward her again.

“You’ve only had one student!” She sunk her magic into her blood and sped toward him, sending a high kick flying toward his temple, forcing her magic to surround her foot.

He blocked it, grunting. “Better.” He drove his fist toward her face and she blocked it with gritted teeth. “Not good enough, though. Magic in your blood, magic in your muscles—”

“—and magic on my skin. I get it!” She deflected his punch and rammed her fist into his nose, her whole arm set in ice. It felt so good to punch him. “It’s harder than it looks, Naramsin.”

He reeled back and she stepped forward, driving her other fist into his cheek, and then sending an uppercut to his chin. She wanted to pound him into the ground and her magic responded, coating her in an arctic breeze. Naramsin brought up his block as she raised her foot, kicking his forearm.

She settled back, hopping on the balls of her feet as Naramsin chuckled. She fought to control her heavy breathing and ignored her tiring muscles. It felt too good to fight right now—made her forget about Ashor, Loran, Zalyn, her dad, her deals, the gods.

Naramsin wiped his brow and relaxed his stance. “Good job. For once.” He let out a long breath. “You’re good for today.”

Ayla’s arms dropped to her sides. She had to work to keep from slouching. She rolled her eyes to the high ceiling. “Finally.”

Naramsin let out a single chortle. “You’re disappointed.” He walked to her as he headed to his stuff by the wall, poking a finger into her forehead. “I can read you.” His hand rested on her head for a moment, as if trying to comfort her, before he continued walking.

She didn’t want his comfort.

“My turn,” Zalyn said from the sidelines, a grin spread across his face. “You’re going to be even gladder when I’m done with you.” He walked forward, stretching his arms.

“Sure, glad to get away from you.” She folded her arms across her chest.

Zalyn pouted, his pink lips bunching together, and put his hands on his waist. “You don’t mean that. Just admit you like me already.”

“You first.”

Zalyn paused and she thought she could see a blush rising on his cheeks. He turned away, closing his eyes, and scoffing as he continued walking. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ayla,” Naramsin said, heading up the stairs after putting his cloak back on. “Get some sleep. And eat.” The door slammed shut behind him.

Zalyn cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. Ayla released a silent groan, staring at the icy door and hoping her glare would catch her trainer in the back of the head like a knife. She didn’t need Zalyn to be worried about her, too.“Have you been skipping meals?” Zalyn asked, stopping ten paces away. He raised his guard and started switching between his feet to keep on his toes. His fiery magic swelled around him like a hot summer breeze.

“Sometimes.” She followed suit, allowing her magic to snake over her skin again and dropping her stance. “It’s not a big deal. I won’t be anymore.” She kicked off, willing magic into her blood.

“It’s not healthy,” he said as he blocked her first punch and sent one right back at her. “And it’ll make me worry.”

She grunted, blocking it, and stumbled back. He came at her again, his fist racing through the air at her fallen guard. Ayla deflected his punch and hammered her fist into his open face, ducking away from his second fist and dodging his kick.

He’d gotten quicker.

“Wouldn’t want you to worry,” she said, falling back and waiting for his next move.

He flew toward her, his long arm soaring through the air at her. She blocked it and returned it with her own, pulling magic into her muscles and wrapping it around her fist. He reeled back, a surprised look on his face. She stepped in and drove her other fist toward his nose.

He jerked his head to the side, her fist passing through the air by his ear. He moved into her, his hard chest pressing against her. Air escaped her as his the warmth of his skin hit her. She demanded her magic to stay for once.

“Promise me you’ll eat,” he said, his arm snaking around to her back.

Her breath shook as she tried to regain it. “I—I promise.” Her magic sparked along her skin against his as she relaxed into his body. “I haven’t been starving myself or anything. “I’ve just… I haven’t been hungry, I guess.” She swallowed, looking for some redeemable thing to say to ease his worry. “You’ve been the only reason I’ve ate since we got here.”

His eyebrows furrowed together. “Because I put food on your plate? If I knew that, I would’ve delivered all of your food for you.” A smile moved onto his lips, lines spreading at the corner of his eyes and dimples piercing his cheeks. “Would you like that?”

She scrunched her nose. The idea of Zalyn waking her up with a plate of food in the morning seemed to make her magic curl in displeasure. “No, thank you.” She pushed her hands against his chest, releasing another stuttering breath. “And…you’d make a horrible pillow.”

He laughed, releasing her. “You never know until you try.”

“I don’t think I need a trial.” She moved into her fighting stance again. She needed to fight. “You said you wanted to train, let’s get to it.”

“You want me to punch your pretty face in that badly?” he asked, a smirk setting on his face as he lowered his body and raised his arms to defend his face. He hopped on one foot and then took off toward her. His kick shot toward her temple.

She blocked it, allowing her magic to absorb the impact. “I want to punch your pretty face that badly.” Alya pushed his leg away, raising her foot to his open ribs. Adrenalin rushed through her like a sudden blizzard.

He grunted at the blow and held his side for a second, wincing. “You just called me pretty.” His magic flared as if angry at her for hurting him.

She flushed, her heart skipping a beat as his magic surged against her. “So?”

“Normally I’d get pretty angry.” He punched through her guard, a determined look in his eye. “But I kind of like it when you say it.” His fist hammered straight into her forehead.

She stumbled back, groaning, her vision swimming. Her knees buckled under her as she pressed a hand to her forehead, willing her magic to ease the knife driving through her skull. Hot hands wrapped around her waist and she winced. Zalyn pressed her into his body and her magic jumped from her skin.

Her eyes squeezed shut, the cold air slamming into her body without her fur cloak. She shivered, quaking against Zalyn’s chest.

“Z-Z-Zalyn, I—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, bending over and heaving her legs into his arms. “That was stupid. I should’ve paid attention to your magic. Fuck.” He walked to her cloak by the wall and slipped her arms inside. He tied it with shaking hands.

“M-m-my magi…” She felt light as he picked her back up. Her heart thumped in her ears like a faint drum line.

“Hold on…”

His voice seemed far away.

“…get you to the…”