Three days before the War
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The electric hum of the airavis quieted before they deboarded in a single-file line. Naramsin led the way through the string of humans—many of whom looked like the people in Ekarkara with their dark hair and dark skin. They glanced over her as if she was just another body in the maze. Sometimes their gaze would stop at her eyes as they passed by her and stare as if mesmerized.
Ayla knew her eyes stood out—ash grey didn’t tend to be natural in humans—but otherwise, she blended into the herd.
Naramsin and Maron navigated through the avisport, pointing at the signs hanging from the ceiling to confirm the direction of the exit. It felt the same as the other avisports in London and Istanbul. Concrete and crowded, with glass windows overlooking grey tarmac runways.
As they stepped off some moving metal stairs, she spotted a tall man wearing therian clothes—loose pants that tightened at his calves, a wide belt around his torso, and an airy, sleeveless shirt with a low neckline. His eyes fell to hers as if reflections in a mirror, their ash grey color the exact same as hers and striking against his dark skin.
He met her gaze with a dark message as he flashed a feral grin. Her heart pounded heavy against her ribcage, like it wanted to jump out of her chest. What was a therian doing out in the human world—let alone in a crowded avisport—when they’d been confined to live in parallel worlds?
She looked up to her dad’s stern face. “Dad…”
“Seems he’s been waiting,” he said, voice rough. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side.
“I’ll take care of him,” Maron said. “Naramsin, hide her. I’ll meet you at the car.” He separated from them, slipping into the crowd like a snake in a river.
The man kicked away from the wall he’d been leaning on, face darkening. He prowled through the swarm of people, pushing them aside. Ayla could see his bare feet as he walked toward them, his eyes glued to hers.
“What’s he doing?” Ayla asked, frowning. She heard a waver in her voice. “He can’t attack us here… There are too many people.” The mageians could kill him for such an obvious disturbance. She shouldn’t be the reason he’d never see the light of day again.
“Some don’t care,” Naramsin answered her. He fell back to her other side. “Stay close.”
He touched a hand to the middle of her shoulder blades. His gentle magic dropped over her eyes like a semi-translucent veil. The lights dimmed, colors muted, and the noise of the avisport faded. Naramsin’s hand dropped, and he stepped in front of her, leading once again toward the sliding glass doors.
Ayla felt like a coward. She didn’t want to hide. Her eyes drilled into Naramsin’s back. His black hair glinted in the fluorescent lights. Under his thin black shirt, she could see his muscles tighten. Ayla tried to make out the therian beyond her trainer’s tall frame, but only caught a glimpse of his animalistic grin, his head dipped down as if stalking his next prey.
“Where’d she go?” the therian asked, his voice husky like a wolf as he approached. “You hid her with your filthy magic, didn’t you?” He stopped amongst the crowd, fifteen paces away now. People bristled past him, but didn’t dare touch.
Naramsin stopped as well. “Don’t make the mistake of attacking us here,” he said to the therian. “You won’t succeed.”
Their conversation sounded distant to her from under Naramsin’s concealing magic. The therian’s head twitched as he transformed his arm from human to elegant tiger. The crowd rushed away from him, screaming for the police as the therian charged forward.
“What an idiot,” Naramsin muttered under his breath, lowering his body into a fighting stance.
Ayla tugged onto Naramsin’s shirt, hoping to stop her trainer from attacking. Even if the therian was trying to kill her, stupidity shouldn’t mean death. Naramsin pulled out of her grasp as the therian’s claws ripped at him. Her uncle rushed out of the crowd, slamming his fist into the therian’s temple. Men in uniform light-blue shirts and navy pants barreled after him, shouting a slur of angry Arabic.
The crowd scurried away, revealing the therian struggling to sit up, the left side of his face smeared with blood. A uniformed man jumped on him, pinning him to the concrete. Maron hung back, talking in clipped tones to another policeman.
Naramsin turned, slid his hand onto her back again, and urged her forward with a warning look. She narrowed her eyes back at him. The dim of his magic disappeared as if she’d just stepped out of a shadow. They edged past the therian, Naramsin and her dad flanking her.
The therian’s eyes latched onto hers again. The grey pools strained, and he spat at her. She recoiled as the police pounced on him again, moving closer to her dad, who gripped her shoulders in return. After all the time she’d spent in Ekarkara, living with mageians and therians who didn’t hate each other, she’d never known a therian who wanted to kill her.
Dread curled in the pit of her stomach, reminding her that the War would be no different. When the War started, she’d stand across from someone who wanted to kill her just to win, just to bring honor to their people, and to condemn the other species to banishment until the next War. The therians living in Eabzu and Ekarkara hadn’t left since the mageians won ten years ago.
The point of the War escaped Ayla, but she couldn’t escape it. She’d worry about it when she couldn’t run from the reality anymore, when she faced a bloodthirsty being hell-bent on destroying her. Then she’d shove her morals down her throat and do whatever she could to stay alive.
She had to win. But until then, no matter how much the mageians in Esagila hated therians, Ayla would keep believing they were no different than she was.
A windowless jeep waited outside of the exit. Naramsin hopped into the driver’s side, ignoring the door. Her dad offered a hand as she stepped up onto the back tire to steady herself. By the time her dad climbed in on the other side, Maron had marched to the passenger side and leaped over the door into the seat.
“Let’s go,” Maron said. “We’re behind schedule.”
Naramsin started the electric engine and merged into the steady flow of traffic. Ayla slumped in her seat, smoothing her hair down against the sudden humidity. Her dad hugged her into his side as they broke away from the traffic, heading west from the avisport.
“What’s going to happen to him?” Ayla asked. She had to double-check nothing bad would happen to him.
“The humans have started setting up prisons for therians,” Maron answered. He turned and looked at her over his shoulder. “He’ll be dealt with.”
“Not killed, right?” Just to triple-check…
“No, he won’t.”
“More than he deserves,” Naramsin said, glancing at her from the rearview mirror. “Killing a War participant is a crime punishable by the gods. He should’ve been sent to Irkalla. He’s a lucky mutt.”
Ayla stared at the back of Naramsin’s seat. Her status as a participant raised her above ordinary people, didn’t it? How stupid. She rolled her eyes at the pointlessness of protecting them from harm. What did they think the War was—a friendly scuffle?
“That’s okay with me,” Ayla said. She caught Naramsin glancing at her in the mirror, but he moved his eyes back to the road.
She relaxed into the aged fabric seat and watched cars enter and exit the avisport like bees. An airavis took off into the dawn, wheels soaring into the morning sky above the Tigris River and the shining city of Baghdad. They drove by a lake and then the horizon melted into never ending sand.
The friction of the tires against the pavement and the wind in her ears sounded far louder than the engine. The warming morning air felt fresh against her skin. Maron turned on the radio, and Ayla tried to understand the lyrics over the beat of the drum and lure of violins. Then the songs started running into each other until she leaned against her dad, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.
#
Her dad nudged her awake to a bright morning and a fresh coating of sweat. She grimaced. It was hot.
“Morning,” he said with a grin.
She groaned, squinting her eyes against the sun. “It’s still morning? How long did I sleep…?”
“About thirty degrees. Are you still tired?”
She looked to the sun, noting how close it’d come to high sun since they’d left the avisport. “No, I’m fine…” Ayla took her time peeling her lethargic limbs off of her dad. She wanted to go back to sleep. It’d been a long journey to get this far.
“Here,” Maron said. He passed her a long silvery cloth from the front seat.
Ayla frowned, reaching for it and feeling the silk along her palm. “What’s this for?”
“Birthday present.”
She turned it over in her hands. It was weird among family to give each other presents on their birthday. She looked at it, still feeling slow with sleep, and then to her uncle. He tied a golden one around his head, whipping the tail over his shoulder.
He covered his mouth with it. “Put it on. We’re in the desert. Do you want to eat sand?”
“No…” Ayla wrapped the cloth around her head in the same way as her uncle.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“We’re about to leave the road,” Naramsin added, his tone dry.
Maron passed another to her dad, and he wrapped his face as well. Naramsin lifted the tail of his own turban over his mouth. Naramsin left the road and the jeep groaned as it bounced over the dunes. The wind flung grains of sand into her face, her hair, and her clothes, sticking like skin to her sweat. She hoped they had good baths in Esagila.
Ayla thought they had to be close, but he kept driving for another ten degrees before the car skidded with a sudden jerk. She flew forward, grabbing onto Naramsin’s seat and gritting her teeth to keep from swearing at her trainer.
Her trainer killed the engine and hopped out as if nothing happened. She stood on shaky legs, waiting for Maron and her dad to get out as well. Her dad offered her a hand, smirking. She grabbed their bags and let him help her out.
“Your mother used to drive like that,” he whispered, a jovial lilt to his voice.
“I don’t quite remember that…” she said.
Her dad took the bags, lifted them onto his shoulder, and followed after Maron and Naramsim with long strides. She trampled after him.
The rich tan sand looked solid under her dad’s feet even though he had no magic, while hers slipped deep into it with every step. Perhaps his ease was a perk of being dead. Her magic guaranteed her feet wouldn’t burn off, but it couldn’t keep them from sinking.
Her dad chuckled. “Having trouble, honey?”
She let out a dry sigh. “I—It’s—” Each step made her thighs clench. Her chest felt constricted, but at least her breath wasn’t tight. “It’s hard.”
“Here.” He readjusted the bags on his shoulder and offered her his back. “Hop on.” He wiggled his fingers at her from his sides.
“I’m sixteen now. Am I still allowed to do that?”
“Until you weigh too much for this old man, yes.”
Ayla laughed and pulled her feet from their sandy grave, her hands around his neck. He reached behind and heaved her legs up to his sides. A bead of sweat rolled from his hairline. Even the hottest summer day in Ekarkara couldn’t compare to this heat.
“Why’s it so easy for you to walk in the sand?” she asked.
“Practice.” He glanced back at her, showing her a gentle smile. The liar.
By the time Ayla and her dad caught up, Naramsin had disappeared. Maron held open a door sticking straight out of a dune like a door to a pyramid. He gestured them to go in first, so her dad carried her to the door. She jumped down and pulled her shirt from her skin in disgust. He pressed a hand to her back, guiding her forward ahead of him.
“What about the car?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Maron answered, his golden eyes sparkling. “It’ll be taken care of.”
“Are the humans going to airlift it to the avisport?”
“Not quite. In.”
She sighed and stepped inside. Narrow stairs led straight down into a dark tunnel. Naramsin stood a few stairs in, standing half in the light, shadows swallowing his legs. The instant difference in temperature crawled over her arms in small bumps.
Maron pushed her forward. “Hurry up, kid.”
Ayla crept down the stairs one by one, her dad behind her. The earth goddess’s leaf symbol decorated each step. As she approached Naramsin’s waiting form, he turned on his heel and sunk into the overwhelming darkness of the tunnel. The door grated against the walls like rock on sandpaper until it shut with a loud thud.
The temperature plummeted, their footsteps echoing in the passageway as they moved deeper and deeper underground. The air felt frigid, heavy, and dusty. Her stomach knotted as they descended. Portals always made her feel nauseous.
She ran her fingertips over the rough wall to keep her balance, clenching her jaw to fight the nausea. But her head began to swim, and it felt like her legs were slipping from under her. Her hand slid from the wall and she gasped, tumbling forward.
Her mind raced as air caressed her face, reaching out for something to grab to ensure the contents of her brain didn’t end up all over the stairs. A flash of frost skittered over her skin, her magic switching to autopilot, as a panicked scuffle of footsteps moved to her.
Her fingertips brushed against grainy fabric as soft hands grabbed her shoulders. She fell into a warm body as a set of arms wrapped around her waist. Ayla gripped the shirt, struggling to find even ground to step on.
“Be careful,” her dad said, his arms leaving her body with a rough breath.
“Sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t paying attention…”
She should’ve anticipated the disorienting effect of the stairs and prepared herself. Naramsin’s hands dropped away as she closed her eyes, sucking in even breaths to suppress the sickness rolling in her stomach.
“I don’t think I would’ve liked cleaning up your brain tissue from the stairs,” Maron said from above, a few steps behind her dad. “Keep alert.”
“I know.” She opened her eyes, placing a hand on the wall again. “I’m fine now.”
“Are you sure?” her dad asked.
“Yes.” She clenched her fist at her side. She wasn’t supposed to make her dad worry. So much for that plan.
Naramsin’s footsteps echoed as he resumed the decline. The air started warming up again. A soft glow lit the stairs below. She quickened her pace and saw Naramsin waiting in front of a door, his arms crossed over his chest. The window in the door was shaped like a leaf, identical to the ones engraved on the stairs.
Her dad set his hands on her head. “Ready?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Her dad chuckled as he guided her down. Naramsin pushed the door open and daylight spilled into the passageway, forcing her to shield her eyes. As they passed through the door, she lifted her hand from her squinting eyes and stepped onto fine sand at the top of a dune. The door jutted from the side of its peak.
Heat burned down on the desert without remorse under the high sun, rolling in waves across the horizon. She let out a shaky breath as she noticed a shining city in the distance—too far to really see. It looked like it could be a mirage, too good to be true.
She heard the door shut and then Maron brushed past her. His feet sunk with each step and she cringed, her thighs remembering the short distance she had to walk to get to the first door before her dad started carrying her.
“Keep walking, kid,” Maron said. “Still got a ways to go.”
At least it’d be a good workout. There was no way she’d enter Esagila riding on her dad’s back like a five-year-old. He didn’t even offer.
“Do you remember the last time you were here?” her dad asked as they started to follow after Naramsin and Maron.
“Yeah.” Ayla remembered her first and only visit twelve years ago, but only barely. Her dad had carried her on his shoulders behind the caskets containing her grandparents through the city out to the cemetery to the west.
“We’ll be staying a little longer this time.” He put an arm around her.
She nodded, but didn’t say anything. Thinking about how long she’d be here wasn’t very comforting. The competitors trained for a week in their city before they were taken to Dilmun, the city of the gods. When that week ended, she wouldn’t be able to keep the War, and what she had to do, in the back of her mind.
“You’ll be okay, Ayla,” her dad said. “I’ve prepared you.”
“I’m not worried about winning,” she said in a whisper. Ayla glanced ahead, hoping her trainer and her uncle were far enough away not to hear. “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.” He cleared his throat. “You know, I think you’ll like it here. We’ve got cooks and servants at the estate. Fresh food every day. No rain.”
“I like the rain.” Even her lungs felt pressure from the desert’s hot humidity.
“Your mother did, too.”
“Mom hated Esagila,” she said. “Why should I like it just because of some food? Ekarkara has fresh food, too.”
He sighed. “Esagila will never be like Ekarkara. Maybe it’ll be a bit uncomfortable, but this city has a lot to offer. I grew up here. Your mom grew up here. Maron grew up here. I didn’t want you to be raised like I was, but don’t hate your homeland before you’ve spent enough time here to see the good parts, too.”
She squeezed her lips together. Her dad liked playing the devil’s advocate too much—even for a group of people who didn’t deserve it. Mageians and therians shared a four-thousand-year-old hatred. The bad blood forced them to live in separate cities. Her dad abandoned Esagila with her mom and founded Ekarkara to promote peace between the two species.
No matter how beautiful Esagila looked, an ugly hate loomed under the surface of every mageian heart. Not one of them believed there could be peace. That was enough reason for her to despise them and their whole city.
“We’ll see,” she said, wiping her brow of sweat. Maybe there’d be a miracle.
As they approached, the temple at the center of the city peeked over the horizon, towering at the top of the hill with roads stemming from it like veins. The inner city’s seven levels encircled the temple and a thick wall divided the inner and outer city. The houses and buildings transitioned from flat-roofed shacks to dome-roofed estates.
One road opened up like the mouth of a river at the bottom of the city and carved a wide path to the temple. Naramsin and Maron removed the turbans from their faces as they entered the city. A soft haze of dust hovered in the air. Mageians in loose pants or shimmering skirts passed by her without even glancing in her direction.
Despite the heat, the city buzzed, people chattering at their doorsteps or traveling in groups. It felt surreal to Ayla—watching their tanned faces smile and laugh, hearing compliments and jokes—compared to the subdued calm and thin crowds of Ekarkara.
They arrived at the dividing wall, the sun at a hundred and twenty degrees. The sand brick towered six-stories tall with merlons decorating the top like a fence. She could probably still jump it if she used her magic right.
Guards stood on either side of the gate archway, dressed in matching crimson robes and sandals. A guard in black examined them from the middle of the arch. A scraggly beard dominated the lower part of his face and Ayla grimaced against the heat for him.
The guard motioned them forward. “Wrists,” he said.
She frowned as she lowered her turban from her mouth. Ayla didn’t remember this part.
“Your memory that poor, Malek?” her uncle said, his voice as rough as usual. He held out his arm in front of the guard’s face long enough for the man to register the mark of her family on his wrist.
“Protocol, Elias.” The guard snatched her uncle’s arm and examined it closer, tracing his fingertip over the scar on his wrist. He dropped it as if it was dirty laundry and turned his black eyes to Naramsin. Brown highlights warmed their color in the sun—nothing like the black holes in her trainer’s head. “Next.”
Her trainer rolled his eyes and held out his arm for the guard. She looked down at his wrist. His family mark looked like a geometrical kite with a straight tail pointed toward his forearm.
The guard traced it as well. “Seems like it is you after all, Karam.”
“Yes,” he said, voice flat. “Who else would I be?” Naramsin looked back at Ayla and gestured her forward.
“Who is this?” the guard asked as Ayla approached.
She didn’t answer, but held out her wrist. The guard traced over the diamond shape. His touch tickled her skin, as if his magic was seeping into her. She wanted to pull away, but waited until he was done. Her hand gripped the fabric of her pants at her side. She felt her fist throb with surging blood.
“Whose child are you?” he asked, a hard edge in his eyes.
Ayla retracted her arm. She didn’t like that look.
“None of your business,” Naramsin said. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Is she all right to go in?”
“Yes.” His hard gaze shifted away from her. “Is she… his child?”
Naramsin glared at the guard and said, “That is not for you to know.” His hand fell to her back and he pushed her past the man.
Ayla turned to her dad—he was gone. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart lurched forward. She stared at Naramsin. “Where—”
He placed a hand over her mouth, his eyes narrowed at her, long lashes weaving together. His irises looked like sequins, magic glittering in their depths. Then they flicked to her side. Something soft dropped on her shoulder and squeezed.
“I’m right here, honey,” her dad whispered.
She swallowed, her breath coming into her throat in thin strips. Her eyes searched the spot next to her. “How—?”
“Naramsin’s magic,” he said in a quiet voice.
Just like he’d hid her from the therian in the avisport, her trainer was hiding her dad from the rest of the city. A knot bunched into her stomach. Would he have to hide the entire time? The city should welcome him with open arms—their hero, their winner. Was she just being stupid?
Naramsin removed his hand from her mouth and gave her a gentle look she could’ve mistaken for sympathetic, but it looked more like a reluctant apology to her. He bent down, his eyes scanning the people around them as he murmured, “Your father was nothing short of a hero. His assassination is remembered every year. No one must know he is alive.”
Ayla clenched her teeth together. “Is that why you didn’t tell the guard I’m his daughter? Because he’s their hero?”
Maron sighed, rolling his eyes. “You’ll have enough attention being a competitor, Ayla, let alone his precious offspring.”
“Why does that matter? I don’t care if I get attention. It won’t matter when I’m in the arena, right?”
“You’ll be here for a week,” Maron said. “Do you want it to be hell?”
She frowned. Her dad’s hand squeezed her shoulder again, still invisible. She doubted she’d be able to slide through seven days in this city without anyone finding out the identity of her father. Maybe she wouldn’t go out of her way to show her pride, but she wouldn’t lie through every conversation, either.
“There is a lunch shortly,” Naramsin said. “You will meet the other competitors. Keep an eye out for Zalyn Yonan. He is your training partner.”
Hopefully this Zalyn would be able to handle her.