Day 17 of the War
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Sabro lay on his round couch, his golden outfit matching the upholstery. Ayla sat on the edge by his feet and Zalyn sat on the other side of the chair, watching Sabro work his way through a series of deep-breathing exercises.
One of his lids lifted, revealing a pale gold eye, as he exhaled another giant breath. “Thanks, guys,” Sabro said, inhaling and exhaling again as he closed his eye. “But you two are seriously distracting. You both act like I’m already dead. I’m not that bad.”
Ayla’s breath caught in her throat. “That—” She shook her head, hoping he’d believe her. “That’s not what—”
A grin stretched onto his lips and both of his eyes opened. “—I’m kidding, sweetheart,” Sabro said with a teasing sneer, sitting up. He wrapped his arms around his knees in a loose embrace. “Let me see your weapons. I’m the kind of guy who’ll fight harder for some treasure than for his life.”
Ayla tried not to feel shaken by his lack of self-preservation. “Good thing I didn’t take you up on that bet yesterday then.” Ayla plucked her scythe from her lap with both hands and offered it to his scrutinizing eye. Her magic simmered under her skin as if angry.
Sabro chuckled, easing the glimmering pole into his grasp. “Really. Saved me a lot of swearing, some tears—some blood. Would’ve had to put in a few bets on my own match.” He looked across its length and then surveyed the blade. “This things not very sharp.” He ran his finger across it and checked for blood.
Ayla grabbed the scythe back. “What’re you doing?” she asked. Her magic consumed her like a blizzard and pulsed into her fingertips like a second heart. The scythe welcomed her magic with a tiny vibration, its power pouring into her. “Don’t hurt yourself before your fight.”
Sabro shrugged. “I’m not worried about it.”
“It’s not supposed to be sharp, Sabro,” Zalyn said, voice rough. “It’ll only be sharp for Ayla. Want to try running your finger over it when it’s in her hands?”
“Sure, if you’re willing to put some money into it.” Sabro held out a hand, goading Zalyn. “A thousand zuzu and I’ll do it.”
Zalyn’s fingers reached under his brown fur cape and into the belt at his waist, pulling out a gold coin. “Go for it. It’s your suicide.”
Ayla frowned. Why were boys so dumb?
Sabro smirked, taking the coin and flipping it with his thumb. He caught it between two fingers and then slipped it down his sleeve as if it disappeared. “I didn’t avoid learning how to heal all eighteen years of my life.”
Ayla laughed and Zalyn leered as Sabro ran his finger down the entirety of the blade, wincing as it sliced through his finger. Zalyn yanked the older boy’s hand from the edge with a deep scowl.
She pulled back her scythe, hugging the pole to her chest. “Sabro—” Her heart attempted to leap out of her chest, watching his blood drip onto the seat, staining the velvet.
“You are so stupid,” Zalyn whispered, hoarse. “You’re about to fight for your life and you’re nearly cut off your finger! For a thousand zuzu?”
Sabro’s golden eyes snapped to Zalyn as the distinct smell of aluminum and iron flooded the room. His flesh sewed back together in a moment. Ayla released a shaky breath. Boys were so stupid.
“Why not?” he asked. He wiggled his finger in front of Zalyn’s face. “No harm done, and now you’re a thousand zuzu poorer.”
Ayla reached to him and wrapped her fingers around his. “Everyone’s died but us,” she said, her voice low. “And you’re going to treat your life like some kind of bet? You might die today.”
Sabro’s eyes slid to her, the smell of lead pulling out of his skin. “You’re a bit slow, aren’t you? We’ve all been standing over the pit of darkness our whole life, our only saving grace a little competition. You didn’t care who would die when you first came to Esagila, did you? Why do you care now?”
Ayla pulled her hand back and metallic scent in the air disappeared. “I—”
“She had no reason to care about any of us,” Zalyn said, his eyes on Sabro. “Don’t step on her kindness, or you’ll wish—”
“—I didn’t care because it was easier,” Ayla interrupted him. She could speak for herself. “I don’t want to think about the fact that if I win, that means everyone else has to die.” Weight dropped onto her chest as she looked down into her lap, looking at the glimmering surface of the scythe. “Is that wrong?”
“It’s called cowardice,” Sabro answered. “Don’t make me your little charity case just because you feel bad that everyone else has died and you didn’t even take a moment to get to know one of us.”
“I’m not—you’re not,” she said, tripping over her words. Her heart hammered against the heaviness of her chest. She tried to control the tremors running down her arms. “That’s not—”
“—Listen. If you win, twenty other people died.” Sabro leaned toward her, allowing his voice to drop to a whisper. “If you can’t accept that, then you won’t win. Even your dad accepted it.”
Her back straightened, her magic coiling across her skin like a snake ready to strike. “My dad accepted nothing about this stupid War,” she growled, an icy quality in her voice she’d never heard before. “I do not have to accept that everyone has to die for a couple hundred years of peace. That’s not peace.”
Ayla slid from the couch and stood, taking the scythe with her and standing it by her side. She ignored his annoyed glare. “Should be about high sun by now,” she said. “Good luck. I bet the Sharp Spear’s worth a ton of money.”
Sabro broke out into a deriding smirk. “Good point.” He leered at her. “It’s probably worth way more than a million zuzu.” He cracked his knuckles.
Zalyn stood and held out a hand for her, setting his poleaxe across his shoulder as if it weighed nothing. She hesitated to take it for a moment, but didn’t regret the sparks of heat tingling up her arm when their palms touched. Her anger subsided, pooling into her stomach.
“Don’t let your uncle down,” Zalyn said. “He’d like to see you win.”
Sabro’s grin grew bitter. “I know.”
Zalyn escorted her out with a tug. They took their normal seats—the only two in their special aisle. She took calming breaths as the crowd cheered, thankful Zalyn kept a firm hold on her hand.
Ohorshina welcomed everyone to the final battle of the first round before she called each competitor’s name. Sabro waved to the crowd before his muscles tensed as he concentrated on Bajen and Ezma.
“Is he good?” Ayla asked. “Or is it just going to be the two of us?”
“Hard to tell,” Zalyn said, his voice strained. His face softened as he studied her face, his eyes darkening to a chocolate color. “Forget everything he said in the waiting room, Ayla. You’re fine. You’re not a coward.”
The anger coiling in her stomach cooled under his considerate gaze. She watched the magic in his eyes dim as it left him vulnerable. Her fingers tightened around his. Her heart wanted to ease away his worry. He leaned closer and she knew he wanted to kiss her.
“Thank you,” she said, biting her lip before she turned away to watch Sabro. “I hope he’ll do well.”
Zalyn released a ragged sigh, his grip loosening on her. She felt bad, so she pulled his hand onto her lap and held it with both of hers. She hoped he could feel her apology as she traced her fingers over the bones and veins in his fingers. He clasped her hand back.
The sun reached its zenith and Ohorshina raised her hands. “May Shamash be with you.”
Sabro wasted no time as he charged toward Ezma. She lifted her arms to block his punch, but he blew through it, his magic-charged fist nailing her in the nose. The smell of gold and nickel consumed the stadium as she hit the snow and melted into her natural canine form.
Ayla held her breath as Bajen raced toward Sabro and lifted a tanned cougar leg to his face. Sabro punched it down and lifted his own leg, slamming it into Bajen’s temple. The mageians roared as the therian’s body tumbled in the snow, tawny fur coating his body as his human appearance shifted into a slender, powerful build with a sloping back.
Her heart soared as the mageians released their chants and their prayers into the sky. She laughed and hugged Zalyn, elation filled her like a new kind of magic.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“Guess we didn’t need to worry,” Zalyn said, a smile stretching across his face as a laugh bubbled up his throat.
“No, gue—”
He leaned into her hug and pressed his lips to hers. Heat flashed across her skin like fire. Her body froze as he pulled away, standing as Sabro faced their side of the arena. Zalyn called out his name, laughing and cheering with the other mageians.
A breath slithered out of her mouth. Zalyn had kissed her. Their lips had touched.
And she had liked it.
Ohorshina announced Sabro as the winner and then crossed the stadium with the Sharp Spear, forged out of the sun. It towered over Ohorshina’s frame, more than a head taller than Ayla’s scythe. The top of the golden spear looked like a stock of wheat with seven spikelets tiered into a sharp point.
She kneeled and presented it to him above her head and he took it, looking over the pole and the blade. He thrust it into the air and the mageians cheered with the motion. Ayla stood beside Zalyn as Ohorshina rose and gestured for the remaining mageian and therian competitors to rise. Loran stood beside Vejen, Ajna, and Ardan with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Mageians and therians, here are your competitors.” Ohorshina’s gaze roamed over Ayla and Zalyn before turning to the therians. “These seven will face each other in the final battle on Elunu 30th after a week of rest. Please join us again on that day.”
The mageians started chatting behind them, the crowd filling with loud muttering. Robil flashed her a smile before he lowered a hand onto Naramsin’s shoulder. Sabro’s trainer grinned next to them.
Zalyn pulled on her hand. “You ready to train?” he asked, his lips near her ear. The heat of his skin reminded her of the feeling he’d left on her lips. “This thing isn’t that easy to work with.” He chuckled as he hoisted the poleaxe across his shoulder again. “I imagine that scythe isn’t too easy, either.”
She licked her lips and smiled. “It isn’t so bad.”
Zalyn returned her smile and led her through the crowd behind Robil and Naramsin. “You would say that.”
Ayla tried to distract herself from the feeling of his hand by watching the crowd, studying the pointed noses and full lips, scraggly beards, and tanned skin of the mageians. Silver eyes caught her gaze and she froze as the hooded figure’s lips pulled into a knowing smirk. Her magic hummed with recognition. Her scythe vibrated.
“I think I’ll take a nap first,” she said, slipping her hand from Zalyn’s and then sliding into the crowd without looking back. She felt bad for leaving him, but she could train with him later. This could be the only time she could talk with Nanna again.
She snaked between bodies, following Nanna’s cloaked figure into the northern quarter. He disappeared up the steps and to the left, his cloak flapping as he turned the corner. She raced up the steps, wondering why he’d been among the mageians watching the fight. Had he watched hers? Was he leading her somewhere on purpose?
The eighth door on the right clicked shut. She paused, recognizing the room from when she’d been looking for her dad. Nanna had stopped her from looking in that room.
Ayla walked at a brisk pace to the door. Her hand shook as she reached to open it. She clasped the cold handle and turned, pushing the door open. The light behind her flooded the small room. A sheet covered the window on the opposite wall.
Nanna lowered his hood from his head and his short hair. “Welcome to the Memory Room,” he said. “Shut the door.”
She swallowed and shut the door with a soft tap, leaving the room dark besides the faded light filtering through the sheet over the window. Dust floated around in the air like sand in Esagila.
“Come here,” Nanna said, gesturing her over and holding a hand out to her.
Ayla took a large breath before crossing the short distance to his side. He slipped a hand around her shoulders, his magic seeping into her like the first rain of spring melting away the snow. An ornate, ice pedestal stood in the middle of the room and held a large sphere diamond which cast the walls in a rainbow painting.
“Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve done well. I believe your father would be proud.”
“T-thank you…” She tightened her grip on her scythe at her side. “Is there a reason you led me here? You stopped me before…”
“I have a present for you.” He moved from her and dropped the sheet from the window. A thin strip of light fell onto the diamond and grey smoke curled from its surface. “A memory.”
The smoke lingered on the icy tiles around her feet and then lifted, filling the room with the smell of lilies and white dahlias. The haze dimmed the light until the rays cascaded against the rising figures in the smoke. A hunched figure sat on a round chair. His head tipped back as he examined the ceiling.
“Will you be disappointed if I don’t win?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at another figure standing in the corner in front of a door.
She recognized her father’s voice. A calm and level tenor, a sad lilt to his usual happy cadence. Her eyes pricked as she watched him study the other form, their faces gaining clarity in the smoke.
“You have always been favored to win, ever since you were born,” the other man said. The voice belonged to Yono Karoukian, her dad’s trainer. “Yes, I would be disappointed.”
Her dad let out a long sigh. “Would you be angry?”
“No. You’ve only made it clear from the start that you’ve had no intention of winning, although you are a capable competitor.” Yono crossed his arms over his chest, turning to her dad’s sitting figure. He looked younger by thirty years, his beard trimmed as short as his hair. “I trained you, after all.”
“Sorry, Yono.” Her dad looked away from his trainer, watching his fingers clench and unclench. “I’m sorry you had to get me.”
Yono shrugged and turned to the door. “You have been a good student. Get up, you only have a few moments.”
Ayla hugged her scythe as her father stood and picked up the same treasured weapon and moved to the doors, standing beside his trainer. He wore no shirt. His muscles rippled as he clenched his fist, his body tensing under the cheers of the mageians overhead.
“We’re going to force a draw,” her dad said.
“Sure. I hope your therian hasn’t changed his mind.”
Her dad’s shoulders stiffened. “No, he won’t. Evraz wouldn’t change his mind after all of this time.”
“Calm down.” Yono rested a hand on her dad’s shoulder and Ayla recalled how his magic had relaxed her when she’d met him in the graveyard in Esagila. “I did not mean to make you insecure.”
Her dad relaxed just like she had under his large hand. His eyes searched the doors as if lost for words. She glanced at Nanna, wondering if she could move. He gestured her forward and she crossed the small space to stand beside her father.
Why did he look so sad?
“I know, sorry,” he said. He closed his eyes and touched a hand to his forehead. “I’m nervous. I don’t want to fight him. It could’ve been anyone else and I’d be fine…”
Ayla’s heart clenched. She fought her urge to reach out and touch the smoke, scared it might disperse if she did. She could relate—the last thing she wanted to do was face Loran in the final battle.
Yono sighed and lifted his big, aged hand from her dad’s shoulder. “I know. You are obvious with your feelings. It’s an usual trait for our magic.”
The door screeched, ice moving on ice, as it lifted into the ceiling. Her dad sucked in the frigid air, let it fill his lungs. She imagined the feeling of frost seep into his heart the same way it did when she wanted to calm down.
“I wish you the best of luck,” Yono said, his voice deep and solemn.
Her dad gave him a simple smile before stepping into the arena. His boots crunched on the snow as he made his way toward the middle of the arena. His form pulled away from her as he walked, the smoke reforming into the snow packed arena, the castles in the distance, indistinguishable faces in the stands, and the sun high in the sky.
“The two remaining competitors,” Ohorshina said from her northern perch, “mageian Afrem Elias and therian Evraz Amedi.” Her voice sounded like an echo in the room.
Amedi? That was Loran’s last name.
Her dad smiled to his best friend. The smoke figure of the therian gave a small one back, but it looked tight—just like the one Loran had given her the last day she visited him in Ekarkara. His face gained a familiar clarity as the smoke settled into a narrow jaw, into full lips—she swallowed against her realization.
Evraz was Loran’s father, her dad’s best friend. Waves crashed into her heart as the two men stopped ten paces from each other. The cheers quieted. Evraz raked his hand through his long curls, just like Loran did was he was frustrated. Why hadn’t she known? Why?
“Nanna…” She leaned against the wall, her chest tightening and her lungs shrinking. “I don’t want to watch this… Please don’t make me.”
“You need to see it, Ayla,” Nanna answered.
Evraz charged toward her dad with his daggers drawn. Her dad blocked his attack with the blade of his scythe and the metal clang echoed in the silence of the stadium. Evraz’s eyes darkened, golden fur twisting around his arm as it transformed. He grunted as his claws extended, bringing his arm up high to slash, but her dad blocked it with his blade and then pushed his foot into Evraz’s hip.
Ayla put a hand on her mouth, covering her gasp as Evraz stumbled backward with a smirk on his face. The move her dad had taught her to use against Loran.
Her dad let out a long breath. She could see the tension in his forehead in fine lines. Evraz roared and charged, his thighs reshaping as he ran and a spotted tail whipped from behind him. Her dad scowled and exchanged quick, soft blows.
It looked real, but she recognized an exaggeration in their movements as the fight drew on. Ayla watched every punch, every kick, and every time their blades met until the sun threatened to disappear behind the towers of the western quarter. Tears rolled down her cheeks when she noticed the fatigue resting in her father’s limbs. The end had to be near.
“I don’t want to see him die,” Ayla said after she removed her hand from her mouth, her voice strained as she wiped her cheek with a fur sleeve.
Nanna’s cool voice cut through the crowd. “Keep watching,” he said, tone soft.
Evraz threw a lazy punch and her dad blocked it. Slow snow fell in heavy flakes and her dad’s shoes sunk into the fresh layer of snow. Her dad aimed for Evraz’s chin, but the therian blocked it.
He threw a jab past her dad’s block and as her dad bent forward, Evraz kicked him in the gut. He doubled over with a cough. “Almost dead yet?” he asked, taking the opportunity to smash his fist into her dad’s temple.
Her dad had taught her that one, too.
The therians cheered as her dad fell into the snow with a muffled thud. Ayla slid down the wall, putting a hand to her heart as it sank into her stomach. Her dad jumped to his feet and squinted at his best friend.
“Yeah, almost,” he mumbled.
Ayla sucked in a quick breath as Evraz’s face softened. She swallowed, her eyes blurring from new tears. Her dad pitched himself forward and his best friend’s face hardened. The mageians cheered him on as her dad took the offensive for the first time in the fight.
Evraz dodged the weak punches, dodged his scythe, and blocked the kicks, until he faulted with his footing, a pocket of snow collapsing under his foot. Her dad’s scythe barreled down toward him as he fell, but Evraz found his footing and stepped into the blade.
Terror ran over her father’s face as the scythe cut through his shoulder, his heart, his ribs, his stomach, until the tip of the blade dived into the snow. Tears chased each other down her face and down her neck as she gritted her teeth against a sob.
“Evraz!” her dad yelled, but it was consumed by the cheers of the mageians. He threw his scythe to the side and stepped forward as his best friend fell.
“You can’t die yet…” Evraz whispered, his magic attempting to mend his body together again. “Gotta be me…”
Her dad sank to the floor with Evraz in his arms. He hugged him, crying into his curls.
“God, you were always so affectionate…” his best friend whispered. A shaking hand reached up and grabbed the back of his shirt.
Her dad released a muffled sob into his fur vest and pulled Evraz closer as his body shifted. Ayla closed her eyes as her dad tipped his head back, and shuddered as the sound of his pained yell filled the small room.