The fight started immediately.

Vejen darted for her, a mace in his hands, swinging the head of his weapon toward her skull. The heavy orb made out of seven crescent weights sat like a crown on top of a wooden pole. She blocked it with the blade of her scythe and a grunt, feeling the vibration through her body.

He growled, his legs shifting into orange fur and black stripes as he raced toward her, using the power of his new muscles to drive faster than possible for any human. Her magic enveloped her and she swept her scythe toward his face. He blocked her blade with the head of his mace and then heaved the heavy metal above his head, hammering it down toward her.

She jumped back, heart racing. She wanted to check on Loran and Zalyn, but these weapons were created by the gods and could kill one just as easily. Even if she was stronger than Vejen, his mace was another thing. But that was the same of her own weapon.

Ayla tightened her grip on the scythe and then rushed forward, swinging it along his midsection. Vejen blocked it and she spun, slamming her scythe toward his shoulder. He blocked it again and hammered his mace to her knees. She blocked it with her scythe’s blade and a definite vibration moved through her before she raised the blade high and brought down on his head with a grunt.

He dodged it and slammed his mace into her shoulder. She held her scythe’s long pole against it, hoping the moissanite wouldn’t break under the force. No, she'd be sure it wouldn't. Tightening her grip, she poured as much magic back into it as she'd been pulling from it.

Suddenly, he pulled his weapon back and brought it behind his head, a sneer on his face. The mace soared toward her feet like a metal club. She jumped, twisting her body and dragging her blade toward his face.

He jumped back onto his hand, drawing his feet above his head before he landed on his toes and lurched forward as she rushed to him. His mace pummeled toward her shoulder and she drew back, magic from the weapon’s surfacing dancing around her like wind coming through trees.

Ayla swiped her blade toward his thighs and he hopped high, landing with a crunch of snow and a blow toward her head. She dodged it and swung her body and her scythe toward his neck. He ducked and brought his mace toward to her face again. With a grunt, she leaned backward, missing it by a bird’s length for the second time.

He growled and pressed forward more, swiping his mace toward her feet. She dug her scythe’s pole into the snow and blocked it, forcing magic into her muscles to hold fast against his powerful blow. He fell back ten paces, chest heaving and beads of sweat resting on his forehead.

“You really want to kill me, don’t you?” Vejen asked, his breath clouding around his face.

“You killed my friend,” she said, breathless. Her stomach lurched against her own words. Was she really admitting she wanted to kill him? “For no reason.”

He narrowed his eyes. “For no reason?”

She stepped forward, pulling her scythe from the snow and gripping it with both hands. “He wasn’t trying to kill you!”

“Yes, he was,” Vejen growled. “He was trying to win. It’s the same thing. Are you stupid?” Vejen transformed his legs, his lower half growing shaggy, russet fur as bear paws sank into the snow.

Dread coiled in her stomach. They’d been fighting for three degrees and she could feel her fatigue like shackles. The lusty cheers from the crowd echoed like a bee’s buzz in her ears. How long would they have to fight? Why was she letting it drag out at all?

He rushed at her again, swinging his mace toward her head. She deflected, dodged, and blocked his heavy weapon every time. He fought to keep his body whole, crouching, ducking, and jumping from her moissanite blade.

They fell back from their dance again, fighting to catch their breath. Ajna had been brought to a bloody lump half-way across the arena. Zalyn, Loran, and Arden exchanged powerful blows like three demi-gods each thirsty for blood, sweat rolling from their skin like rain.

Her heart thudded in her chest, listening to Zalyn’s poleaxe clank against Arden’s sword, watching Loran’s daggers slice into Zalyn’s arm, the sword miss Loran’s middle by a pine needle’s length, and the poleaxe catch a piece of Arden’s thigh.

“I take it back,” she whispered. What if they could all tie? Wasn’t one death enough today? Wasn’t fifteen sacrifices enough for this War?

Vejen snarled, starting toward her again. “Take what back?” His clothes stuck to his lean frame, his muscles rippling as he clutched his mace in both hands. Ayla sucked in a breath and jumped back as he lunged forward, blocking the low-aimed blow with a metallic clank at her feet.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she said with a grimace as he brought his mace toward her again. She met it with her scythe and clenched her teeth against the vibration rattling her bones.

He froze, eyes wide, before an animalistic frown overtook his face. Her scythe connected with his arm—blade sinking into flesh like dipping a hand into water. Her stomach lurched and she pulled back. He roared, hammering his mace into her shoulder, knocking her off of her feet.

She landed with a thud and a groan, grabbing her shoulder with a hand and squeezing her eyes shut. She gritted her teeth and forced her limb back in place so it could heal. She growled, pushing an excess amount of magic into the wound. Zalyn and Loran were counting on her. Her dad was counting on her. Ishkur was counting on her. She couldn’t lose—it’d be worse than winning.

“Ayla!” Zalyn gritted against Arden’s sword, throwing a glance over his shoulder at her. Blood dripped down his forehead, trailing across his temple.

Ayla stood on shaky limbs, wincing as a sharp stab of pain bolted through her. She forced herself to ignore the pain shooting down her arm and across her collarbone. She'd heal up soon enough.

A wolfish grin flashed across Vejen's face as he ran toward her again, as if finding new motivation by her pain. He swung his mace high and she swatted it down with her blade. She swept her scythe low toward his knees and he dodged backward before lunging forward with his mace and catching her in the shoulder again, the blow weaker and mocking.

She let out a jagged scream, staggering back with ragged breaths. But it hadn't hurt.

He charged, jumping as he thrust his mace down toward her head. She stepped to the side and his eyes widened as his mace dug into the snow. Ayla spun and slammed her heel into his temple. He lurched sideways, dropping into the snow next to his mace. She needed to separate him from his weapon.

She rushed forward as he leapt to his feet. He yanked it from the snow as she swept her dark blade across it. She growled, lifting her eyes to his. He stared before he roared and hammered the mace toward her head again.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Ayla dropped, crouching and sweeping her blade toward his ankles. He jumped and swung his mace low to hit her head. She retreated, dodging his fatal blow, and running her blade across his stomach as he brought the mace down toward her. They both missed and stared at each other five paces away, panting. The sun perched high in the sky at seventy-five degrees.

Arden released a pained scream, clutching his side and collapsing to his knees. Vejen cranked his neck over his shoulder, a long and icy breath curling from his lips. Zalyn locked eyes with her, his arm bloody and hanging limp at his side.

She released a shuddering breath as Arden fell onto his side, a strained whimper falling from his lips as magic escaped his shifting body. The mageians roared like a tumbling avalanche. Ayla watched the thin strips of ice puff around his face until they stopped.

Vejen snapped his eyes to her, their green color brightening to light evergreen, his body tightening like a lioness on the prowl. But they’d been fighting for nearly ten degrees. He had to be just as tired as she felt. Maybe even more.

“See?” he sneered. “You mageians are no better than us. You think we’re the animals.” He started toward her, his bear-steps heavy, his shoulders hunched.

“I don’t.” Ayla wanted to backpedal, but she dropped into a defensive position. “I don’t think you’re animals.”

He gave a short chortle. “As if I’d believe anything a mageian would say.” He raced toward her, raising his mace like an axe.

She deflected his blow with the blade of her scythe. Her ears rang at the air-splitting clatter of metal against metal until a sharp crack pierced through the stadium and echoed in the distance like a tree split by lightning in a silent forest.

Crack?

Her lungs shrank, her heart squeezed between her ribs, throbbing against bone, and her body shook as she parried Vejen’s determined blows. She recognized the sound from back home. Her father explained it by saying humans liked to “hunt” animals as a game. The sound of a gun.

Ayla raised her scythe at the last moment, blocking Vejen’s mace as her heart jumped into her throat. In that moment, she looked to see blood shoot out of Zalyn’s body from his chest. He fell to his knees, clasping his hand over his heart, until his body hit the ground.

She pushed Vejen away as tears stung her eyes like a million thorns. She had to end this now.

Vejen sneered as the therians exploded with cheers. “One down.”

“What did you do?” she screamed at Vejen, blocking another blow. Deep down, she knew it couldn’t have been his fault. That crack hadn’t come from him. It’d been one of the therians in the stands. But it didn’t matter to her right now.

He withdrew to keep his distance for a moment. He scoffed at her. “Blaming me for something I couldn’t have possibly done? Here I was thinking you were maybe just a bit different than every other fucking mageian.”

“I’m—”

Loran knelt by Zalyn’s body, pressing his fingers to his neck. His worried eyes locked with hers for a moment.

No. A lump rose in her throat. Pressure built behind her eyes and nose. Her ears drew silence. She fought hard not to cry.

Vejen’s face darkened into a mocking smirk. “Like I said, one down. And one more to go.” He pointed his mace toward her.

Ayla sneered—how could he reduce life into something he could conquer?—and jumped toward him to gain momentum, waves of heat flashing through her like lightning. Her scythe sliced through the air and his mace hammered into it as he crouched low. She ignored the vibration and ducked under his mace’s next blow, blocked it when he drove it toward her feet, and crouched to swipe at his thighs.

More.

He bounced back with a wolfish grin. “I thought you took it back.”

She wiped a tear from her face, panting. She tightened her grip on her scythe, drawing even power. Not only from her weapon, but from the snow under her feat, the cold in the air, the ice of the arena. She prayed for help, reciting an ancient hymn her mother had taught her when she was still alive.

Give me all if it.

“Come get me,” he taunted.

Another crack shot through the air. Pain slammed into her collarbone and she choked, pressing a hand to her dampening chest and shoving as much magic into the gunshot wound as possible. Vejen charged toward her and she deflected his solid blows with magic deep in the muscles of her single arm as she fought to escape the pain coursing through her chest.

A roar surrounded them—angered shouts, stomping boots, crunching snow. But it was all so distance to her ears as she swept her scythe low at his feet and he jumped over it, drawing his mace back for another hit.

Now.

She blocked it and spun on her heel, her blade connecting with skin, muscles, bones, and then nothing. Her blade hit the snow.

So that was what it'd felt for father to slice through a body.

It'd been too easy.

She watched Vejen’s body crash head first into the snow in front of her, his body melting into its natural form, as she registered the chaos storming into the arena from all sides. The roar became riotous in a moment, slamming into her like another blow from Vejen's mace. Then four bodies surrounded her as she realized there were mageians and therians charging into battle against each other right in front of her.

"Ayla." The voice of her uncle.

He reached for her, but she ignored him as she searched for Zalyn lying limp in the snow. But she couldn’t see him in the angry crowd. There were so many people. Where was he? Was he alive? Where was Loran? Had he been shot, too? A sob chocked in her throat and she lunged to escape Maron.

He caught her. "You can't." Just like he'd stopped her from going to the Illutu meeting.

“Let me out!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Zalyn, Loran, I—”

“Be quiet,” Yono ordered, his voice icy and ragged. “You are not going anywhere.”

“Heal your wound, Ayla,” Naramsin said. His black eyes glanced over his shoulder as his magic fell over her like a thin blanket. “They will be fine. Concentrate on yourself.”

She shoved her weight into Maron’s back, but he stood strong against her. The air weighed down her aching, tired body like bricks. Her mind raced between Zalyn and Loran, ignoring the dulling pain under her collarbone as her magic healed the injury. What was happening?

Her mind dived into arctic waters. The Illutu. She was being protected to ensure there’d be a draw. Her heart screamed, unsure whether to swell with happiness or sorrow. She wanted a tie—but she wanted it with Loran and Zalyn.

The clouds swirled overhead until the first snowflake fell like a loose leaf into the stadium. The sun hid behind the grey blanket, hazy and dull. She closed her eyes against the fresh snow.

What would she do if she had to go back to Esagila without Zalyn by her side?

Ohorshina rose from her isolated booth. The therians and mageians withdrew from each other until a strip of snow in the middle of the arena fifteen paces wide opened between them.

“The outcome has been decided,” she said, her voice ringing. “There is a draw. We have two winners.”

Ayla let out a rugged breath through the lump in her throat. She waited, her heart like a slow peck against her chest. Snow dusted the stadium in a cold embrace.

“The winners of the 14th Akkadian War are mageian Ayla Elias…”

The cheers surged in her ears. Naramsin’s concealing magic vanished as her uncle lifted her on his shoulders. Her eyes studied the dark hair across form her, tried to see through the thick crowd for a body, for anything.

“…And therian Loran Amedi.”

He was lifted onto two shoulders among the therians. No one cheered. The silence crashed into her like a tidal wave. Snow gathered in his hair and swam past his lips. His pained expression struck deep in her chest and knocked the breath out of her. This was not what either of them had wanted.

Nothing could keep the mageians and therians apart. The two sides clashed again in snarls and growls like two hungry packs of wolves. Maron dropped her to the ground at his side. Yono and Robil pushed into the crowd in front of her as Naramsin dropped a sturdy hand to her back, urging her through the mob as his magic hid her again.

“No,” she said, breathless and struggling. She tried to tug away from them, but Naramsin and Maron kept a firm hold on her. “What happened to Zalyn? Loran—”

She was strong enough to push them away, but she couldn't find it within herself as another gunshot went off nearby.

“—Ayla.” Maron leaned toward her. “Forget about them. Your life is more important to me right now than anything else. We need to keep you safe.”

“Please, let me go…” she begged.

“I can’t—I promised your dad I’d protect you and I won’t fail him.”

Her will to fight slipped through her grip. They hurried her through the crowd and into the northern quarter. Ninhursag gestured to them and they followed her to a door hidden behind the stairs. The goddess held the door open as they led Ayla through.

The cool humidity enveloped her as she stepped into Ninhursag’s temple in Esagila. They escorted her up several flights of stairs. She caught a glimpse of the high sun as tears blurred her vision. Maron tugged her into a room and shut the door as he left.

A large bed wiggled in her teary vision with a canopy and billowing curtains. She breezed past it and the wall of books to her other side, two cozy chairs in the corner, and stepped through open glass doors onto a balcony.

Esagila stretched out before her as if nothing had happened. The world would have to move on without her, because she would never forget all she had lost.

Everything.