Day 18 of the War

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“Time to wake up, children,” a voice said, distant like an echo with an eerie tone, thick with sarcasm. “I don’t have all day…”

Loran sat up beside her, a growl in his throat. “What’re you doing here?”

“Just checking up on my favorite people,” the woman said, voice sickly sweet. “Everything’s going according to plan, isn’t it? It’s just fantastic.” Her insane giggle screeched in the winter air.

Loran stiffened and a jolt of realization struck Ayla. She bolted upright, focusing through her tired eyes on the mess of dark hair sitting in the chair beside the bookcase, lifeless eyes staring back at her.

“Oh.” Ereshkigal grinned with her rotting teeth. “You’ve finally decided to join us?” She folded a leg over the other, her legs dry and caked with dirt, her toenails black. The smell of decay lingered around the room like a ghost. “How wonderful.”

Her breath froze in her chest and her head swam. Loran touched his hand to her wrist, his magic seeping into her with a warning.

“What do you want?” Ayla asked, gritting her teeth. She slid her hand into Loran’s and weaved their fingers together.

He squeezed her hand as Ereshkigal stood from the chair and attempted to brush out the permanent wrinkles in her dirty robes.

“Want?” the goddess asked, an amused lilt in her voice. “Nothing at all. Things are falling nicely into place.” Her face darkened, the stifling odor strengthening in the room. “Oh, wait,” she growled, “you two decided to tie. That does not work for me.”

Ayla’s heart pounded like a rumbling earthquake. How did she know?

“You saw what happened when your precious fathers decided to tie,” Ereshkigal continued. “They died.”

Loran’s magic crashed into her as his back went rigid. “My dad decided to—”

—Ereshkigal tipped her head back and filled the room with deafening laughter that grated against Ayla’s bones. “You really think so!” She threw her hands in the air, her laugh rolling in high-pitched hiccups as she paced the room, putting a hand to her forehead in disbelief. “You are such a naïve little boy.”

Loran’s body felt as cold and stiff as a corpse as he stared at her. Ereshkigal put a hand to her stomach and sighed, as if satisfied.

“He had a deal,” Loran said, voice wavering like subtle waves. “And he didn’t want to ruin everything Afrem had set up. That’s why he did—”

“—He didn’t do anything,” Ereshkigal hissed, leaning toward them as if ready to strike. “I wanted him dead so I could take his magic. I’m the reason that blade sliced through him.” Her dull eyes darkened, blacker than the night sky. “Get your facts straight, little boy.”

“So did you have my dad killed for his magic, too?” Ayla asked, her muscles wound like a coil. “You’re lying.” Ayla slipped her hand from Loran’s and stood, balancing on the mattress with adrenalin coursing through her blood. “I know you’re lying because I saw it all. You had nothing to do with it.”

Ereshkigal sneered and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “You can think whatever pretty, little thoughts keep you feeling happy. Whatever that happiness even is. A false sense of security. That sound about right, sweetie?”

The goddess turned her back to Ayla and then froze, turning back on her heels with a finger pressed to her lips. “Actually, maybe I should tell you a little secret,” she whispered. “A secret about you. A secret about Zalyn.” She narrowed her eyes and tapped her finger to her red lips. “Want to have a little chat, darling child?”

Loran stood and crossed the mattress, glaring at Ereshkigal. “Ayla does not walk to talk to you. Leave.”

An eruption of giggles bubbled out of her mouth. “Meet me in the arena, Ayla, and I will tell you everything about my little plan.” The goddess began fading into black smoke. “Oh, and your dad says hello.” She chuckled as her smoke figure fell onto the floor, leaving the smell of decay lingering in the air.

Ayla slipped her boots on with trembling hands and short breaths.

“You can’t go,” Loran said, pulling back one of her hands from her shoes. “She won’t tell you a single thing. She has some plan and you know it. Don’t go.”

Ayla looked at his hand and then yanked her hand away, her body shaking. “I—I can’t. I have to go. She’s—I want to kill her.” She stepped onto the floor and Loran wrapped his arms around her middle.

“Think about it,” he said, his voice quivery. “If she really did play a part in the last War and that’s why our dads couldn’t tie, then… then it wouldn’t be beyond her… to just kill you.”

Ayla shook her head, setting her hands onto Loran’s arms. “I don’t care.”

He squeezed her to his body, his head falling between her shoulder blades. “I care.”

“She manipulated me!” She dug her fingers into his skin. “She manipulated both of us and now she’s claiming it was her fault your dad died. I won’t let her take away your father’s sacrifice. He meant to do it—he had to.” Ayla closed her eyes and forced her magic beneath his skin.

He jerked away from her with a hiss, holding his arm. “Ayla.”

“I’m sorry.” She grabbed her scythe and looked at him over her shoulder, studying the way his eyes seem to cry without tears and the slight tremble of his bottom lip. “I don’t want to be her pawn.”

“You’re playing right into her hands!” he yelled as she flew out the door and descended the stairs to the common room.

Ayla raced down the second set of stairs and down the hall, passing by the training rooms and the waiting rooms. She charged out of the door and down the therian side of the stadium, soaring over the benches as if she was home in the forest on Cypress Island again.

She dropped down to the snow covered arena, tightening her grip around her scythe. Magic flooded through her as she stopped in her tracks, facing Zalyn’s broad back and Ereshkigal’s honeyed cackle.

“What did you do with Ayla?” Zalyn asked, his voice tight, holding his poleaxe in anticipation for an answer he didn’t want to hear. His breath floated to the sky in a heavy stream of frosted clouds.

“Nothing at all,” Ereshkigal said with an amused lilt to her voice. Her dirty finger pointed toward Ayla. A smirk tugged on the corner of her lips. “Look, see? Here she is.”

Zalyn whipped around, his eyes wide as he found her walking toward them. “Ayla,” he said, looking relieved until a slow frown worked over his features, his eyes narrowing. “Where have you been?” His red eyes bore into her as he rested his poleaxe on his shoulder.

“With a friend,” she said, voice hoarse. She stopped ten paces away from him, finding herself unable to look him in the eyes.

“Who?” he asked, voice hardening. “What kind of friend were you visiting in the therian side of the stadium?”

“Friend is hardly the word,” Ereshkigal interrupted, crossing an arm over her chest and then resting her elbow on her forearm. She slid a finger over her pouty lips. “Lover maybe…”

“No.” Ayla’s chest tightened. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea—but what kind of idea did she want him to have? Why…did she care? “He’s not…”

He took an aggressive step forward. “Then what is he? What were you even doing with a therian?”

She clenched her jaw, dug her nails into her palms, and tensed. “He’s my best friend,” she said, watching his entire body seize up. “It’s—it’s none of your business.”

“You’re friends with a therian?” he asked, eyes widen, tone disbelieving. “How is that none of my business? You are my business.”

“What’re you doing here?” she fired back at him, digging the end of her scythe into the snow. She shot her eyes to Ereshkigal. “Why’d you bring him here?”

“I didn’t bring him.” Ereshkigal’s face split as she smiled—teeth rotted, missing, discolored. “It was you who brought him.”

Ayla frowned, shaking her head. What was she talking about?

“The thought of you sent him running here like a headless chicken.” Ereshkigal giggled, tipping her head back to the grey clouds traveling across the sky. “Do you still want to know what my plan is, Ayla?”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Zalyn ripped away from Ayla, glaring at Ereshkigal with heat radiating off of him as if he had a small sun in his ribcage. “You better not tell her anything,” he warned her.

Ereshkigal laughed with a low and slow roll. Her eyes flickered to Ayla as it lulled to a stop, her eyes beady eyes beckoning Ayla as if commanding her to agree. “Well, sweetie?”

“Yes. Tell me.” Her scythe responded to her surging magic, pulsing under her grip. “Everything.”

Ereshkigal released a tiny sigh. “Well, I made a little deal with Zalyn first. I knew he’d make the exact deal I needed. What was it again, Zalyn, honey?” She glanced at Zalyn’s rigid frame and ignored his glare. “Oh, fine. I can tell her.” She giggled and sighed again. “If he wins the war, I’ll give him exactly what he wants. And what does he want?”

“I want something else now,” he interrupted her.

Her shoulders slid up as she smirked, that loathsome crack in her face a crescent-shaped black hole. “That’s too bad, isn’t it? A deal’s a deal.”

“What’d you ask for?” she asked, her lungs collapsing as dread poured into her. She could only imagine what he’d want—what any normal mageian would want.

His ruddy eyes fell on her, a dark passion roughening his voice. “I told her that I wanted the therians to lose their magic and turn back into the filthy animals they are.”

Her heart felt frozen, a big block of ice sitting in her stomach and in her throat, dripping thick bile down her esophagus. His words echoed in her head.

He clenched his jaw, moving toward her again. “But now, I want—”

A roar erupted from behind her. It stormed through her body like a tsunami. Loran stalked toward them from his waiting room with rage contorting his face. “You fucking touch her and I’ll kill you.”

Everything felt so distant to Ayla. Zalyn was like a mile away and blurry, as if he was under water. Ereshkigal laughed in the background, this time it was high and sharp like a bird pecking on crystal.

Zalyn snarled. “Dirty mutt.” He turned to Ayla. “Is this your friend? This thing?” He lifted his poleaxe from his body, raising it in the air, narrowing his eyes at Loran and the daggers in each of his hands. “I’ll touch her all I want.”

Loran growled as he rushed past Ayla, his magic seeping from his skin like a river as he charged toward Zalyn. Her training partner had fallen into his fighting stance, his eyes glowing copper against his tan skin as he swung his ruby blade toward Loran’s body.

Loran blocked it with his daggers, grunting against the impact as the metal clank vibrated in the open air. As Zalyn pulled his blade away, Loran nailed him in the nose with an elbow and then raised his other fist toward his face.

Zalyn staggered back and attempted to dodge Loran’s punch, but the dull blue iron of the dagger caught his cheek. He hissed, swung his poleaxe into Loran’s side, and sliced through his flesh before poising it in front of him for another attack.

Ayla ran forward, breathless, as a yelp fell from Loran’s lips. She pressed her hands to his side, willing her magic into his wound and concentrated on sewing his skin together again as Ereshkigal continued her twining laughter.

“Don’t touch him!” Zalyn yelled. He darted forward, raising his poleaxe toward Loran.

Loran grunted and pushed Ayla aside, crossing his daggers against Zalyn’s blade. The metals ricocheted as Ayla moved to Loran’s side again and ignored the slick feeling of his warm blood.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ayla asked, her voice wavering as she glared at Zalyn. “He’s hurt! What am I supposed to do?”

He dropped the tip of his blade into the snow, staining it with Loran’s blood. “He’s a therian!”

“Who cares what I am!” Loran yelled back, and then winced. His hand fell on her shoulders, his body swaying into her as he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and releasing shuddering breath.

Ayla swallowed, working her magic into his side as fast as she could. “Hold on,” she whispered. If she didn’t, his magic would escape his body and leave him for dead. She couldn’t—wouldn’t let that happen. Not here, not now. Not. Ever.

Zalyn took another step forward, dragging the poleaxe next to him. His shoulders raised like hackles as he seethed, breath floating like frosty smoke from his lips. Blood streamed down his cheek and down his throat. “Ayla…” he growled.

“Just like your parents,” Ereshkigal said, snow crunching and blackening like coal under her bare feet as she stepped between them. Her dull eyes almost looked alive at the sight of blood, her face moving with the smell of their pain. “Fighting, killing—yes. Nothing has changed.” She settled her head into her hand, watching the three of them with a fond expression.

Zalyn hammered his pole into the ground with a snarl, jaw clenched at Loran. “Why are you helping him, Ayla?”

“He’s my friend!” she said. Her eyes stung as she felt Loran’s warm blood flowing over her hands. She left his low groan before he tipped his head back. Why did Zalyn have to cut him so deep? Why hadn’t she spent more time learning now to heal others?

“He’s a therian!” he hollered back at her, trying to drive some kind of point home that Ayla was never going to get. The hatred mageians had for therians didn’t make sense to her. That’s not how her father raised her and it wasn’t how Loran was raised, either.

“I don’t care,” she hissed. “Hate me for it if you want.”

Loran chuckled beside her and released a pained sigh after. “Ereshkigal’s right—completely. It’s pathetic,” he whispered.

Against Zalyn’s heavy breathing and Ereshkigal’s bubble laughter, Ayla almost couldn’t hear him. She drew closer to Loran, sucking in a deep breath. Why was he saying that? Ereshkigal wasn’t right. She was never right.

“What’s pathetic is that we’ve all been played by her,” she said, lifting her eyes to Ereshkigal. “You’re a liar. No wonder the gods stole your magic.”

Ereshkigal stormed to her and grabbed Ayla’s chin, ripping her face upward—her awful smell licking at her nose. “You know nothing,” she spat. “I will get my magic back, thanks to you. Won’t your father be proud?” A smile snaked onto her face, her lip curling and her eyes widening. “You’re going to ruin everything he set up.”

“I won’t,” she sneered. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

“See what?” Her fingernails dipped into Ayla’s cheek, breaking the skin and drawing warm blood. “What shall I see that I don’t already? What I see is a repeat of history.”

Ayla clenched her teeth and slapped Ereshkigal’s hand away, ignoring the feeling of her own blood crawling down her face. Loran removed her other hand from his side, slipping her fingers between his, and took a small step in front of her—his magic tending to his wound with the smell of morning dew. But she couldn’t be relieved yet.

“You see,” Ereshkigal said, backpedaling and sliding a slender arm around Zalyn’s shoulders. “Twenty years ago, each of your parents made a little ambitious deal with Ishkur. I’m sure you all know, right?”

Zalyn cringed away from her and glared at her as she raised both of her arms in the air.

“Evraz sought Ishkur and proposed a deal so if he won the War, Ishkur would help him force all mageians into submission for eternity.” She dropped her hands to her sides and grabbed her robes, sashaying them around her legs like a child, skipping some kind of dance.

Loran’s gaze hardened at her, nostrils flared, breathing deeply—seething—jaw clenched. A little vein throbbed across his right temple. Ayla’s stomach churned against a wave of nausea. Is that why Evraz had decided to sacrifice his life for her dad? Is that why he had said it ‘had to be him’? She fought her groan.

“Malko asked for no different than Evraz,” she said, a gleeful grin spreading across her face. “He wanted the mageians to reign as the dominant species for eternity if he won.”

“I know he did,” Zalyn said, his tone low and dark.

Ayla closed her eyes. Why had Loran and Zalyn managed to make the same deal as their fathers had made? Why had Ereshkigal played them so well?

“Ayla,” Ereshkigal said, almost in a whisper.

Her heart thudded in her chest like a million falling trees hitting the forest floor one after the other. She tipped her head back and kept her eyes closed, squeezing them together and wishing her magic could make her deaf for just this moment.

“Afrem asked Ishkur to support his vision for a peaceful future for both therians and mageians. Isn’t he thoughtful?” She gave a quick, sharp chortle.

Ayla’s eyes snapped open and she looked at Ereshkigal with her head still tipped back, squinting past her eyelashes and her nose. Her scythe hummed in her hand. Why did she have to be reminded of her dad’s sacrifice again and again? It hurt so much.

“And what did I do? All I did was offer a little deal with each of you and now none of you can get what you want. But will I have? Your magic.” A fit of giggled took her, giddy laughter mechanical and high-pitched.

“I will not let you have what you want,” Ayla growled. She ran her hand along the moissanite surface of her scythe, leeching magic from it as she stepped forward and past Loran. “You deserve nothing.”

“How are you going to take what’s already mine?” Ereshkigal laughed, spinning in the snow. “It’s mine! All this fabulous magic will be mine so soon.” She released a slow, content sigh.

“We’re going to tie,” Ayla said. “None of us will win or lose. You won’t get your magic. There will never be another War. You can take my parents, but you cannot take my reason to fight.”

“I’m not going to tie with a therian,” Zalyn said. “I'm going to win, and I'll get exactly what I asked for, like my dad should have.” His glare was rigid and hot as he shifted his gaze to Loran. He raised his poleaxe. “I’m going to make sure you fucking animals are imprisoned under the earth for the rest of your pathetic existence.”

“You can try,” Loran retorted.

Zalyn roared, long, ragged, and tired, as he took a powerful lunge forward and swept his poleaxe across the distance. Ayla stepped forward, gathered her magic into her muscles and her weapon, and brought her scythe’s edge into the blade of the axe. The metal clanked, sending a loud earsplitting echo through the cold air. His hands lost grip on his poleaxe.

“You are not your father,” she hissed at him as his weapon clattered to the ground.

Ereshkigal giggled, black smoke engulfing her frame again. “I’ll let your dads know you two of you be joining them soon. Goodbye, my dears.” She let out a single cackle and disappeared. Her smoke afterimage leaving a haunting smile.

“Ayla!” Ohorshina’s clear voice rang in the stadium as she ran toward them, tripping over her robes every few steps. “Loran, Zalyn—are you three hurt?”

Zalyn studied Ayla until Ohorshina stopped by his side, panting. She lifted a hand to his shoulder as she looked them all over.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice dripping with concern. “Why was Ereshkigal here?” She reached to Zalyn’s face and brushed off some of the blood dried onto his face wither fingertips. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Zalyn said, stiffening at her touch. He tore his eyes from Ayla. “It’s already healed. I’ll see you at lunch, Ohorshina.” He slipped away from her and trudged toward the mageian side of the stadium.

Ohorshina watched his retreating form before moving to Ayla and Loran. “How are you two?” she asked, voice low.

“I should go to the infirmary,” Loran said, voice even.

“Ayla?”

Ayla touched a hand to her cheek. “It’s healed as long her dirty nails aren’t poisoned, too.”

A smile lifted Ohorshina’s lips. “Fortunately, I don’t believe they are.” She stepped to Loran’s other side. “Allow me to escort you to the infirmary, Loran.”

He turned away from Ayla and walked alongside Ohorshina. He stopped after a few steps and looked over his shoulder. “Don’t visit me,” he said.

Her body froze, her heart still like a statue. What did he mean by that? She wanted to visit him. She wanted to sleep by his side every night. She wanted to simply be with him.

Loran cleared his throat. “It’s too dangerous,” he said, his eyes dropping to the snow, “and I want you to be safe. I’ll figure out something for us.” He looked up at her again, his eyes a dark sapphire.

Words escaped her as he turned his back to her. She watched him walk away, wondering how she had everything she’d ever wanted only a few degrees ago. In his arms, she had no worries. Now, everything had broken like a wave against a rock, leaving with the rush and drifting far across the ocean.

How could she have lost everything so quickly?