by Jenna Moreci
Leila packed up Her satchel. “Hysterical.”
She barreled through the sanctuary, leaving their wounds to fester. I hate them all. Rage filled Her up like smoke, Her lungs surging, tears stinging Her eyes.
Leave. Please, just leave.
She stopped in Her tracks, taking in a deep breath. The tears retreated, and She curled her hands into fists, forcing the trembling at bay.
Find the Shepherd. Then She could leave.
“Injuries.” She stopped in front of another man. “Show me.”
A headful of messy hair was pointed Her way. The man’s eyes slowly panned up to Hers. “Who are you?”
“The Healer,” She barked. “Injuries. Show me.”
He cocked his head at the space beside him, and She took a seat, inspecting his wounds: more of the same. She pointed to his slashed ribs. “Thorns?”
He nodded, and She moved to the lump on the side of his neck. “Spiders?”
Another nod, and She turned Her attention to his face. A split lip, a black eye—these wounds were different. The marks of a fight.
“Interesting…” She took his hands, bringing them in close. Torn, bloody knuckles. Definitely from a fight. She flipped them over, revealing his palms.
Stained with blood.
The Poet’s shattered eye flashed through Her thoughts, as did his trembling voice. Don’t say his name. Next came the Cavalier—an ordinary fellow, not fearsome to look at. Her heart pounded in Her throat.
This was the Shepherd.
“It was you?” She spat.
The man furrowed his brow. “What was me?”
“Picking fights with the competitors. Killing them off, for what? For sport? For fun?”
He faltered. “Excuse me?”
“Three men dead, and the tournament has only just begun.” She leaned in closer, fighting the impulse to tear him apart. “It’s repellent. It’s sickening.”
“Are you mad?”
“You’re a disgrace to this competition. Do you realize that? You’re a disgrace to this realm—”
“My best friend died today.” He thrust his shredded knuckles in front of Her. “This?” He pointed at his black eye. “This? From fighting the man who killed him. Yes, three men are dead, and I didn’t touch a single one of them.”
Swirls of black clawed through his flesh, bursting free from his body and filling the air. The darkness hit Her in a wave, and Her rage faded behind his grief.
His misery.
Shame cut Her like a knife. “Apologies. I assumed wrong.”
“Yes,” he growled. “You did.”
A strained quiet passed before She jolted awake, digging through Her satchel. She doused Her fingers in vanilla, resisting the urge to curse aloud. You’re a real bitch, You know that? Scolding a man in mourning. What is wrong with You?
“I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”
Pressing Her fingers into his gashed ribs, She filled his wounds with power, but his gaze remained distant.
“I suppose you don’t like me very much anymore.”
“Not particularly, no,” he grumbled.
“It’s all right.” She offered a slight smile. “I’m a bit of an acquired taste.”
“Vinegar, I imagine.”
She sighed. “I deserved that.” She poked Her head into his line of vision. “Now stop it.”
The man went back to ignoring Her, and Leila went back to his injuries. Bronze skin slashed and marred, a mop of wavy brown hair damp with sweat, and large eyes so dark She could’ve sworn they were black. Black eyes. She cringed. I accused the Artist of murder.
His body went taut, his stare suddenly brimming with hate. She followed his gaze to a man sitting across the sanctuary, eyeing the collection of thin raised scars decorating his arm. Without hesitation, he dug a shard of brick into his flesh, drawing two bloody lines to match the others.
“What is he doing?” Leila said.
The Artist’s voice came out hard. “It’s a tally.”
“Of what?”
“The people he’s killed.”
Leila spun toward him. “Is this the man who killed your friend?”
He didn’t need to answer. His misery swirled with color, as rivers of red rage spilled from him like blood.
The man with the scars. He was the Shepherd.
“Don’t look at him.” The Artist grabbed Her wrist. “He’s dangerous.”
Leila held firm, watching the man without a hint of subtlety. The Cavalier was right; he wasn’t fearsome to look at. He was handsome, in fact, with copper skin, sharp features, and short black hair, all utterly enticing—save for the scars littering his arms.
The marks of his kills.
“He doesn’t scare me,” Leila said.
The Shepherd glanced up from his work, his crystal blue eyes locking with Hers. She looked away, turning back to the Artist—his grip had tightened, his frame hard, as if he were Her shield. She faltered, then pulled free from his hold.
“He’ll be penalized, yes?” he asked. “Killing is part of the tournament, I know this. But what he did? It isn’t right. He murdered in cold blood for no reason at all.”
“You’re absolutely right. But I doubt he’ll meet any punishment.”
“How is that possible? Does The Savior not even care?”
“This has nothing to do with Her,” She spat. She paused, containing Herself. “This tournament is led by the Sovereign exclusively. And I suspect today’s events would leave him…pleased.”
“Pleased?”
“You saw where his blessings lie.”
“But that was before. Surely this changes things.”
Leila gestured toward the Shepherd. “The man who killed your friend? He is a beast behaving as beasts do. Brontes knows this. And he pays no mind, because he’s just like him. Beastly.”
The Artist’s expression went vacant. “You say this freely? Of the Sovereign?”
“I do.”
“You’re bold.”
“I’m honest.”
“Let me guess, he doesn’t scare you either.”
His words silenced Her. Busying Herself, She scrubbed the blood from his palms, warming his hands with Her light. Perhaps it would do more than heal, would calm him, but his black cloud lingered all the same.
“Your friend… Who was he?”
The Artist tensed. “Milo. The Benevolent.”
“Milo.” She thought back to the scrolls, trying to place his among the others before resigning Herself to platitudes. “He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die today.”
“He had no business being here. He was a fool to enter.”
“You’re all fools,” She said without thinking. “Everyone who enters is a fool.”
Her shoulders stiffened, braced for another explosion, but the Artist merely cocked his head. “How do you figure?” he asked.
“What man in his right mind would risk almost certain death for a chance to marry a woman he’s never met?”
“Come again?”
“I think I speak clearly.”
He kept quiet for a long while. “Well, She’s not just any woman.”
“But isn’t She? For all you know, She could be a real bore. Or a pain. Or a bitch.”
“But…She’s The Savior.”
Leila’s stomach sank. “Yes. And do you know anything else about Her?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, packing Her satchel, eager to be rid of the sanctuary. “I believe I’m done. You should be feeling much better come morning.” She eyed his torn knuckles. “At least as far as your wounds go.”
Strings of black crawled back into Her vision. The Artist wasn’t ignoring Her any longer—he was staring right at Her, his darkness enveloping them both. She cupped his cheek, giving him one last taste of Her light. Blips of his pain pricked Her fingers, and when he relaxed into Her touch, Her palm absorbed his ache.
“Tomorrow will be difficult. Dangerous.” She hesitated. “Be careful.”
S
he stood and headed through the sanctuary, worn and drained as though She’d survived a grueling battle. She hadn’t expected the toll Her task would take—that She’d be leaving the labyrinth with a fraction of Her dignity.
Spotting Pippa, She hurried to her side. “Come, little duckling.”
“But I’m having fun.”
“I know, but it’s time to go.”
They walked through the sanctuary hand in hand, leaving Leila to eye the sea of muscle. Idiots. All of them. Then Her gaze floated to the Artist and his black cloud, and Her stomach twisted.
“Healer girl.”
The Shepherd stood paces away with the Giant and Dragon, wearing a chilling smile. “What about us? Aren’t you going to make us better?”
Leila tightened Her hold on Pippa. The Giant. The Dragon. The Shepherd. Three wicked creatures lined up in a row.
“You all look fine to me.”
She left the sanctuary behind Her.
5
The Dungeon
“I’m going to kill them. I’m going to cut off their stones, and I’m going to kill them.”
Leila paced Her bedchamber, Her hands wound into fists. Her thoughts overflowed with visions from the night before, namely those three heinous faces.
The Giant. The Dragon. The Shepherd.
Delphi sat on Leila’s bed, watching as She paced. “They’re assassins.”
“Yes, and I’m going to kill them.” Leila held Her chin high. “I’m going to assassinate My assassins.”
“They’re highly trained, I’m sure.”
“What exactly are you implying?”
“Love, I know You’re quite handy with a blade, but these men are older, larger, and have many kills under their belt. Meanwhile, Your kills have mostly consisted of aging men…” Delphi brought her thumb and index finger close together. “And You’re about this big.”
Leila pursed Her lips. “Oh, what do you know?” She turned on Her heel and continued pacing, practically stomping across the tiles.
“Have You heard back from Your little friend?”
Leila waved Delphi away. “Not yet. I’ll check later. First, we plan the kill.”
“Perhaps we should explore other options.”
“What other options are there?”
“Maybe Your assassins fall in the tournament. The other competitors can take care of them.”
Leila scoffed. “I am much more qualified than all of those men. Combined.”
“I take it You weren’t impressed by them.”
Leila snorted in response, falling back into Her steps.
“There were some who seemed promising,” Delphi said. “Not a single one left a positive impression?”
“It’s hard to feel positive when I’ve got My own death to prevent.”
“I recall there being a Poet.”
A groan tore from Leila’s throat. “He was intolerable.”
“What of the Intellect?”
“Are these the men you selected? How cruel of you to put them through this torture.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“God, you’re relentless.”
Delphi folded her arms. “What of the Artist?”
Her words sent Leila to a hard stop. The Artist. She hadn’t forgotten his face, and certainly not his miserable black cloud. “Poor thing. He’ll likely die today.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Hylas scurried inside, bowing. “Your Holiness, the Senate is waiting.”
A scowl threatened to streak Her face, but She kept it at bay. Hylas bowed once more before leaving, and though She prepared to follow, every part of Her longed to stay put. She had enough horrid men to deal with.
“Worth it to go back down there?” Delphi asked. “In the labyrinth?”
God, no. Then swirls of darkness wafted through Leila’s mind, followed by those large, black eyes.
“Maybe once or twice,” She said. “Couldn’t hurt.”
With a deep breath, She threw open Her door and left Her chamber.
“Pleasant day, Your Holiness.” Asher nodded.
She rolled Her eyes. “It’s Leila.”
She didn’t look back at him, dwelling on the task ahead. It seemed like an especially twisted torture—spending Her morning plotting against Her demise, then sharing Her afternoon with the vultures who had set it into motion. The dreaded black door appeared, and She pushed it open, met with a flurry of male voices.
“Starting without Me, I see.” She took a seat at the table. “How duplicitous. I’m not at all surprised.”
“We were just discussing our service to You.” Wembleton donned a smile. “Since Toma, Simon, and Gelanor have yet to resurface, naturally their responsibilities must be reallocated.”
“What a puzzle. They’re still missing?”
“Still missing,” Brontes said. “Just like the competitors’ records.”
“Did you just compare three human lives to slips of parchment?” Leila tutted Her tongue. “What poor taste.”
Brontes eyed Her for a long while before turning away. “We’ll start with Gelanor’s duties. It appears we need a new Keeper of the Vault. I propose Erebus.”
Leila’s gaze shot toward the Senator in question: a brute of a man, broad and layered in muscle. Black hair sat like a crown of curls on his head and lined his jaw in a short beard, and deep-set brown eyes scanned the room, penetrating. Sometimes he reminded Her of Her father; they were near enough in age, and his olive skin showed the same wear, but Brontes wore his royal drapes each day, while Erebus opted for a silver breastplate—a reminder of what he was capable of.
“Erebus?” She spun toward Brontes. “Are you mad?”
Brontes sighed. “You disapprove?”
“He’s a soldier.”
“You’d be wise not to demean him with such a base title. He is the strategos of Your army and a force on the battlefield.”
“And how does any of that qualify him to handle coin?”
“Who would You propose, Your Holiness?”
Leila raised Her chin. “Me.”
The room erupted in laughter—a reaction She had expected, but it boiled Her blood nonetheless. “It is My birthright, My duty, and above all else, My coin. How you can even offer up a creature like Erebus and claim him competent is beyond Me.”
“A creature, You say?” Erebus’s words sent the room to silence. His eyes locked with Hers, unblinking. “I believe You mean a monster. Don’t think I shy from the title. You see, to stand in my way is to ask for death.” He leaned forward, his voice low. “Do You stand in my way, Your Holiness?”
Leila was certain of Her carriage, that She held Herself with pride, but Her insides cowered.
“We’ll bring it to a vote,” Brontes said.
“This is not a democracy,” Leila snapped.
“Those in favor of Her Holiness acting as Keeper of the Vault?”
Leila’s arm shot up, but the others kept still, their hands folded in their laps.
“And those in favor of Erebus.”
Each Senator raised his hand. She had known this would happen, but that didn’t lessen the sting.
“So it is done.” Brontes scribbled across a scroll, eyeing Leila sidelong. “Don’t look so sullen. You have no one to blame for the humiliation but Yourself.”
“With Erebus as Keeper of the Vault, You’ll have plenty of time for matters better suited for You.” Wembleton offered Her a smile. “Like blessing the realm. That is a duty of the utmost importance.”
Phanes snickered, and Leila’s eyes darted toward him, thinning into a glare.
“Next item. Toma’s assignments: foreign relations…”
Her father droned on, his voice picking at Her nerves. She surveyed the room, searching for a distraction, then froze. In the distance, sitting on the tile floor, was a peach pit.
A message.
“Your Holiness?”
The voice roused Her. “Hm?”
“Do the terms suit You, Your H
oliness?” Kastor said.
“Sure. Yes. They’re fine.”
Qar chuckled from across the table, twirling a golden ring around his little finger. “Her Holiness, an agreeable party. To what do we owe this rare occasion?”
“Oh, don’t ride the girl too hard. I find Her protests most agreeable myself.” Phanes offered Leila a wink. “Don’t get too soft on us. I like You best when You bite.”
The two men laughed while Qar tinkered with his ring, and Leila tasted bile.
“Next item.” Brontes flipped through his stack of parchment. “The tournament. The competitors are spending the day in the labyrinth?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Romulus said. “They’ve entered the second stage.”
“Predictions?”
“There will undoubtedly be casualties. The weakest will perish.”
Black eyes appeared in Leila’s thoughts, and Her stomach churned.
“Good. And the wedding?”
“Just finalizing the arrangements, Your Highness,” Qar said.
Leila started. “Wedding? Whose wedding?”
“Yours,” Brontes grumbled.
“The ceremony will be beautiful, Your Holiness,” Qar added.
Leila sat in silence. A wedding. What was the purpose if She was to die?
“Aren’t these plans premature?” She said. “I don’t even have a suitor.”
“You have twenty suitors, Your Holiness.” Qar chuckled. “Well, seventeen as of yesterday.”
“They hardly qualify. I don’t even like any of them.”
“Of course You do not like them, You have not yet met them.” Qar’s grin widened. “Regardless of how You feel now, Your future Champion navigates the labyrinth as we speak. Such a lucky man.”
His words reeked of phoniness, a complement to his fussy appearance. His ebony skin gleamed, polished each day by servant girls, leaving not a hair on his head or his brows. The look was popular in Ethyua, and though he dressed in Thessian drapes and garbs, his homeland made itself known in his fluid accent and bevvy of jewels. Gems hung from his neck and jangled on his wrists, and on each of his fingers was a gold ring—his little pets, as he often stroked their sparkling stones.
“Anything further to discuss?” Brontes glanced around the table, stopping at Leila. “Anymore audacious requests from my dearest daughter?”