by Jenna Moreci
Obscenities filled Her mouth, but She swallowed them down, the peach pit a beacon in Her peripheral vision.
“Good.” Brontes turned to the others. “Who motions to end today’s meeting?”
“I do.”
“Second.”
The men filed through the door, buzzing past Her like insects. The space was empty, save for Leila.
And that peach pit.
She dashed across the room, swiping up the pit and settling on the window seat. She pounded Her heel into the wooden bench three times.
Three thumps sounded from beneath the floor.
Leila shot under the table, crawling between its legs and flipping the ruby throw rug. A wooden trapdoor sat in front of Her. She threw it open, plunging down the stone steps.
The air was thick with dust and pungent herbs. She had long since grown accustomed to it, same with the dirt floor, the stretch of barred cells. This was the palace dungeon—a myth, as it was supposedly destroyed centuries ago. An apothecary station sat against the wall, its wooden table covered in tins of spices, vials of elixirs, and small animals trapped in jars. Chains hung from the walls, and rods, whips, and pokers dangled from rusted hooks—all real, all sinister, and certainly not relics from ages past.
A mountain of a man stood in the farthest cell, watching Her. As She made Her way toward him, the mess of his body became clearer—the craters in his pale olive flesh, the scars cutting through him like canyons. His skin looked pieced together, unfinished, leaving him with scant patches of hair, one nipple, and eight-and-a-half fingers. Small grey eyes peered through the holes of a black leather mask covering his head.
Leila stopped in front of his cell. “Oh, take that silly thing off.”
“Apologies, Your Holiness. It’s a habit.”
“Well, I can’t imagine it’s comfortable.” She slipped between the narrow bars of his cell as he fiddled with the leather laces. He pulled the mask off, revealing a strong, whiskered jaw, an angular nose, and a head full of long hair, the color a blend of brown and ashy blond. It always struck Her, the dichotomy between his marred body and his untouched face.
“There.” She stood on Her toes, reaching up high to pinch his cheeks. “Much better. I swear, you must’ve been the most handsome Beast to ever grace the Sovereign’s Tournament.” She paused, thinking. “Talos the…”
“Bronze,” Talos said. “Thank You, Your Holiness.”
Leila gestured toward his mask. “You know Brontes only makes you wear that thing because he’s envious.”
“He says it’s to remind me. I am beneath man. I am to be faceless.”
“Yes, well, Brontes says a lot of things that aren’t true. My mother was very lucky to have you compete for Her affection.”
“Thank You. I imagine You didn’t come here to compliment me.”
She sighed. “No. But I enjoy complimenting you all the same.”
Her gaze drifted from Talos to the ceiling above—carved away at the corner, the loose tile barely visible—then down to the shackle wrapping his ankle, fastened to the wall with a lengthy chain. Conflicted emotion bubbled in Her gut.
“Has Brontes had any special meetings down here?” She said.
“Yes. With Your assassins.”
“Tell Me everything.”
Talos cocked his head at the lone bench at the back of his cell. “Sit with me?”
As he settled down on the wooden bench, Leila hopped up to a windowless sill carved into the wall, barely meeting his line of sight. “Start with the Dragon.”
“Drake Toshkar,” he said. “Thirty-five years old. Born in Kovahr, was shipped to the Outlands where he was sold into the service.”
Leila’s nose wrinkled. “My father put a thirty-five-year-old man in the competition? Disgusting.”
“He paid for his freedom with blood. Became a mercenary. Kills for any power that can afford him.”
“That’s nearly twice My age. I know he doesn’t intend to marry Me, but still.” She shook Herself. “Apologies, I got distracted.”
“He calls himself the Dragon as an ode to the Outlands.”
“You know an awful lot about him.”
“All dark circles know of the Dragon. His work is legendary.” Talos gestured toward his chest. “His tattoos—they’re an ancient protection spell, branded on his flesh by a witching tribe. He believes himself immortal.”
“Well, we both know that’s a crock of shit. What of the Giant?”
“Antaeus Argós. Twenty-five years old. An arena fighter, specializes in multiple styles and holds the most titles of all fighters still living. He craves the applause. The glory.”
“An approval-seeking cunt,” Leila scoffed. “Anything else you can tell Me about him?”
“He’s stupid.”
“How do you know this?”
“I’ve heard him speak.”
She smiled. “Cheeky imp. You think we can use it against him?”
“Stupid men don’t like to be reminded of the fact. They prefer blissful ignorance.”
Leila chuckled, but the sound faded as the final assassin waltzed into Her mind. “What of the last one? The Shepherd.”
“His name is Kaleo.”
“Just Kaleo?”
“More commonly referred to as the Shepherd, both in and out of the tournament.”
Leila sat quietly, waiting for him to continue. “And?”
“And that’s all. He has no titles, no accolades. There are no legends bearing his name, no tales of glory.” His voice was calm, a contradiction to his words. “He is a mystery. A man who doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, he exists. He marks his kills on his arms, you know. Wears them like trophies.”
Talos stared off for a moment. “Makes sense.”
“That makes sense to you?”
“A man who kills not for pride or reputation is a man who kills for pleasure.”
She scowled. “A madman. Wonderful. Delphi doesn’t think I can kill them.”
Talos didn’t respond.
“You don’t think I can kill them either.”
“You are very skilled, Your Holiness. My sharpest student. But these men are the best in all the realms.”
“Drake and Antaeus are the best in all the realms. You don’t know anything about Kaleo.”
“Which means he’s the most dangerous of them all.”
Leila’s scowl deepened. “Dammit. I was hoping this could be simple. Why can’t something be simple?” She kneaded Her temples.
“Your Holiness, a warning,” Talos said. “Brontes plans to involve Diccus in the challenges.”
“I figured.”
“He plans to involve me as well.”
Sighing, She dropped Her hands. “I figured that too.”
“I have no choice—”
“I know, Talos.” She managed a weak smile. “I’m not upset.”
“Do You have any requests? I don’t know the part I play, but I can try to meet Your specifications.”
“Can you kill My assassins?” She forced a laugh. “I’m kidding. I know you can’t—not with Brontes lurking over your shoulder. No, no requests.”
“He will have me hurt them. The men.”
“They’re doomed to die regardless. Brontes has already sealed their fates.”
Talos nodded, leaving them with a pained silence.
“Is that all?” Leila fiddled with the folds of Her dress. “About the tournament. I hope it is. Not that I don’t need the information, it’s just…I hate talking about it. The tournament. I hate it so much.”
“Yes, Your Holiness. That is all.”
The strain didn’t lift. Her mind was burdened, and though She had been fighting the weight of Her circumstances, everything was crashing down on Her.
Talos watched Her, his grey eyes expectant.
“How much time do we have?” She whispered.
“Enough.”
“You don’t think it’s silly? That I’m too old now? I know I am.”
“Stories grant escape, Little Light. For You and for myself.”
Smiling, She nestled closer to him. “What was it like the first time you saw Her? I know you’ve told Me a hundred times already but…you know.”
“I was a young man. A few years shy of Your age. Your mother visited the commons on occasion, but with the crowds, it was hard to see. But I saw Her then from a distance. Her glow. It was a great gift.”
Leila strained to envision Her mother strolling through the commons—a hard sight to imagine, as She had never been through the realm Herself.
“The first time I saw Her up close was at the Commencement Ceremony,” Talos said. “She came out in a red dress and a crown of golden flowers. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I’m sure the men at Your ceremony felt the same when they saw You.”
“I didn’t go to My ceremony…”
“I see.”
“They can’t know I’m The Savior. Because of Brontes’s plan.” She glanced his way. “I’m posing as palace staff. A healer.”
“They will be awed by You all the same.”
A hint of a smile crept across his face, but Leila didn’t mirror the sentiment. All She could do was think of Her trip to the labyrinth, Her conversations with the men, and how none of them were awed by Her. Not even a little.
“What about the first time you spoke with Her?”
“An event of the tournament,” he said. “The First Impressions. We were to each ask Her a question. I asked Her of Her favorite pastimes.”
“That’s a good question. I mean, I would be happy with it, if it were Me.”
“She said She enjoyed dancing. Just as You enjoy art.”
Looping Her arm through his, Leila wriggled Her hand into his palm, accustomed to their differences—that his arm was nearly the width of Her waist, that his hand swallowed Hers. “Do I remind you of Her?”
“You are small, but She was smaller. Your hair is different, as are Your eyes.” He studied Her face. “You have Brontes’s lips.”
Leila’s shoulders slumped, and he quickly added, “But You have Her skin. Her hands. The length of Your hair, the way it shines. Her smile. Her laugh.”
His words brought Her a hint of comfort, though it faded when She gazed down at his shackled ankle. “I can try again. I’ve gotten quite good at picking locks.”
“You’ve tried many times.”
“What about a nice big mallet?”
“Only the key can open it.” Talos repeated the same words he had spoken many times before. “Diccus has made it so.”
“Whichever Savior thought it was a brilliant idea to bottle up Her magic and use it for things like deadly labyrinths and enchanted locks is a real bitch. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.”
Talos said nothing, a helpless, heavy silence. Leila rested Her head on his shoulder. “When all is said and done, I will set you free. You’ll always have a home here, but it will be no cell.”
“Set Yourself free, Little Light. You are just as imprisoned as I am.”
Door hinges creaked in the distance. “Diccus is coming,” Talos whispered.
My chamber. Leila kissed him on the cheek, and the dungeon disappeared behind a blinding light.
Pillows bounced around Her as She flopped onto Her bed. Sitting upright, She stared at Her reflection in the doors of Her wardrobe.
“These men are the best in all the realms.” A warning She ought to heed.
But soon the words became muddled, giving way to those three sinister faces, to the face of Her father.
She bolted from Her bed, throwing open the doors of Her wardrobe and snatching up Her satchel, Her cloak. Slamming the mirrors shut, She grabbed at the blade strapped to Her thigh, Her mind wrapped up in loathing and blood.
Light rose through Her body, taking Her to the lush fields of the fortress.
Instinct fueled Her, sending Her dashing through the grass and down the stone steps. The black bricks around Her dissolved, revealing a stone floor peppered with tents, water barrels, men. The three assassins were clustered together, a perfect target.
She stopped short. The herd of men had thinned.
Someone was missing.
Focus. But She was already counting faces, pairing them with laurels. The Cavalier. The Intellect. She went through them once, twice. Three men were missing, and while logic said it didn’t matter, Her nerves failed to listen. Her eyes swept the space again, and Her insides clenched. No mop of brown hair. No large black eyes.
The Artist was dead.
Sickness surged in Her belly, and She wilted beneath the firelight, Her hopes torn away at the roots.
A howl echoed off the walls, and She jumped. A mess of a man barreled into the sanctuary, lungs heaving, skin dripping with sweat—the Artist, worn and haggard but very much alive.
“Will one of you stupid fucks help us?” he spat.
A body hung from his shoulders, stuck with an arrow and covered in blood.
The Artist’s eyes locked with Leila’s, and he charged Her way, dropping to his knees. “Help him.” He laid the bloodied man at Her feet. “Now.”
His words were sharp, an order from a man far below Her birth, yet She complied without hesitating. Crouching beside the bloodied man, She took in his drawn face, the arrow jutting from his flesh—a horrific sight, yet against all odds, he was alive.
“He’s your competition…yet you saved his life.” She stared up at the Artist. “Why?”
The Artist kept quiet save for his heavy breathing. God, he was a wreck, and no man would extend himself so severely without self-serving reason. Certainly none She’d ever known.
He stood and turned away. “Just do it.”
Another order, and he was gone, weaving through the fast-forming crowd.
Men swarmed Her, but Leila was fixed on the Artist, Her eyes boring through the back of his head. He wasn’t such a mess any longer; he was strong and bold—no, gallant, the blood on his ribs a mark of heroism, the sweat on his back inviting.
Appealing.
For God’s sake, have some composure. You’re embarrassing Yourself. But that didn’t stop Her from staring at him, nor did it quell the rapid firing of Her heartbeat.
“Healer girl.”
Two men hovered before Her, waiting—and the man with the arrow in his chest was still sprawled across the floor.
“Fuck, I’m going to die.” He looked up at Her, speaking between shallow pants. “Am I going to die?”
Sleek black hair, sharp brown eyes, rich copper skin. This was the Prince, though the features described in his records were now streaked with red.
“His odds are hardly fair.” The Physician sat beside Her, arms crossed matter-of-factly. “The arrow could’ve hit a number of organs, certainly a lung—”
“A lung?” The Prince’s panting turned into gasps. “Oh God, I can’t breathe.”
“It didn’t hit a lung.” A third man turned to the Prince. Strong build, tanned skin, and a wiry brown beard. The Hunter. “Calm yourself, you’re fine.”
“The man needs a surgeon,” the Physician said. “Not to mention proper tools. I imagine we need a scalpel, a hook, a bone drill—”
“A bone drill?” the Prince spat. “Why the fuck do we need a bone drill?”
“We don’t need a bone drill.” The Hunter shot the Physician a scowl. “Now’s not the time for such words.”
“I’m just saying, wounds such as this are quite precarious—”
“Are you going to treat him? Use your experience in this matter?”
“Well, I don’t have any experience per se…”
“Then let the Healer work. That’s what she’s here for.” The Hunter turned to Leila. “Right? You can manage this?”
All eyes panned Her way, the weight of their stares crippling. She glanced across the sanctuary at the three assassins, and a pang lurched in Her gut, pulling Her in their direction. You’re here for a reason. But that reason had
been abandoned the moment the Prince appeared at Her feet. This was Her purpose—the man sprawled before Her, slick with a feverish sweat—because She was the Healer.
Except She wasn’t a healer, and She had no idea what She was doing.
Don’t just sit here, do something. She planted Her hand over the wound, trying to assess the damage. The arrow was wedged between his pec and shoulder. A survivable injury. Maybe. Hopefully. God, is it? Splinters of pain pierced Her palm, sharp like a blade. Like an arrowhead.
The surrounding madness faded, leaving Her with the Prince’s pain—a keen ache, but no destruction. No fading life.
“It’s a clean shot.” She wiped Her bloody hand on Her cloak. “No vital organs.”
The Physician wrinkled his nose. “How can you tell?”
“By the angle of the arrow,” She lied. “Not to mention the depth of the shaft.” She sat tall. “It’s quite clear. Crystal, really.”
“God, it hurts.” The Prince glanced between the three faces above him. “Is someone going to fix this?”
The Physician snorted. “If you think this is fixable, you haven’t yet come to terms with reality.”
“Oh, will you just fuck off?” the Prince spat.
“Altair, if you have nothing of use to contribute, I suggest you leave,” the Hunter said.
“Leave? But I’m a physician.”
“You’re here to compete.” The Hunter nodded at Leila. “She’s here to heal, appointed by The Savior Herself. Let her fulfill her role while you fulfill yours.”
“But—”
“To question her is to question The Savior’s authority.”
“Well, I think The Savior would appreciate—”
“Piss off, you fat fuck, or I swear to God I’ll rip this arrow from my chest and shove it up your ass,” the Prince snapped.
The Physician froze, shocked and chagrined. Feebly, he tromped away.
With a sigh, the Hunter squeezed the Prince’s shoulder. “Everything will be fine. You’re in good hands.” He turned to Leila. “Go on.”
A lump caught in Her throat. This was not what She had signed up for. She stared down at the arrow and swallowed. Do it. Just pull it out. Cringing, She grabbed the arrow’s shaft.
“Wait!” The Hunter’s hand shot forward, stopping Her. He wavered, turning to the Prince. “Brother, cover your ears and count to one hundred.”