The Savior's Sister

by Jenna Moreci

  The blackness was everywhere, a night sky filling the chamber. He stood firm, avoiding Her gaze.

  “That pain you carry? It’ll weaken you. Day by day, it wears you down.” She took his hand, threading Her fingers between his. “Release your burdens. Pour yourself out to me. If I can be nothing else, let me be your refuge.”

  Tears brimmed in his eyes, his lips still and silent. He shook his head.

  “Tobias, hear me.” She came in as close as he would allow. “There is no tournament. Not here in this room. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to be proud. You can be weak. You’re with me. Do you think I won’t protect you?” She searched his gaze. “Tobias…”

  Silence—and then his tears broke free, releasing an explosion of black and blue. He cradled his face in his hands, but his colors already painted the walls, a crashing sea threatening to swallow him up.

  Leila wrapped him in Her arms, immersing Herself in his torture, and Her heart throbbed as if it too were breaking. She led him to Her rose couch, pulling him into Her embrace, and as he sobbed on Her shoulder, She clung to him, fighting to absorb his hurt.

  “I can’t.” His voice came out thick and rasping. “I can’t keep watching my friends die.”

  Leila’s chest ached. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I can’t do it. I couldn’t save Milo. I couldn’t save Orion—”

  “Their deaths are not your burden to bear.”

  “It’s my fault,” he said. “Kaleo was aiming for me. It was my end. Orion…he threw himself in front of me. He’s dead, and it’s my fault.”

  “Tobias—”

  “It’s my fault. I killed him.”

  “He made a choice,” Leila maintained. “He acted with purpose—to let you live. Don’t you dare for a second wear his decision as your own. He wouldn’t want that.”

  She squeezed him tighter, though Her thoughts drifted back to the Senate meeting—to Her father’s threats.

  His blood will be on Your hands.

  “I hate this tournament.” Tobias’s hands raked up Her back. “I hate the Sovereign. I hate The fucking Savior.”

  Leila cringed. “Tobias…”

  “My friends died for Her. She’s The Savior, and She does nothing.”

  “It’s beyond Her control—”

  “Dammit, just let me hate Her,” he spat. “Please. I need to hate Her. The Sovereign. All of it. I need to.”

  Pain surged within Leila, but She said nothing.

  “Everything is fucked, and I can’t fix it,” he said. “The people I care for…they’re dead. And if they’re not dead, they’re suffering.” He shook his head. “My sister will never walk again. She’ll never be happy again. I try, but no matter what I do, I can’t fix it.”

  “You do more than you know.”

  His hand sifted through Her hair, tugging Her close. “I will never have you.”

  Leila faltered. “Tobias?”

  He stared at the floor. “The way I feel about you… Each day, I fall harder. And all it does is put you in greater danger.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Tobias, look at me.” She took his face in Her hands, willing him to meet Her gaze. “My life is complicated. I’ve fought for everything I have, it’s all I’ve known. But when I’m with you, I feel safe and seen for the first time since I can remember. Do you hear me? You are a blessing.”

  His gaze was penetrating, his lashes slick and eyes spiderwebbed red. Sighing, he rested his head against Hers, and She glided Her fingers up the nape of his neck, stroking back and forth.

  “Leila?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is the Proctor dead?”

  She froze. “Yes.”

  Long seconds passed, the silence screaming in Her ears.

  “Did you kill him?” Tobias asked. “I won’t judge, but I need to know—”

  “I didn’t kill him. I hated the man…but I needed him alive.”

  “Then who was it?”

  Thunder rumbled within Her. “Brontes.”

  Tobias took in a slow, wavering breath. “You weren’t supposed to be in the labyrinth. You weren’t supposed to be healing us.”

  “No. I wasn’t.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “It started out for specific reasons.” She stiffened, forcing out the words. “Then my reasons…changed.”

  Tobias sank into Her arms. The harsh shades of his misery had been reduced to a bruise, patches of black and blue floating in the air.

  “Has the storm cleared?” She whispered. He nodded. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like shit,” he grumbled.

  “Tobias, my darling…” Leila went rigid. Was that too forward? Too soon? “Apologies,” She murmured.

  “Why?” His head perked up. “I like how it sounds—being yours. Say it again.”

  She hesitated. “My darling.”

  He pressed his lips to Hers, kissing Her hard before taking Her face in his hands. “You. Are. Everything. Do you understand? Whatever happens to me, I need you to know that. Tell me you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  His breathing was haggard, his face raw and red. As She wiped the tears from his cheeks, his gaze flitted away. “This is embarrassing,” he muttered.

  “Why? You cry, and thus you’re human? I’ve seen you bleed. I already knew you were human. It was no secret.”

  “What you said before—it’s a lie. I’m not strong. I feel myself breaking.”

  “Enough.” Leila threaded Her fingers between his. “You are the strongest man I’ve ever known. And you’re kind. And you’re good. You are bruised by this tournament, but you are not broken.”

  “I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Another blow, another burden, and God, I think I’ll lose it. I can’t take anymore. I can’t.”

  Leila’s throat tightened. This tournament, Tobias’s suffering—it was all for Her. Whether directly or not, She carried the blame.

  Tobias scowled. “Stop it.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever you’re doing. The guilt is etched across your face. Whatever the worry, abandon it.”

  She chewed Her lip. “Is there something that soothes you? Something to make it better? Anything—”

  “You.”

  The word loosened every knot in Her body. “Then know that you have me.”

  As She sifted Her hand through his curls, he closed his eyes, his chest rising with a long, deep breath. “Can we stay here for a while?” he whispered.

  Brontes. She was to follow him tonight. Then Tobias snaked his arms around Her waist, and the misery in the air shrank ever so slightly.

  “For as long as you’d like, my darling.”

  27

  The Gallery

  “The entire wall, Your Holiness?”

  “The whole thing.”

  “Empty?”

  “Yes.” Leila flicked Her wrist at the opposite end of the room. “Move them over there. Make the space.”

  The servants bowed before bustling through the gallery, peppering the gold and marble with their white linen dresses. Leila had spent all morning following Brontes, and when that proved fruitless, She moved on to more immediate tasks. For now, that meant the gallery, Her favorite room in the palace, one She used to frequent before the tournament began. Funny, She hadn’t realized how much She missed it: the prized jewels in glass cabinets, the polished statues, the pottery, busts, and ancient coins. All of it was captivating, even if She’d already seen each piece a hundred times. But Leila didn’t come for the trinkets. She came for the paintings.

  “You’re certain You want them moved?” A stocky servant waddled Leila’s way, a large framed portrait hoisted onto her back. “Won’t it look…imbalanced?”

  “It is My will and order.”

  “Perhaps a few guards can help us?”

  “No,” Leila snapped. Containing Herself, She forced a smile. “Apologies,
I believe they’re with Erebus at the moment.”

  “All of them?”

  “Leila?” Damaris walked into the space with Raphael at her side. “You summoned him?”

  A hush fell over the gallery, the servants staring at the Intellect in confusion. No doubt they had expected the Artist. Leila hooked Raphael’s arm. “Walk and talk?”

  She dragged him off before he could refuse. Heading down the corridor, She nodded at passing staff only for them to look away.

  “Everyone’s been acting strange lately,” Raphael said. “Did something happen?”

  Leila scanned the space, searching. “You could say that.”

  “It’s as though someone died. Well, someone did die, but even before then…” His eyes widened. “Oh my God, did someone else die?”

  “Romulus.”

  “Who?”

  “The Proctor. He’s dead.” Her shoulders tightened. “That’s why everyone’s so grim. No other reason.”

  “How’s Tobias?”

  Leila turned toward him. “Pardon?”

  “After Orion’s passing. I imagine he took it very hard.”

  “He did.”

  Raphael chewed his lip. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Can you resurrect a man?”

  “Can You resurrect a man? I mean, You’re The—”

  “I can’t bring the dead to life, Raph.”

  “It was worth asking. Why did You summon me anyhow?”

  Leila’s eyes flitted across the palace, locking onto a single man. Her feet slammed to a halt at the base of the grand staircase. “I’ve summoned you for this.” She took Raphael’s hands. “Right here.”

  Raphael glanced between Her face, Her hands, then Her face again. “You’re not going to kiss me, are You?”

  “No,” She said. “We’re going to stand here, gazing into one another’s eyes.”

  “I…don’t follow.”

  “Just gaze into my eyes, Raph.”

  “But—”

  “Smile, while you’re at it.”

  Raphael forced a strained smile, his dimples Her only consolation. She glanced sidelong at the top of the staircase, where Brontes stood looking out the window.

  “Say something funny,” She whispered.

  “What?”

  Leila laughed theatrically, throwing Her head back. Another glimpse, and Brontes was staring at them, his one eye narrowed. Victory. Holding Her grin, She rested a palm on Raphael’s cheek, ignoring the clamminess of his skin. Raphael forced a few hoarse chuckles, but it didn’t matter; Brontes gave the pair one last look before stalking off.

  Sighing, Leila dropped Her hands. “Congratulations. You’re free of the Sovereign’s Tournament.”

  “What?” Raphael watched Brontes disappear. “Right now?”

  “Not now. But in two days’ time, you will be the Sovereign’s choice.”

  “Because of this?” he said. “I don’t see how—”

  “Brontes doesn’t want any man in My favor to win the tournament. So long as we are seen together in any sort of affectionate manner, you will be free.”

  Raphael released a long breath, leaning onto his knees as if rid of a massive weight. “I take it You’ve given Tobias immunity? I imagine he’d be Brontes’s first choice otherwise.”

  “You’re free, Raph. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. Thank You. I just… Thank You.”

  Tense and fidgeting, he studied the place by the window where Brontes once stood. Leila crossed Her arms. “What?”

  “Why does Your father not want You to marry a man of Your choosing? All we did was stand here, holding hands, and that’s enough to have me freed.”

  Servants and staff passed, whispering. Leila faltered. “You should go.”

  “Is something…wrong…between You and the Sovereign?”

  “I’ve hidden My identity for the entirety of this tournament, and you’re now just asking Me this? After threatening to reveal My truth?”

  “Well, I’ve been concerned with my own wellbeing.”

  Heat rose through Leila’s veins. “There’s a banquet soon. I must prepare.”

  “Leila, You can tell me—”

  “Go. That is an order.”

  Raphael opened his mouth but didn’t speak. His eyes flitted over the passing servants and their piercing gazes, as if he was piecing a fraction of the puzzle together.

  “I wish You luck in Your endeavors,” he said. “I wish… I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

  He trudged off, regret trailing in his wake.

  At some point servants hauled Her away, preparing Her in near-silence before the banquet began. The atrium was sparkling, each golden place setting impeccably polished, reflecting the candlelight like blinking stars. It would’ve looked grand had it not been for the sour faces surrounding the dining table, each one either pointed down at their lap or at Leila, judging Her.

  She sat at the end of the table with Her sisters like always, but this time the competitors were seated among them, and Cosima sat in Leila’s throne. Mousumi hadn’t questioned the request. Instead, She had bowed and taken her order, though the scorn was clear in her pursed lips. Cosima was ornamented like a queen, a crown on her head and a much-too-eager smile plastered across her face.

  Grey wafted through the air like smoke. Tobias sat at Leila’s side, handsome in his black drape, but his vacant gaze spoke volumes. Leila wasn’t the only one struggling through the day. Beneath the table, She slid Her hand into his, squeezing until the cloud around him shrank in size.

  Wembleton stood, his guards at attention behind him, and raised his chalice. “Esteemed staff of the palace of Thessen, thank you for joining us for this fine banquet. In just a few days, we will welcome our royal guests from beyond our glorious realm, and so it gives your Sovereign the greatest pleasure to share this feast with you.” He gestured toward the end of the table, hands trembling once his gaze met Leila’s. “Before you sit Her Holiness, Her court, and Her final five competitors. Tonight we honor them and their dedication to the Sovereign’s Tournament. May the best man win.”

  A few people nodded, while others cleared their throats. The tension was consuming, and Leila prayed for something to pull focus away from Her lies.

  Tobias lurched up from his seat, staggering as all heads turned his way. For a second his cloud evaporated, his cheeks bright pink.

  “Apologies,” he muttered, slinking back into his seat.

  Confusion festered within Leila before She plunged Her hand into his, its resting place for most of the evening. Eager to be rid of the stares, She ate quickly, then slipped away, excitement fluttering in Her chest.

  Rounding the table, She leaned toward one of Her servants. “A moment of your time?”

  Damaris’s head popped up from her dinner plate, and she followed Leila out of the atrium. “How can I assist You?”

  “The Artist. Once the feast is over, summon him for Me.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness. To Your study again?”

  Leila shook Her head. “The gallery.”

  She paced amid the artwork for far too long, restless energy rattling Her bones. When footsteps echoed down the corridor, She yanked the door open, pulling Tobias close and throwing Herself into his kiss. The past few days had been a battlefield, war-torn and ugly, but Tobias’s smile—the first She’d seen all day—was beautiful.

  Locking the gallery door, She took his hand. “Come.”

  She led him through the space while his eyes climbed the walls. “What is this?” he asked.

  “The gallery. Filled with the finest pieces in Thessen. Wonderful, isn’t it? Here, let me show you.” She stopped in front of a large, greyish painting. “This is—”

  “The Wretched, by Alena Tantas,” he said.

  “Of course you know. I should’ve guessed.”

  “She was one of my favorites when I was younger. I liked the dark works.” He gestured toward a far more colorful piece of a lovers’
embrace. “And this is—”

  “The Devoted, by Demetrius Shaya. A depiction of him with his wife.”

  Leila reveled in his impressed smirk before taking in the work around them. A glass case filled with crystal animals of Northern Thessen stood against the wall, and in its translucent reflection was a man with long hair, a full beard, and a yellow-wrapped bundle in his arms. Orion. He caught Leila’s gaze and smiled, giving Her a glimpse of his armload—a raven-haired baby, fast asleep.

  “What are you looking at?”

  Tobias stared at Her as if he’d been speaking the entire time.

  “Hm?” Leila said. “Oh, nothing. Come, over here.”

  She dragged him through the room, stopping once they’d reached the newest edition to the gallery. Mother. She hadn’t seen this piece since Her birthday. Tobias’s eyes canvased each spot of color, each dab and stroke.

  “This is Petros’s work,” he said.

  “A true apprentice. You recognized his mark straightaway.”

  “I recognize it because I assisted.”

  Leila spun toward him. “You did?” She pointed to the piece. “This is your work?”

  “Just parts.”

  “Which parts?”

  “Not many.” He shrugged. “The trees, the flowers, the village, the sky…”

  “So everything, essentially.”

  “Everything but The Savior.” He came in closer, eyes locked on the painted woman. “He said he had a specific vision—that he needed to see it through in full. God, he had been working on this for years. I had no idea this was for the palace.”

  “Petros didn’t tell you?”

  “He never told me where any of our pieces went. Said it would spoil my mind, that I should work with heart and purpose regardless of where the painting was headed. I just never thought I’d see one…here. Then again, I never thought I’d be here in the first place.”

  Leila took in the awe of his gaze. Her favorite. Both the painting and the man.

  “When did this arrive?” he asked.