by Jenna Moreci
Low on options, Leila propped Herself onto Her hands and knees, then swayed upright. “You can’t kill Me.”
“I can kill You if I please,” he said.
“You defy My father’s will.”
“On the contrary, I honor it.”
He hurtled toward Her, snatching up Her wrists again and throwing Her off Her feet. She slid along the tile, and soon Erebus was on top of Her, pinning Her down. Panicked, She slashed at his face, their arms a snarl of raking claws. Fingers dug into Her flesh, but She didn’t relent, fighting like mad until he wrested Her hands to Her sides.
“This end was of Your choosing.” He straddled Her chest, crushing Her ribs. “Stupid girl. Hiding Your title from Your realm. You can disappear today, and no one beyond this fortress will know.”
The plan has changed. She tried to scream, but he grabbed Her throat and squeezed.
“Your father thanks You for the convenience of Your decision-making,” he said. “Silencing the staff will be tiresome, but worthwhile.”
Leila kicked Her legs, but Erebus only dug in harder. His face was a mask of nothingness—no effort, no care—while Her lungs burned in anguish. This was it. She had failed. Darkness splintered into Her vision, bringing Her closer to death.
Her body jerked forward, and Erebus released Her throat, sending Her smacking down against the floor. She filled Her lungs and gripped Her chest, half-expecting it to be gone—that She was a ghost, Her tangible body done away with. But She was real, alive, and Erebus was now high above Her, dangling from two scarred hands attached to a massive frame.
Talos.
He wrapped one arm around Erebus’s neck, the other around his chest, turning the Senator’s face from olive to red. As Erebus wheezed, Talos snapped the man’s neck with a fierce twist.
Erebus tumbled to the floor. Leila sat trembling, eyes locked on the corpse at Her feet—the man who’d nearly ended Her life.
“I will dispose of him, Your Holiness.”
Talos’s words barely registered. Erebus was sprawled on his belly, head pointed to the side at an unnatural angle. His deep-set eyes were wide with horror, his final moments forever etched across his face.
“Breathe,” Talos said.
Leila sucked in a breath. Her gaze flitted up and down Her friend, stopping at his ankle—raw and red.
Free.
“Your shackle.”
Talos fished a handful of steel from his pocket. “He dropped these.”
The keys clinked in his meaty palm, worn and rusted, save for a single flash of bright silver—a key so lustrous, it glowed.
“That’s… That’s the one.”
The enchanted key. Talos nodded, then pulled Her to Her feet. Pain sliced through Her, an afterthought.
“You’re free now.” Her voice wavered. “Leave this place.”
Talos stared at Her in silence. He folded the keys into Her palm.
“What are you doing?” She said.
“Go to Your vault, Your Holiness. Collect Your coin.”
“Where will you go?”
“To my cell.”
Her heart seized. “Talos, no.”
“I live to serve The One True Savior. Until You are free, I am not.”
“I order you—”
“Set Yourself free, Little Light. I will aide in any manner You require.”
Her throat became thick, Her hands outstretched before Her. She had to say something, racking Her mind for words She couldn’t piece together.
“Go to Your vault.” He placed Her blade in Her hands. “You know where to find me.”
Tears slid down Her cheeks, but She forced Herself to move. Looking over Her shoulder, She met Talos’s gaze once more before staggering into the corridor.
Breathe. She took in short gasps, fighting to ignore the terror quaking through Her. Sheathing Her blade, She pocketed the keys and charged ahead.
Her knees wobbled, nearly tripping Her along Her journey. Blood painted Her dress, Her arms marked with scratches, Her lungs heaving despite Her efforts. She summoned Her light, and Her power took hold, bringing Her to the giant, steel slab.
The vault. Her vault.
She fumbled for the keys, nearly dropping them once or twice. Three locks and so many keys. She tried each one, Her heart sputtering with every failed attempt. The fifth key snapped into place, then turned, and a squeal vibrated in Her mouth. Another attempt, and this one clicked into place on the first try. One more to go. She went through key after key, sweat beading along Her forehead. The seventh key lurched forward, then turned, stopping with a clank. She forced open the door.
The overwhelming darkness hit Her, and nausea foamed in Her gut. Before Her stood the vault. Her vault.
Empty.
30
The Rage
Grow.
Warm light spilled from Her body into the grass below, but She was cold. Her power had become inconsequential, the darkness beneath the soil barely registering in Her mind. She eyed the patch of grass beside Her—Tobias’s spot.
My spot is with you.
Tears crept down Her cheek, bleeding into the soil below.
A droplet splattered on Her forehead. Shit. She knew what was coming. Never cry outdoors. Grey clouds swept the sky, and rain poured forth, spattering Her and Her garden.
Hopping to Her feet, She darted into Her chamber and drew the curtain shut. As She changed into something dry, a knock sounded at Her door.
“Your Holiness, Your sister would like—”
The door swung open, and Delphi shouldered past Asher, wrapping Leila in a fierce hug.
Leila pulled away. “What was that for?”
“It’s raining.”
Heat flooded Her cheeks. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.” Delphi gave Her a squeeze. “Everything will be all right. We’ll figure it out.”
Arms linked, Delphi led Leila from Her chamber, traveling through the palace in what was hardly a casual stroll. They had spoken of Erebus, of the empty vault, the hidden tunnel, and Brontes’s ever-changing plans. “No one beyond these walls knows I’m The Savior. I can die at any moment. It affords him more time to execute his schemes.” A chill crawled down Her spine. She had done this to Herself.
Delphi tightened Her hold on Leila. She could serve as Her guard all she liked, but at some point, Leila would be vulnerable.
“I met with Nessa last evening,” Delphi said. “She claimed Astrea has been strange lately. Moody and cross. Perhaps she’s the traitor. I’ve also been keeping an eye on the Queen all morning. Nothing of note to mention. Broke her fast, kept mostly with her soldiers. Pretty in the proper lighting.”
Mousumi came down the corridor, a scroll in hand per usual. “Delphinium.” Her eyes flitted to Leila, and she scowled. “Leila. A word about today’s schedule?”
“Proceed.”
“Your royal guests will be in attendance at tonight’s feast. We have reserved seats for them nearest the Sovereign. Is this suitable to You?”
“Yes.” Leila tensed. “Did any of them ask to sit closer to Me?”
Mousumi’s nostrils flared. “No.” She eyed her scroll. “The feast will honor the winner of today’s challenge. The unexpected weather makes the conditions precarious, but the Senate has agreed to continue the challenge as planned.”
“The Senate?” Leila said. “When did they make this decision?”
“Moments ago, Your—” Mousumi stopped herself and sighed. “Leila. I’ve only just come from the Senate room.”
“They’re meeting? Right now?”
“Yes.”
Leila swerved around the servant keeper, abandoning both her and Delphi.
“Leila?”
She ignored Her sister’s calls, Her blood boiling. Servants gawked as She passed, no doubt whispering about the mad Savior, but Leila was transfixed on the Senate door ahead and the two guards standing on either side of it.
One of the guards faltered. “Your Holiness—�
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She thrust the door open, and the voices within faded. Four men stared at Her—Wembleton, surrounded by his legion; Diccus, fiddling with his beard; Hylas, his face drawn; and Brontes, the most miserable bastard of them all.
“What a surprise.” Brontes’s voice came out flat. “As You can see, we’re presently occupied.”
Leila clenched Her jaw. “Holding meetings without Me. I thought the depth of your treachery couldn’t sink any lower, but it seems I underestimated you.”
Hylas glanced across the table with anxious eyes. “If Her Holiness would like, I can recapitulate the points—”
“You’ve chosen to forsake Your crown,” Brontes said.
“I’ve forsaken nothing.”
“Participating in political matters would only serve to reveal Your true title.” Brontes glowered. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Wembleton cleared his throat. “Your time is precious, Your Holiness. Senate meetings are trivial compared to—”
“Yes, you’ve said this before. My vast array of duties, my mornings spent blessing the realm.”
Snorting, Brontes shook his head. Leila opened Her mouth, but the words lodged in Her throat, leaving Her to digest what he hadn’t spoken.
“You don’t believe it,” She said. “That I heal the land.”
The other Senators looked to Brontes, who remained aloof. “Your magic tricks are charming,” he said. “But the land has been fertile for centuries.”
“Because of My line.” Leila pointed at the window. “You see the sun out there, roasting us alive each day? Have you noticed how seldom it rains?”
“It’s raining today.”
“Do you not understand what sort of climate that produces? Desert sand for miles. I keep the land fruitful. I turn the realm green. My light does that, as did the light of every Savior before Me. Or have you forgotten where we came from? Thessen was a wasteland.” Her nails dug into the meat of Her palms. “A plague lurks beneath our feet. I alone keep it at bay. You act as though you’re invincible. Will you feel so strong once boils cover your body? Once your shit turns black and your piss to blood?”
Brontes’s gaze glassed over, his fingers tapping the table. There was nothing She could say. His mind had been made up long ago.
“You’re all going to die when I’m gone.”
She turned on Her heel, leaving the way She had come.
Rain water pooled along the marble surface, seeping through the hem of Her dress. Leila sat on the steps of Her garden staring at the storm, knees tucked into Her chest. Still no response from the traitor at Brontes’s window, and She couldn’t stand the whispers of Her staff. Mad. This time She had heard someone say the word aloud. Retreating to Her bedchamber was the only way to preserve Her sanity.
Someone hammered at Her door, but She ignored it, content to watch the rainfall. The golden slab opened, and Asher spoke from behind Her.
“Leila. Your escorts are waiting.”
A growl bubbled in Her throat. The challenge would soon be underway, which meant She’d have to see Brontes and Cosima.
And Tobias.
Begrudgingly, She left with Her armed patrol.
The trek through the palace was short but humiliating. They stopped at the entryway, where Delphi, Pippa, and Cosima were waiting.
“Leila, my dove!” Cosima beamed. “We thought You’d never show. How are You?”
Leila said nothing, glaring without a hint of subtly. Cosima cleared her throat. “Well then, shall we be off? The others are already on their way.”
Leila shouldered past Her sister, charging down the palace steps and into the rain. Guards marched behind Her, hoisting a canopy overhead that took the brunt of the downpour. Her sisters reached Her sides, walking in silence across the muddy lawn toward the site of the challenge. The tournament had left Leila’s mind given recent events, and now that it had returned, dread resurfaced in Her gut.
A fight to the death.
One of the northern gardens appeared, marble benches and olive trees bordering a plot of grass. She used to play on these grounds as a child, hosted picnics with Her sisters, watched for shapes in the clouds. Now the sky was grey, the grass sodden, and a line of royals stood beneath a canopy much like Her own. The Ethyuan Monarch wore a customary white gown, a heavy gold collar hanging from his throat, the blue paint around his eyes smudged from the rain. Beside Brontes stood a fat pasty man in layers of navy and a young girl with a horrid scowl and hair painted pink—Trogolian royals, the least palatable of the bunch. Then there was the Kovahrian Queen, her cloak lined in silver furs, her eyes on Leila.
Tobias stood like a soldier at the end of the plot, as drenched as the other competitors. She knew they were present, could see them scattered around the grass, but Tobias took Her focus, staring at Her intently. The rainwater did wonderful things for his shirtless physique, which was completely unfair. Her eyes shrank into slits, lit with a hatred She wished was real.
A sneer flickered in Leila’s peripheral vision. Drake growled something at Tobias, who responded in kind, their voices muffled by the rain. A bandage wrapped the assassin’s skull with a reddish-brown patch resting over his ear, and Leila fought back a shudder.
Wet sandals squelched in the mud as Wembleton waded through the garden. His white tunic was slick against his skin, revealing far too much of his pinkish flesh. He took his place in the center of the garden.
“Ladies and gentlemen, royals of Thessen and afar, welcome to the tenth challenge of the Sovereign’s Tournament. Today will determine who goes on to compete in the Culmination. Four of you stand before me, but only three will leave here alive.”
Leila’s eyes went to Tobias, then flitted away. Don’t. His fate was no longer Her concern. Perhaps if She repeated the sentiment, She would soon believe it.
“Your task today is as simple as it is mighty,” Wembleton said. “Today you will fight to the death using only the hands at your sides and your God-given strength. And for the man who falls, know that while you may not stand as Champion, your efforts and valor—”
“Get on with it,” Brontes rasped.
Wembleton’s face fell. “Right.” He joined the royals, struggling to poke his head beneath their canopy. “Gentlemen, ready yourselves.”
Leila’s heart rate spiked as Tobias took a running stance. Kaleo, Drake, and Flynn—they were his opposition. Two assassins, and a man who had betrayed him.
Delphi leaned close to Her. “You’ve blessed him, yes?”
“What?” Leila said. “No. How could I?”
“Steady…” Wembleton barked.
“Then what’s the plan?” Delphi hissed.
“There is no plan.”
“How’s he going to survive then?”
Leila swallowed. “I don’t know.”
Wembleton dropped his arms. “Begin.”
All four men sprinted to the center of the garden, crashing into one another like battering rams.
Leila flinched. A pile of thrashing arms and sopping bodies wrestled with Tobias in the middle, his hands around Kaleo’s throat. Perhaps Her worries were unfounded, and the battle would be over soon. Then Drake and Flynn yanked Tobias backward, and Leila’s hopes died when Kaleo struck him in the jaw.
Again.
Sickness swam in Her stomach. Tobias is going to die. Blood streaked his face, and She dug Her nails into Her palms. The man She loved would meet his end, and She could do nothing but watch.
Tobias broke free, pounding his fist into Drake’s stomach, against Flynn’s jaw. His three opponents banded together, toppling him to the ground, and mud caked their flailing forms, rendering them indistinguishable from one another. Panic lanced through Leila, and She stood on Her toes as if it would somehow help Her differentiate one slick brown limb from another. Nothing—until a man burst free from the pile, gasping for breath as the rain pelted him. Tobias staggered to his feet, his chest heaving, color snaking from his body.
Pippa darted behind
Leila, hiding from the carnage, while Leila remained rooted, transfixed. “Oh My God…”
“What?” Delphi whispered.
Red. It flowed from him in rivers, tinting the raindrops, collecting in puddles. She had never seen rage like this, like blood coursing from hidden wounds. Tobias slammed Kaleo against a pillar, and his rage followed him, leaving reddened streams in his wake. This was no man before Her. He had become something different. Something primal.
Drake slammed Tobias to the ground and stomped on his head, digging Tobias’s face into the mud—red. Tobias yanked the Dragon’s ankle, breaking his footing, then stumbled to his feet, painted from head-to-toe in wrath. Roused and feral, Tobias jabbed Flynn in the jaw, then kicked him to the mud. Even when he lost his ground, he gained it soon after, head-butting Kaleo and crawling on top of him, battering the assassin’s face until Leila could no longer tell which crimson streaks were rage or blood. Her stomach twisted. Tobias was going to win, but at what cost?
Drake grabbed Tobias’s shoulder, tugging him free from Kaleo, and Leila winced, predicting what was to come. Tobias pummeled the man, making a mess of his face, and when those soggy bandages drooped from Drake’s head, Tobias wrenched his sewn ear free from its stitches. The Dragon cried out, and only then did Leila see the others; Kaleo and Flynn waited off at the side of the plot, the realization of the turning tide alive in their gaze. Then there was Tobias, his eyes panning from man to man, selecting his kill.
A roar spilled from his throat as he charged toward Drake, striking him in the mouth. Grabbing the Dragon by the ponytail, he smashed his face into a marble bench, sending blood shooting across the white. A crack cut through the madness as Tobias stomped on Drake’s arm, bone jutting from his flesh. Suddenly Drake was on the ground, and Tobias was on top of him, strangling the life from his opponent—Leila’s assassin. Don’t watch, but Her stare never wavered. Another roar, and red erupted around him, leaving nothing untainted.