by Ava Jae
“Understandable.”
I shrug, but Deimos is giving me that keep talking look, so I glance at Aleija again—who I guess noticed the ring because she’s staring at my hand with a soft smile.
“It’s good to see you wear your inheritance,” she says softly. “I’d wondered what happened to the ring.”
“I’m proud to wear it.” I touch it with my thumb, and Aleija nods. “Um … how is Daïvi doing these days?
“Very well, thank you for asking. The people are happy with my sister’s rule, and everyone’s excited about the upcoming royal wedding.”
“Royal wedding—who’s getting married?”
“My little brother, Daven.” Aleija smiles. “To his boyfriend, Zek. He’s lowborn and they met by chance but have grown to care for each other deeply. It’s all very romantic.” She grins and I can’t help but smile. It feels like so long ago when I met them in Elja—Daven came to court Kora but made it obvious his heart wasn’t in it. He and Zek were delighted when Kora told them she’d be choosing someone else.
“That’s good to hear,” I say. “Daven and Zek seemed happy together when I met them.”
Aleija arches an eyebrow. “You’ve met my brother?”
“I worked at the Eljan palace before I came here. I was there when your brother came to court Kora.”
“Ahh, sha, I remember now. I was relieved when Kora turned them away.”
I smile softly. “So were they.”
“Sha, they were.” Aleija smirks and sips her drink then turns and kisses Jule on the cheek. The two begin talking quietly so I turn back to Deimos.
“Not bad,” he appraises quietly. “Now you just have to do it again with everyone else.”
“Wouldn’t count on it,” I say. “That only worked because I happen to have met her brother. I don’t have that connection with everyone else.”
But Deimos shakes his head. “Naï, that happened because you found a point of connection. You can repeat it with the others—you just have to dig a little to figure out what the connection is.”
“Easier said than done when half the people here hate me.”
“Sha, well, I never said socializing with everyone would be easy.”
I sigh. “This is all so complicated.”
“Once you get accustomed to it, it’s not as complicated as you think. You just need some time to grow into it.”
Grow into it. Sure. The doors slide open behind us and the patter of footsteps hushes the quiet conversations. I don’t need to look back to see who’s come in—the Council is here.
And Lejv walked in with them like he’s one of them.
Deimos scowls. “So much for impartiality,” he mutters.
“They were never pretending to be impartial,” I answer quietly. I’m impressed with how calm I sound, even though I’m anything but.
Deimos glares at them, and maybe their blatant favoritism should bother me, but unlike Deimos, I never expected anything less. I’m used to being overlooked and underestimated. Maybe, just once, I’ll be able to use their low expectations to my favor.
Or maybe I’ll crash and burn and be on the run again, this time with Mal at my side, his life equally at risk. But I can’t worry about that, not now. I run my thumb over the smooth black and gold ring on my finger. I’m meant to be here. I am.
The Council members take their seats on the inner rim of the crescent table, former Sira Ashen across from me once again. This time when he glances at me, I meet his eyes and hold myself confidently. Shoulders back. Gaze firm. He breaks eye contact first, and even though it’s nothing, it feels like a small victory. A group of two men and two women stand tall behind them, gazing over us.
These four are unlike any Sepharon I’ve seen before—they have white writing inked into their marks, not black, and there’s something wrong with their eyes. Each of them have the multicolor rings all Sepharon have, but the colors look bleached—so light their irises look almost colorless, leaving only their pinpoint dark pupils. They all wear identical flowing robes, with layers of fabric over layers of fabric—they must be baking under all that clothing but somehow they don’t seem bothered.
I glance at Deimos, but he doesn’t seem concerned—his shoulders are relaxed, and he even has the echo of a smile on his lips.
I’m not sure who these people are or what it means that they’re here, but if Deimos doesn’t seem worried about it, then maybe I shouldn’t be either.
Of course, Deimos might just be hiding his nervousness, since this is politics, and everything—even your blazing facial expressions—is a calculated move.
I try to keep my face even as I look over them again. I’m not sure it’s working, but better than not trying, I guess. I know how not to react to even the shittiest situations.
“The Council has deliberated this delicate situation,” Ashen finally says. “With Eros’s genetic tests confirmed as former Sira Asha’s son, the Council recognizes his bid for the throne must be taken seriously. By the same token, the Council agrees in this unusual situation that with a candidate completely unprepared for a role of such magnitude, we must take another more qualified candidate into account with equal consideration. Guide footage has been reviewed thoroughly and both candidates have already received support from the people—Lejv, in the main square amongst thousands of Asheron’s own, and Eros, amongst the … commoners.”
While I’m glad they’ve seen the footage, it takes everything in me not to scowl at the way Ashen’s lip curls when he says commoners. As though their support somehow means less because they’re poor.
“Therefore, the Council has agreed to take both Eros d’Elja and Lejv Isak d’Ona as true candidates for the throne. Furthermore, the Council has agreed to accept the High Priest’s request to be involved in the decision-making process, to ensure Kala’s will ultimately influences the final decision.”
No one speaks, and no one looks especially surprised. I probably shouldn’t be surprised, either—the Sepharon as a whole err on the religious side.
I’m just not sure what this means for me. How is Kala’s will determined? Could they use this as an excuse to pick Lejv even if I perform better than expected? Who verifies the will of a deity who may or may not actually be real?
“As such,” Ashen continues, “the High Priest will examine both Eros and Lejv in three sets’ time to determine Kala’s first judgment of the character and devotion of both candidates.”
I’m not supposed to react to this, but my shoulders tense before I can stop them, Ashen’s words sinking into my blood and seizing my muscles.
A priest is going to determine my character and devotion.
Devotion to a religion I’m not a part of—to a god I don’t believe in—to make a decision that could overrule the whole Council. Which means one thing.
I’m fucked.
Trying to get through the front gates of the palace grounds is impossible—and dangerous to attempt—because it would require fighting through the mob of more than a five hundred strong and opening the gates the guard are working so desperately to keep closed. Sitting in Jarek’s transport, I slink back away from the window, silently grateful no one can see into the tinted windows as we glide past the edge of the crowd, far from the gates. They aren’t protesting me—not anymore—but that doesn’t slow my accelerating heart or calm the hum between my lungs.
I close my eyes and take a steadying breath. This was, potentially, a catastrophically bad idea. What’s to say the people won’t be just as furious to see me as they are Dima? I doubt they know Dima framed me, even if they know now that I wasn’t at fault for Serek’s poisoning. How do I know they won’t want both of our heads? And can I really trust Jarek not to feed me to them?
I glance at Jarek as he runs his thumb over the steering unit and takes us down a quiet side street. His lips are tight, shoulders stiff, dark brown skin glistening with sweat thanks to the transport’s broken cooling system. Or maybe nerves. Or both.
Kala, I hope I
made the right decision.
We don’t go through the front gates—instead Jarek takes me to a private, closed off sand garden behind one of Vejla’s many temples, past a guard who nods us through, and onto the intricately moved sands that probably took some priests several sets to put together. Swirls and detailed spirals and turns weave through the red sand, turning the fine powder into a work of art.
A work of art Jarek is digging through with his bare hands.
“We’re ruining their work.” I grimace as Jarek lifts sand by the handful, digging a hole to Kala knows where. “Why are we even here?”
“Just wait.” Jarek drops to his knees as he digs deeper into the sand. “Or, better, help me dig.”
I frown, but kneel across from him and begin digging with my uninjured arm through the flour-soft sand. “Are we looking for something?”
“A door. But we’re not looking because I know where it is—we just need to move this sand out of the way.”
“A … door?” I frown. “I don’t understand—it’s not like there are any secret entrances into the palace complex.”
Jarek grunts and keeps digging.
My eyes narrow. “Because if there were secret entrances into the palace complex, important figures, such as, say, ken Avra, would know about them.”
Jarek mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like they usually do and I stop digging. Heat races into my face as my heart drums in my chest. He isn’t saying—they couldn’t possibly—
“They usually—were you purposefully keeping information from me when I was Avra?”
Jarek sighs and wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “I wasn’t keeping information from you—your father was. Before your coronation, he ordered certain things not be disclosed to you until your twentieth lifecycle celebration.”
“Oh, of course he did,” I hiss. “I imagine the same stipulation was not made for my brother.”
Jarek continues digging in silence, which is answer enough. I curse under my breath, my hand shaking as I single-handedly dig deeper. My father wasn’t pleased about my taking the throne—he never hid his irritation that I, not Dima, was born first and thus would inherit his position as Avra. He openly favored Dima—he mentioned repeatedly I’d never live up to the same kind of leader my brother would be had I not been born.
It took me a long time to realize I didn’t want to be the same kind of leader as my brother. I wanted to be better.
But even with the favoritism, even with my father’s undesirable comments and the never-ending judgement in his gaze, I never imagined he’d sabotage my efforts as Avra. I never imagined he would set a tone of distrust to my guard, my Council, my court before I had even taken the throne.
I never expected resolute support from my father, but apparently setting the bar above not sabotaging your daughter was too much to expect from him.
My fingers jam into something hard—I curse and glance at Jarek. “Found it.”
Jarek nods. “Do you feel the handle?”
I press my palm against the smooth surface and push sand out of the way, sliding along the door until— “Sha, I have it.”
“Pull the handle up, then grip it and turn it left. If it’s too heavy for you to pull up with the sand on top, I’ll help you.”
I do as he says—pull the handle up, grip it tightly, turn left, and something thunks beneath us. Jarek moves out of the way and I stand, stepping back as I pull on the handle. The hiss of shifting sand whispers beneath me as the door lifts a bit and sand races over the edges—but Jarek is right, this is really heavy, especially as I’m only using one arm to lift it.
“Sha,” I say, my voice tight and strained. “Your help would be appreciated.”
Jarek steps behind me, slips his hands over mine, and together we yank the door open. Sand rushes into the newly uncovered tunnel as lights blink along the edges and down the tunnel wall, lighting a path along metal rungs of a ladder.
And it hits me all at once why this is familiar—I may have not entered the rebel base in Enjos, but … could this explain where the rebels were hiding in Enjos? Is it possible they had access to tunnels deep under the sand like this?
Did we build the underground network in Enjos and then leave it ready for the taking when the city was abandoned?
“Come,” Jarek says. “It’s safe, I promise. Just pull the door closed after you as you descend and lock it by turning the handle right.”
“What about the sand? Won’t it be obvious to anyone else who comes by?”
“The guard who let us in will cover it again, and the priests will etch a new design in the sand to discourage anyone from disturbing the garden.”
My face warms. “The priests know about this, too? Is there anyone who doesn’t know about this?”
Jarek just sighs.
After I lock us into the tunnel, we descend in silence. Though I’ve avoided using it, my arm is almost healed now, so while putting weight on it stings a bit, it’s manageable. The tunnel is longer than expected, and I can’t help but feel a little grateful Jarek went first—it’d be a long fall if I slipped and he wasn’t there to grab me.
Eventually we reach the bottom. Lights flicker to life as we walk, revealing the tunnel before us one piece at a time. There are several turn offs—much more than I expected—but Jarek must have traveled these tunnels before because he takes the turns without hesitation. After a few moments, the ground inclines until we reach a set of twisting, gradual stairs, which leads to a shorter vertical tunnel with a ladder. Jarek goes first, and soon we’ve reached another door. He unlocks it and then pounds on the door twice.
“Lower your gaze.” Jarek glances down at me. “You don’t want to get sand in your face.”
I look down. Breaths later, the door opens and sand pours over us. Washing all of this off later is going to be wonderful.
We emerge behind the Grand Temple within the palace complex. The deep red sands, the white stone pathways, the glistening temple under the twin suns—it all washes over me in a wave and grips the back of my throat. My eyes sting as I breathe in the smooth desert air. I never expected I’d be able to return here—not to Elja, not to Vejla, and certainly not the palace complex. Not over the smooth red sand I love, surely not on the glistening white streets I played on as a child.
And yet, not quite half a term since I ran, here I am.
I’m home.
The guards tell us Dima is in his rooms, and they say it with a wary gaze that sets a chill down my back. Jarek and I walk quickly, Jarek’s shoulders tight with tension, his frown heavy as he worries his lip. My heart thrums as we wind through the palace, closer and closer to my brother’s bedroom, closer to seeing the boy I haven’t faced since he framed me for attempted murder and tortured my friend.
The boy I grew up with and confided in until it wasn’t safe for me to do so anymore. The boy I loved even after he was twisted by jealousy, even after he could no longer look at me as just his sister, his friend. The boy who plotted against me behind my back, who didn’t stop when his plan could have gotten me killed.
Who may have even executed me himself had Eros not allowed me to escape.
Eros is right—I should hate Dima. I should feel no pity for him, not an ounce of love anymore. But love doesn’t disappear just because someone has hurt you, just because someone has betrayed you, just because they turned their back when you needed them most.
So maybe what Eros and I had was too fragile, too young to be love. Maybe our feelings, real as they were, hadn’t had the chance to grow into a bond that can withstand shattering mistakes. Maybe we didn’t protect it long enough before exposing it to hurt, and mistrust, and fear.
Maybe it was my fault, or maybe it was just what we both went through, or maybe it was both. But that the moment we had together slipped away from us like sand through our fingers, tells me maybe it wasn’t meant to become love at all. Because love is resolute, and even though Dima doesn’t deserve it, even though he’
s done everything in his power to try to kill it, I still love my brother as much as I did when we were children. I couldn’t change that even if I wanted to.
It just hurts a lot more now.
A nearby crash startles me out of my thoughts. Jarek and I pause for just a breath before racing down the hall toward Dima’s room. Jarek doesn’t knock or check if the door is locked—he races to the bedroom door and rushes inside. I follow after him, sliding to a stop just a couple steps from the doorway.
Dima is sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at Jarek wide-eyed. Deep shadows almost look like bruises under his eyes, and his skin has the sickly pallor of way too many glasses of azuka. Seeing him like this is a kick to the stomach.
My brother and his partner stare at each other for a few breaths.
“Jarek?” Dima croaks.
Jarek crosses the room, side-steps a broken glass several paces from Dima’s bed—the crash we heard—and pulls my brother into his arms.
And Dima sobs against Jarek’s chest.
“Shh,” Jarek whispers, rubbing Dima’s back. “I’m sorry. I’m here.”
“You left!” Dima wails. “You just left, and—”
“I know. I’m so sorry, but I had to—I need you to trust me, Dima.”
My brother still hasn’t looked at me. I’m not certain he’s even seen me yet. But he looks up at Jarek, sniffling, his eyes red and bleary from tears and drink.
And then he looks at me.
The following silence as Dima stares at me, blinking slowly, taking in that I’m here, not dead, not in Asheron, but here in his room. The realization that Jarek must have brought me, because Jarek just arrived and so did I.
I can’t breathe. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling right now, and I can’t breathe.
“Dima,” Jarek says slowly, “I think we all need to discuss the situation … preferably when you’re sober again.”
“Kora,” Dima breathes.
“Hello, Dima,” I answer carefully. I open my mouth to say it’s good to see him, but truth be told, it’s not. Brother or not, I would have been perfectly happy never to speak to him again. Not to mention, he doesn’t exactly look thrilled to see me either, and this could go badly quickly, and he looks terrible. So instead, I say, “It’s been some time.”