by Ava Jae
“I think I can manage that.”
“I know you can.”
Our running path around the complex is so familiar I don’t have to think about it anymore. Deimos and I run side by side, our steps and breaths in sync, in an all-too familiar rhythm. It reminds me of the morning runs I used to do with Day. It reminds me of nothing but hot, dry air and miles of endless powdery red sand. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend it’s Day, not Deimos beside me, but then—I don’t want to.
I loved my brother and miss him terribly, but I don’t need to pretend Deimos is someone else to enjoy these moments together. I’ve never had a closeness like this that wasn’t required by family—I’ve never had such a close friendship with a guy outside the Kits, and I definitely never imagined I’d have one with a Sepharon guy, no less a Sepharon prince.
But here we are, running side by side. Here we are in perfect rhythm, our steps, our breaths, our path burned into our minds by countless revolutions. And yes, the white sand is harsh on our feet, and yes, the buildings and stalls, and fountains, and statues and everything else is so far from home, so foreign to the camp I used to know, but I don’t hate this newness either.
Deimos nudges me with his shoulder and grins. I pant out a breathless laugh and nudge back, and something about this—us, this togetherness—it’s so natural. I can imagine doing this for cycles to come. Running around the complex in the morning hush with Deimos until our muscles won’t take us anymore.
I can almost imagine a future here with Deimos at my side.
Sometime later, I’m freshly blanket-washed and changed into what Deimos calls Asheron’s best, which is apparently a black and gold (of course) sleeveless shirt that isn’t meant to seal in the front (I don’t know), and dark gray loose pants that cinch just below the knees, with gold embroidery all over the soft, shiny fabric, and gold sandals.
I doubt I’ll ever get used to the fashion here, and normally I wouldn’t care enough to bother trying, but Deimos is always well-dressed so I just let him choose my clothes for me. By the time we’re done, Mal’s awake and announces he’s going to walk around a bit before strolling out the door, his hand trailing along the wall. I almost stop him, but Deimos touches my shoulder; sparks scatter over my skin.
“It’s a good thing—he’s getting more comfortable here and getting used to his surroundings. Let him go, he’ll be fine.”
The thought of Mal walking around the complex on his own sets me on edge—what if something happens? But Deimos is right; if he’s confident enough to do it, I’m not going to stand in his way. He’s not a baby.
Despite Deimos’s earlier spirit, though, as we head to the banquet hall, he seems more anxious than usual.
“The Head Priest will be there, along with everyone else. I’m not sure about the other priests, but that doesn’t matter—they aren’t important,” Deimos rambles. “They didn’t elaborate on what they’ll be announcing, just that some kind of decision’s been made, so either they picked one of you or there’ll be another test, or …”
“Hold on,” I say. “There’s a chance they’ll interview us again?”
Deimos shakes his head. “Not an interview, naï, but if they’re undecided, they might have you both do … something else. Possibly. Or they may have already made a decision.”
“Something else like what?”
“I don’t know.” He frowns. “I’m not a priest, so I’m not sure what all of the options are.”
I frown.
“But it’ll be okay. Whatever happens, I’ll ensure you and Mal are taken care of.”
“Thank you.”
“Sure.” He sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Sure, sure, sure …”
Dammital. Deimos’s nervousness is catching—as though I wasn’t already anxious enough. Deep breaths in, deep breaths out. I drum my fingers along my thigh until we cross into the dining room—then Deimos and I pull our shoulders back and walk like we have nothing in the world to be worried about and I almost laugh at how synchronized the whole thing is.
I guess I really am getting used to life here.
Deimos and I aren’t the first ones to enter, but we’re not the last, either. Simos and Ejren nod at us as we enter the quiet room, and Aleija smiles when we sit next to her and her wife.
“Fully recovered?” she asks with a quiet laugh.
“Recovered enough,” I answer with a small smile.
“Good. That ufrike and araban-zeïli combination can do a number on you.”
“Sha, Deimos forgot to mention to me they’d be drugging us for the interview.”
“I didn’t realize!” Deimos laughs. “Though, in retrospect, it makes sense. I probably should have predicted it.”
I smirk. “Probably?”
“Hush.”
Aleija laughs. “To be fair, I only knew because it’s especially common in Daïvi for any religious ceremony of remote importance. I imagine it’s less so in A’Sharo.”
“I honestly wouldn’t know.” Deimos shrugs. “My brother Olen does nearly all of the religious ceremonies in private, and he doesn’t talk about them. And as the youngest son, the priests there don’t care if I participate in the annual rituals, so I haven’t participated since I was fourteen.”
“Ah,” Aleija nods. “And they don’t give the substances to the children.”
Deimos smirks. “I would hope not.”
A burst of laughter and talk behind us announces Lejv’s entrance with his many supporters. Men sit at their respective places around the crescent table, piling their plates with food I forgot was there.
I guess we’re here to eat while we listen to the verdict, even though my stomach is anything but hungry right now.
Deimos slides a large serving spoon portion of wiggling white squares onto my plate. I grimace. “What are you doing?”
“You want to try that,” he announces, and I’m not sure if he’s joking. I mean, the food is moving—food isn’t supposed to move. But then he serves himself a heap of the stuff so I guess maybe it’s not terrible.
“What is it?” I frown at the quivering squares. “And why is it moving?”
Deimos snickers and passes me one of their weird utensils—I still haven’t mastered how to use these, but at least I know what not to do now, I guess. “It’s called istel and the movement is just the texture—every shake of the table makes it move, but it’s not alive, I promise. And it’s good. Trust me.”
I look at him skeptically, but then he pokes one onto his utensil and eats it. I frown at the thick white squares, but poke one with the stick thing they eat with like Deimos did and put it in my mouth. It’s cold, and sweet, and the texture is kinduv wet and slimy, which I don’t love, but when I bite into it, it’s thick—and I have to admit—tastes pretty good.
“Your food is so weird,” I mutter.
Deimos snickers. “It’s your food now, too.”
We eat with everyone but the former Sira and the High Priest, and the initial quiet grows into an endless murmur of voices, spattered with bouts of laughter and louder conversation. The more I eat, the easier it is to focus on the food rather than my nerves, so I manage to fill and clear my plate.
“We’ll have to bring some of this back for Mal,” I say.
“Already had some sent to his room.” Deimos smiles. “I talked to the staff this morning before waking you up.”
I blink. I shouldn’t be surprised—Deimos has gone above and beyond when it comes to making sure Mal gets what he needs throughout our time here. It’s the first time I’ve seen a Sepharon treat a human as … well, human. “That was … thanks.”
“Any time.” Deimos takes a large bite of some kinduv meat mix I haven’t been brave enough to try because some of the meat is purple and some of the other meat is gray, which …
Another time.
When almost everyone has just about cleared their plates and no one is reaching for more, Tamus enters the hall in his customary Ona black and silver. I expe
ct him to go to his usual place across the table, but instead he walks right up to me and nods to the door.
“Can I have a word?”
Deimos raises his eyebrows and my stomach flips, but I nod and stand. “Of course.”
We step out into the hallway and far enough from the doors that they slide closed, shutting out the chatter inside the dining hall. The air vibrates in my chest as I try to swallow my nerves.
“My son and his husband have spoken highly of you,” Tamus says.
I smile softly. “I’m glad to know them.”
Tamus nods. “I’ve been paying close attention to both Lejv and your evaluations and have reviewed many of your father’s archived speeches. He was a visionary, and the more I consider what we know—from your birth to your genetics and possession of the ring and the mysterious circumstances around his death—the more I’m convinced your being here is not an accident.”
Tension rolls off my shoulders and something thrills inside me—if this conversation is going where I think it’s going … do I actually have Tamus’s support?
“Unfortunately, most of the council doesn’t see it that way.”
And just like that, the thrill dies. I don’t know why—it’s not like I thought anything else; I knew most of the council didn’t support me. But hearing it from Tamus stings nonetheless.
“I … expected as much.”
Tamus nods. “Lija da Daïvi also supports you, as I’m sure you may have guessed, and there are a couple others who are undecided. But I wanted to warn you, because much of the council is positioned against you, and I can’t imagine it will go well for you or your nephew if Lejv takes the nomination.”
Cool air breathes down my spine and ice settles between my lungs.
“I wanted you to be aware,” Tamus says, “both that you have support from Lija and me, but also that you need to tread carefully in the coming sets. I can’t tell you what the High Priest decided, and it’s not a hopeless situation, but there’s still much that needs to be done to garner you enough support, even if the next sets go well for you.”
I take a deep breath and nod. “I appreciate the warning. Thank you.”
Tamus nods and we return to the dining hall. Deimos nudges me as I sit and leans close to whisper in my ear. “What was that about?”
His warm breath washes down my neck and I shiver. “Later,” I answer quietly.
Not two mos later, Ashen enters with the High Priest. The air goes cold and my stomach churns—maybe I shouldn’t have eaten so much after all. I wipe my hands on my thighs under the table and inhale deeply through my nose as Ashen kneels at his place across from me. The High Priest doesn’t sit—he stands behind Ashen and looks around at everyone.
Deep breaths in, deep breaths out. I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.
Stars, I hope everything will be fine.
“Thank you all for joining us,” the High Priest says. “As I’m certain you’ve heard, my fellow brothers and sisters have discussed at length the results of the examination of our two candidates, Eros d’Elja and Lejv d’Asheron. Both men spoke freely and truthfully, and their words and spirits were considered. Together, we prayed to Kala and listened to their word, and we unanimously agree on the message we heard from The Glorious One Above.”
The room falls to a stillness barely disturbed by breathing. The words that come could change everything. They could be a death sentence for me and Mal, or not. They could mean more waiting, and testing, and awful, tense moments like this one with the next verdict.
Deep breaths in, deep breaths out.
Please be fine. Please please please let everything be fine.
“Eros and Lejv are well matched,” the High Priest says. “Kala agrees both men are well-qualified upon examination, and so Kala has elected to make the decision directly.” The High Priest lowers his head, as though bowing in reverence. “This is their decision, and we are but their vessel. And so it has been decided.”
Then he bows and takes a step back. What does that Voiding mean? How can a god decide anything directly? It’s not like religious deities come down from their thrones and visit the planet from time to time—it’s not like any of us have ever seen Kala, or ever will.
So what in the Void does Kala making the decision directly mean?
I glance at Deimos. His eyes are wide and he’s chewing his lip. Fuck. He’s worried. If he’s worried, I should be worried.
Something’s wrong. What does this mean?
“The match will be tomorrow at the rising of the suns, in the courtyard,” Ashen says. “It will be broadcasted live to all, and the world will watch as Lejv and Eros fight before Kala to determine the final decision.”
My breath catches and I glance at Lejv. Fight. We’re fighting?
I can fight. How well prepared is Lejv for hand-to-hand combat?
It doesn’t matter. I can fight, and I’m anything but out of practice—Deimos and I spar almost every day, and I’ve trained for this my whole life. Something like lightness rises in my chest and wraps around my heart.
Is it possible things have actually gone my way? It is possible I’m really one sparring match away from securing safety for Mal, for myself, for humans around the globe?
“Tomorrow, one man will become Sira.” Then Ashen looks right at me and the lightness turns to ice. That look—pure malice. Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is wrong.
And then he says the words, and everything is wrong at once.
“One man will become Sira. And one man will die.”
“You’re holding back.” Deimos glares at me as I catch my breath, sweating under the suns, hands on my knees.
“Sure,” I pant. “Holding back. That’s why I need to break to catch my breath.”
“You could have better connected that kick.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re sparring, not really fighting. I’m not trying to actually hurt you.”
“Shae,” Deimos says. “But you won’t be able to hold back during the match tomorrow.”
I stand up straight. Kick off my shoes even though the sand is course under my feet—but it’s harder to get a grip on the ground wearing them. The courtyard is a wide, sandy space with statues marking off each corner of the square. Two fountains trickle gold-tinted water endlessly on either side of the square, and the three corners of the palace marking off the north end aren’t shading the square anymore.
I walk to the nearest fountain, take a breath to brace myself for the inevitable, and dunk my head under. The water isn’t as cool as I’d hoped, and the shock is a lightning bolt to my system—I pull my head back up quickly before the memories hit. But when the water drips down my shoulders, and my heart beat slows, I close my eyes and take an easy, deep breath. I’m cooler now. Worth it.
“You realize that’s probably a holy fountain or something of the like.” Deimos smirks.
I open my eyes and snort. “Naï it’s not. We’re nowhere near the temple.”
“True, but dunking your head in is probably frowned upon.”
“Too bad.” I sigh. “It’s way too hot for me to care.” I sit on the edge of the fountain and Deimos rests next to me.
“You heard what I said, though, shae?”
“Shae,” I mumble. “Can’t hold back tomorrow.”
“I mean at all. One of you is going to die, and it can’t be you.”
I press my face into my palms. It should be easy to say, sha, of course, I’ll do what I have to. It should be easy to agree that as much as I don’t like it, tomorrow’s match has to end in a death. And it’s not like I haven’t killed before—multiple times. It’s not like I hesitated before killing those men who attacked Kora or killed Day and my parents. It’s not like I’ve ever hesitated to do what’s necessary when faced with an enemy, with life or death.
But I’m tired. I’m so tired. I don’t want to add to my personal death toll; I don’t want the list to grow. I don’t want to dream about another life I’ve taken, an
d I don’t want to relive it again, and again, and again.
I have so much blood on my hands already and I don’t want more. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.
But this time, like every time, I might not have a choice. This time, like every time, it’ll be me against him, my life or his, and losing my life will mean more than dying.
If I lose, so does Mal. So do humans across the globe. And maybe I’d be able to live with letting everyone down, maybe I’d be able to accept humans will continue to lose again, and again, and again, because I wouldn’t be around to see it anyway. Maybe I’d be able to accept that.
But what I can’t accept is leaving Mal in danger. What I can’t accept is my thirteen-year-old nephew running for his life—and probably losing it eventually anyway. What I can’t accept is his best-case scenario would be becoming someone’s servant, because there’s no way he’d make it back to a camp—or even The Remnant, for that matter—alone.
His life is in my hands, and tomorrow, it might cost another life. The life of a man I care nothing about, the life of a man who represents everything I’m fighting against. But a man nevertheless.
A life.
“Look,” Deimos says softly. “I know … it’s not easy. They’re asking so much from you—”
“I’m not sure you do know, actually—”
“But if this doesn’t go the way we want it to, I want you to know I’ll take care of Mal.”
I blink. Stare at him. “What?”
Deimos frowns. “If … if you lose, I’ll protect your nephew. It wouldn’t be perfect—and he’ll probably never be respected, but I can ensure no one else takes him. I can make sure he’ll grow up healthy, and strong, and not as someone’s servant.”
I frown. “You can do that?”
Deimos nods. “He might … if anyone questions it, I may have to call him my servant, but I swear to you it won’t be true. He’ll be his own man—or at least, as much as a human can be in Sepharon society. And when he’s grown, I’ll let him leave or stay, whatever he wants. He’ll be free to make his own choices, I promise you.”