Into the Black

by Ava Jae

  “Naï … but it will be when I recover.”

  Deimos sighs. “After he’s had more time to prepare, but sha. I’m so sorry, Eros—kafra, you should have found me if you wanted to run.”

  “I didn’t think I’d need a bodyguard. I didn’t want to wake you up unnecessarily.”

  “Evidently it wouldn’t have been unnecessarily, but I wish you had. I wasn’t sleeping anyway.”

  “I obviously didn’t know that.”

  “I know.” Deimos frowns at me. “If they hadn’t destroyed the nanites, this wouldn’t even be a problem. The medics could have mended your bones in a segment.”

  “Sha, and they probably wouldn’t have bothered if the nanites were functional, because they’d know how quickly it could be healed.”

  “Cowards,” Deimos says again. “Kafrek cowards, every one of them.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I say. “You’ll talk to the council, and they’ll postpone the fight until I’ve recovered. That’s only fair, especially when it’s obvious this was a sabotage attempt from Lejv’s side.”

  But Deimos doesn’t look convinced, and to be honest, I’m not sure I believe me either.

  After missing the news about Eros’s upcoming match, I set my glass to collect any mention of Eros in the news. Naturally that means more articles and feeds than I need, because few news sources on Safara are not talking about the half-blood that may become the next Sira, but I scan through it a couple times a set nevertheless. I don’t want to miss anything again.

  Now before the suns rise, I sit in front of my mirror, putting my hair up with a wrap and double-checking the covering on my scarred arm and shoulder. It still feels strange to do this alone, though it’s been nearly half a term since Anja helped me prepare for the set, but she taught me well how to strategize my presentation, from the way I wear my hair to the color of my arm wrap.

  Today I will meet the people and their choice of representative.

  Today I will start in earnest my new rule with an aide at my side. Something that’s never been done, not in Elja, not in any of the other Safaran territories. Some opinion writers think I’m foolish, but the Eljan feeds at least seem cautiously optimistic, which is all I care about.

  I meet my gaze in the mirror and roll my shoulders back. I keep my chin up and inhale deeply. Strength. Power. Respect. I am Avra, and this time I won’t fail my people. This time I will show Safara why I, not my brother, was meant to rule all along.

  This time I’m ready.

  It’s still far too early to go out and see everyone though, so I sit on my bed and pull my glass onto my lap to check the news collected for me overnight. The list is longer than usual—and my heart jolts at the first headline: Eros Attacked Night Before Match.

  Oh, Kala. I can’t breathe—if Eros was hurt, or worse—

  A fist in my throat, I splay my fingers to open the short article.

  “Unverified reports indicate the half-blood contender for the Sira throne, Eros d’Elja, was attacked during a night jog by unknown assailants. Guide footage of the attack is conspicuously absent. If the reports are true, it is yet unknown if the match will go on as planned today, but sources indicate Eros is still alive. Updates to follow.”

  Other, longer articles all say the same. That the attack is unverified, that Eros is alive, that no one knows whether the match will be delayed. Some call it convenient, as though Eros didn’t want to get this nightmare over with. Others call it an “interesting” update, as though this attack were a form of entertainment.

  It doesn’t matter how it’s presented—the thought of Eros getting attacked in the middle of the night makes me sick to my stomach. The cowards.

  I’d refrained from messaging Eros because I didn’t want to distract him, but I need to know he’s okay. As Avra, I have access to the personal glasses of other royals. Eros doesn’t have his own assigned to him yet, but Deimos does. I find his name in my list of contacts quickly and send him a short video message.

  “Deimos, I’ve seen the reports this morning of Eros’s attack. Please let me know he’s okay—I—” My voice cracks. I press my fist to my mouth and take a deep breath. “I just need to know he’s fine. I’ll keep an eye on the feed for updates on the match. Just please tell me he’s okay.”

  I turn off the recording, send it, and stare at the ceiling with stinging eyes. The match was always going to be dangerous, and I was ready for that. But this attack beforehand and the reminder that he could die this evening—that he could have died last night—

  It hurts.

  It’s terrifying.

  And for this to happen just before I face the people—it’s a bad omen.

  I take some time to compose myself before the suns rise. Deimos, to his credit, responds quickly with a written message saying Eros is injured, but alive, and they’re going to appeal to the Emergency Council to get the match postponed. It’s a precarious situation, but hearing there’s still hope, is what I need to swallow my fear and fill my lungs with the confidence to face everyone.

  I leave my room just after the suns rise.

  It’s a surreal thing to be here again, back in a position of power. But it’s so different from before; before, walking the halls was terrifying and facing the people more so. Before, I looked at every corner for a threat, glanced at every guard knowing it was only a matter of time before someone—maybe one of them—turned against me.

  And I was right; I just had never expected that someone to be my own brother.

  But walking the halls now, I don’t feel as though the armor of strength, power, and respect I wear is fake. I don’t feel like a little girl playing pretend, like a child wearing a crown always too heavy for her to bear.

  Today I feel like an Avra, truly, for the first time. And I’m not afraid. Not anymore.

  The people are gathered at the gates when I emerge under the suns and walk over the home sands. Dima and Jarek don’t join me this time—I haven’t seen much of my brother since he officially returned my title to me, but Jarek told me he’ll be fine, he just needs some time to process. Which is fine. Dima can process all he wants; I have work to do.

  “Open the gates,” I tell the guards manning the entrance. They don’t hesitate—the gates pull back and I step in front of the crowd.

  For this moment, everything is so quiet. A warm, gentle breeze wisps past my cheek, almost a caress. The people watch me with expectancy, with a strength in their gazes that looks, feels, and tastes like respect. They hold their heads high and they nod and bow, and no one is afraid, no one is angry, and everyone is here. There are more people gathered than I’ve ever seen at once in Vejla—they extend into the horizon, deep into the city, farther than I can see.

  And, truly, I am not afraid.

  “Thank you all for gathering here,” I say. “It’s wonderful to see so many of you. Have you chosen a representative?”

  A murmur washes through the crowd, and a young man near the front steps forward. His face is scarred—the mark of a burn I know all too well spreads in a streak from his forehead, over his left eye, and down his jaw and neck. The burn mars the skin of his left shoulder, where it disappears into his shirt. His left leg ends just above the knee—the rest is a stylized white and red metal prosthetic, made to look like a mechanical leg, provided by the territory. Interesting that he chose to go for a replacement that’s clearly artificial, rather than one of the seamless, pseudo-skin nanite-built replacements.

  Then again, I suppose if he had, he probably wouldn’t have a prosthetic at all right now.

  My shoulder prickles as I look him over—I don’t need to ask where he received his scars. I wasn’t the only one left marked from the explosion that ended my coronation and killed my parents. But something about him is different: he doesn’t wear his scars like something to hide. He doesn’t cover his shoulder or try to hide his leg—even the scars on his face are left unpainted, for all to see.

  Meanwhile, I cover my scarred arm down to my fingers. I
leave it uncovered for nothing—even just glancing at the shiny, mottled skin reminds me endlessly of the set I’d do anything to forget.

  “Very well,” I say. “What is your name?”

  “Uljen d’Elja,” he answers smoothly. “I’m honored to be chosen by the people.”

  Uljen. His name ripples through the crowd, repeated quietly over and over into a blanket of voices.

  “Er or’jiva, Uljen.” I smile. “I look forward to working with you. Please, come with me.”

  “Not yet.” Uljen pulls back his shoulders and lifts his chin. “The people of Elja have chosen me, but not as your second.”

  Though the morning suns beat down on me, a cold chill whispers down my spine. Men near the front of the crowd cross their arms and nod. The guards beside me stiffen.

  “Oh?” I say carefully, ignoring the part of me that knows exactly what this is, exactly what is coming. “If not as my second, then what?”

  Uljen smiles, and all the stars in the universe couldn’t thaw the ice that washes over my blood. “The people have spoken: they want me to rule in your stead.”

  “An act of Kala?” Deimos repeats, bristling. “I refuse to believe you’re this willfully ignorant. This isn’t an act of Kala—this is an act of Lejv!”

  My head throbs with the tenor of Deimos’s outburst. The medics gave me some sortuv painkiller—a drug administered through the same prickly gel patch thing Serek used to sample my DNA—and it’s taken the edge off the worst of the pain at least, so I can breathe without wincing and my skull doesn’t feel like it’s on fire. But the throb is still there, and it’ll stay for a while.

  Good news: they were able to reset my nose (which felt like anything but good news) and my skull isn’t cracked—my brain is just bruised.

  Bad news: I look like I’ve been run over by a pack of kazim and feel about the same. And now Deimos has called a gathering in the private meeting room, and the Council is calling it an act of Kala, because of course they are.

  “Deimos,” former Avra Oniks—Deimos’s grandfather—cautions. “Show respect to your elders.”

  “I’m sorry, ta’nahasi, but surely you can’t support this. Kala didn’t ordain this—this is clearly sabotage. Just look at him!”

  Seven gazes focus on me again and I grimace.

  “He’s in no shape to fight,” Deimos says. “The honorable thing to do would be to postpone the match until he’s recovered enough to fight evenly.”

  “The date of the match is set,” Ashen says. “To move it would be disobeying the High Priest’s order—and, by extension, Kala himself.”

  “Kala wouldn’t want such an important fight to be so clearly uneven!” Deimos shouts. Ashen’s eyes narrow and I touch Deimos’s shoulder.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “They’ve made their decision. Let’s just go.”

  “But—”

  “Thank you,” I say loudly, speaking over Deimos, “for your consideration. I’ll be at the match shortly.”

  And with that, I grab Deimos’s arm and pull him out of the room, even as he swears the whole while—and we walk right into Lejv.

  Deimos’s face goes from purple and furious to scowling and murderous in a split breath. I grip his arm tighter in case he gets any ideas, but at this point I wouldn’t really care if he attacked Lejv. Not like he wouldn’t deserve it.

  Lejv’s eyes widen, as though he knows what I’m thinking. Or maybe my fucked-up face is just that attractive.

  I scowl. “Get out of our way.”

  “Eros, I—” He shakes his head. “You have to understand, I never—I didn’t want this.”

  I laugh, cold and empty. “Of course not. Just like you didn’t want the throne, right? You just don’t not want it enough to do anything about it.”

  “There’s nothing I can do. The Council has made their decision—”

  “Listening outside the doors, were you?” Deimos spits at his feet. “If you were a truly worthy leader, you would have gone in there and told them to postpone the match out of honor. Instead you sat in the hall and let this abuse go in your favor like a coward.”

  Deimos pulls his arm out of my grip and steps in front of me, so close to Lejv that the asshole steps back. “I don’t care if it was you who attacked him, or some of your friends. I don’t care if you knew about it, or wanted it, or not. You condone it all the same with your silence. And why? Because you know you couldn’t beat Eros in a fair fight.” Deimos crosses his arms over his chest. “Whatever happens later, you’ve already lost. The people will never respect a Sira who had to cheat his way to the throne.”

  Lejv stands silent and stiff as Deimos and I walk past him. And though Deimos’s arm around my shoulder is mostly unnecessarily, I don’t stop him.

  I just wish I could believe he’s right and Lejv has lost either way.

  Mal leans against my shoulder as Deimos paces the room back and forth in front of us. We have maybe a seg before the match, and my body hurts, and I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to fight like this. Will the painkillers numb the pain enough for me to punch? I’m going to have to fight defensively, that much is obvious; even one hit to the wrong place could end me.

  It’s the worst kinduv scenario, and if I’m being honest with myself, I can’t win like this. Even if Lejv is entirely untrained, even if he’s never held a blade in his life, my weaknesses are obvious and not difficult to reach.

  I’m probably going to die out there.

  “You have to concede the fight,” Deimos says at last, turning to me. “You have to go out there and appeal for your life. Or we can run now—together. We’ll have a head start and—”

  “I’m not running.” I look at Deimos and pull back my shoulders, grimacing at the ache in my chest. “And I’m not begging for my life, either.”

  “Then you’re a fool.” Deimos scowls. “You can’t win like this.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then? Do you want to die?”

  Mal cringes and pales.

  “Obviously not. But the Council won’t give me mercy—they’ll execute me on the spot. And if we run, we’ll never stop. Our lives will always be in danger—we’ll never live a day without looking over our shoulders. I won’t live like that—not anymore, and I’m not going to condemn Mal to that life, either.”

  Deimos shakes his head. “Naï, you’ll condemn him to the life of an orphan, living with a Sepharon man he doesn’t even know.”

  “He knows you well enough. And I trust you—you’ll take good care of him. You swore to me you would.”

  Deimos presses his palms against his eyes. When he removes his hands, his eyes are red and shiny. “Kafra. You are throwing your life away. Do you not realize that? Going out there won’t be a fight, it’ll be a slaughter. You might as well slit your own throat!”

  “Deimos—”

  “Naï!” His shoulders shake as tears gather in his eyes. “If you insist on throwing your life away, you’ll do it alone. I’ll have no part in this—I can’t—I won’t watch them execute you.”

  I stand and cross the room, resting my hands on his shoulders. Deimos shivers and looks away, sniffling as tears slide down his cheeks. And I’m not sure if it’s just because it’s Deimos, or because I’m terrified too, but seeing him like this makes my throat ache and my eyes sting.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I wish I could change this—”

  “—you could run—”

  “—but this is the only way Mal will be even remotely safe. I’m fighting, and you may have given up, but I haven’t.” I’m not sure if that’s true, but saying it, somehow, makes it feel more real. I squeeze his shoulders and look into his mismatched eyes. “I know my chances are beyond slim, but I’m going to do this. And you don’t have to support me, but I need you to be there for Mal.”

  “I need some air,” Deimos whispers, and then he turns on his heel and walks away.

  And as much as I hate to admit it, some part of me aches as he leaves me behind.
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  In another life, where I didn’t spend most of my sets trying to justify my birthright against a boy unfit for the throne, the suggestion that a man who has never been prepared to rule should become Avra in my stead would almost be amusing. In another life, I would laugh, because the notion would be that preposterous, because of course no one could truly expect a common man with no preparation whatsoever would be better fit for the position I have spent my entire life training for.

  Instead, I’m here, the people are completely serious, the air is thick with potential violence, and nothing about this is funny.

  You can’t be serious, I want to say, but he is, and suggesting otherwise would insult the people. As would any insinuation I’m not taking this as gravely as the dead.

  I go with firm clarity instead: “Absolutely not.”

  The crowd ripples with murmurs as their faces harden. Uljen frowns, but I step forward before he speaks.

  “I understand why the people are putting this request forward—by declaring the reinstatement of my rule, I’m asking all of you to trust me to do better than I had. I know it’s not a simple thing, truly I do, which is precisely why I’ve invited the people to choose a representative to work with me. But what I’ve lacked in understanding what the people need, I make up for with a lifetime of experience and preparation to rule—experience you, Uljen, don’t have.”

  Uljen nods calmly, but the people don’t share his serenity. Their whispers grow louder, filling the air with a hiss like an ocean of static. The back of my neck prickles; this tension is far too familiar. We’re maybe moments away from an explosion of fury, and all I have to temper it are promises they might not accept.

  “I don’t except all of you to immediately trust me,” I say loudly, speaking over the crowd’s increasing rumble. “But I do expect you to trust I’m equipped for my position, and I wouldn’t have invited you to choose a representative had I not intended to be a better Avra than I was. Together, we can rebuild Vejla and the rest of Elja along with it—but I need your cooperation to do it. Whether we continue with more violence and bloodshed, or with a mutual agreement of cooperation, is up to you.”