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“I am sure the prince will be devastated to hear of this, but it is time you both learn that caring for people has consequences,” he says, then lifts his gaze to mine. “Mind yourself, Sparrow, lest you get anyone else you love killed.”
He turns and walks away.
“Max.” I drop to my knees as close as I can get to his crumpled form. I reach through the cell bars and grab his arm, pulling him closer. There’s already so much blood seeping from his wound. “You need a healer. You need to get up.”
He winces, a weak, pained laugh slipping out. “I…can’t, Nys.” His voice is fragile, each word a struggle.
“You can—”
“I can’t move my legs,” he murmurs, coughing wetly. The sound makes my chest ache, my heart shatter. I force back the tears threatening to spill over.
“No. No, we’ll fix this. You hear me?” My hand shakes as I reach through the bars to cradle his face, my thoughts spilling out in broken, hopeless fragments. “You’re going to be fine. Just hold on.”
“It’s okay.” His fingers curl around mine, then he slowly guides my hand down to rest over his heart. “Tell me about the ships…I’m going to build. Big ones.”
I can’t hold the tears back now. They burn hot down my cheeks. I grip his hand tightly, forcing a smile for him. “Whole fleets, Max. Triremes with grand sails and hundreds of oars. The first one will be named after Kal, something to piss him off.”
He laughs weakly, but it fades into a rasp. His eyes start to dull, though that faint grin lingers. “Promise me,” he says, barely audible. “Take care of him. For me.”
“Maxim, no—”
“Promise me,” he insists, his grip faltering.
“I will,” I whisper, the words breaking me apart. “I promise.”
“It’s been nice…having another…friend.”
His body shudders beneath my hand.
“It’s been better than nice. Which is why you can’t leave me, okay?”
He doesn’t answer. His chest slows until it doesn’t rise again.
A sob rips out of me, and I press my forehead against the bars. I do not move. I do not let go of his hand.
Not until the guards arrive and drag me from my cell.
Chapter 49
Aella
As the sun crests over the arena on the day of the first game, the tension within me mirrors its ascent.
“Breathe, Stormwind,” Lyxander whispers, stepping closer to my side so that our arms brush.
I should step away. Put a respectful distance between us. If anyone were to look and find a man clearly dressed as a lord standing so close to a handmaid, it would call more attention to us. But my shoulders loosen as his scent wraps around me, and I can’t bring myself to move.
Last night was a failure. Not entirely, since I managed to learn two things from the whispers exchanged between Acolytes: The Sorrows’s second champion was replaced at the last minute, and Nyssa had not been moved into the champions’ quarters when she arrived.
Xerxes and the kin are gathered with us in the northern viewing box overlooking the expanse below. The sand rises and falls in uneven mounds, large rocks and broken pillars jutting out sporadically, forming natural obstacles and cover. Amid them, weapons of all kinds lie scattered.
On all sides of the arena’s square edges, tier upon tier of stone seating is filled with spectators from across the Empyrieos. To the east, the Eretrian box drips with crimson splendor, and opposite us is the Sorrows, nearest to the back of the temple. Yet I steer my eyes clear, and fix them westward instead. The Revezan box demands attention, just like its king it seems. King Ophis reclines on a low divan as if the Games were a private event meant solely for him. His pale green hair gleams against his tanned complexion as wine is poured into his cup. Everyone in the box is nymphai, including the king himself.
A collective inhale rushes through the stands, and I glance down as an Acolyte strides into the heart of the arena. The sand shifting beneath his steps, his white robes swaying like banners, clean and seamless against the grit of the terrain. When he speaks, his voice carries across the space with a monotonous cadence.
“Esteemed guests,” he begins. “As the High Acolyte, it is my honor to welcome you to the Empyrieos Games. It is a tradition first born in the ashes of conflict, forged to unite, to mend the fractures wrought by the God War—a celebration of accord between the four great kingdoms. The Cycle of Four, as decreed by the Anemoi, ensures that this harmony endures. Every four years, we gather. Every four years, we test ourselves through trials gifted by each kingdom, designed to reflect their nature, their pride, and their strength.
“It is tradition that the order of the Games be decided by the wisdom of preservation, determined by the trial whose design will leave the arena least marred. This cycle, the opening belongs to Eretria.” A stir runs through the crowd, though the High Acolyte continues undeterred. “Its trial, the Hunt, shall commence shortly. But first…”
