Page 37 of Kissed By the Gods
“You look like hell,” he says. “Rough night?”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You could say that.”
He pushes off the door and comes into the room.
I scowl at him. “Don’t any of you believe in knocking?”
His smile unfurls slowly. It’s dangerous, the way that smile coils around me.
And then he opens his big mouth, and I forget about how beautiful his smile is. “You’re not worthy of a knock, rebel girl.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and surge to my feet, forgetting the pain. “Because I’m a woman? Because I’m Selencian?”
“No. Because you’re a ward,” he says. “Or at least, you will be, after tomorrow.”
My heart slams against my chest. A ward—the lowest ranking Altor here. He speaks as if I have a chance. As if winning isn’t impossible. As if he believes in me. It makes me feel even more unsteady than Maxim’s aggression.
He jerks his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” I can’t help the suspicion that colors my words.
“We need to get your weapons to the armorer so he can recast them,” he says.
I resist dropping my gaze toward my cot. “They’re already being taken care of,” I say instead.
Relief settles over his features, and he nods toward the door again. “Excellent. Then we’re headed straight to the training grounds.” He tosses a bag at my feet. “Only the broken wait in bed, hoping the gods will be kind to them.”
“What if I am broken?” I murmur, barely. But he hears anyway. He stops, filling the doorway. Slowly, he turns. There’s no amusement in his expression now, no sharp-edged teasing. Just something steady.
“You may be battered,” he says, “but you’re not broken.”
Not broken.Not broken.
I fight the tears that pool in my eyes and duck my head so he doesn’t see the reflection.
“I’ll be outside,” he says, and closes the door behind him. I clutch my hands into the canvas bag and peek inside. Clothes and boots. They look like women’s clothing, at least.
I whoosh out a breath and steel myself for the pain of getting dressed.
Because I’m not broken.
Kheris feeds on chaos, growing stronger with every trick and ruin. Only Thayana stands against her, binding the world together with justice and order. The Synod values justice and order above all things, for without it, the gods fall—and mortals fall with them.
The Annals of the Winged, a canon text in the Synod Reckoning Hall
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I leavemy new scythe and daggers under the bed, despite the gnawing ache walking away from them causes. It’s a lot like heartburn, and it gets progressively worse the farther I get. But I don’t want anyone to see them yet. I’ve also wrapped a bandage around my head to conceal the gold scar. All of this is too big, too impossible, to trust anyone here with.
The tunic and black leather pants from Ryot were both too long, but you can still tell they belonged to a woman in the way they fit. They’re worn, but well-made, the quality even better than what the overlords in Selencia wear. I scrunched the legs of the trousers into my boots so I wouldn’t trip.
Ryot leads me through winding corridors that all look the same until we emerge into the glaring daylight. I squint at the sudden brightness, my eyes adjusting after spending the last two days confined within the dim, windowless depths of the fortress. The air is sharp with cold. Winter is a couple months away, but it’s far colder here, on the cliffs facing the sea, than it is in Selencia. My breath makes little clouds when I exhale, and my decayed fingers tingle.
Ryot doesn’t pause to make sure I’m keeping up, nor does he turn around to check my progress. We step from the shadow of the fortress into what looks like training grounds. There’s a relentless clash of metal, the grunts of men working, the snap of bowstrings. The air smells of leather, sweat, dust, and the occasional tang of blood. A large field, encircled by the fortress’ high walls, sprawls before me. There, warriors spar, barehanded, using fists and elbows and feet with bone-crushing force; others wield swords and spears in deadly arcs. Beyond the hand-to-hand training, atop the fortress’ outer walls, archers stand in staggered lines and loose arrows at swinging discs on distant mountain peaks. They hit their impossible targets every time.
