Page 43 of Kissed By the Gods
“Then why are you?” I demand, my voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “Why train me yesterday? Why help me now?”
He doesn’t look away this time. “Because I know what it’s like to lose everything.”
The words hit like a blow, not because they’re cruel, but because I can tell they’re true. And suddenly, we’re standing on the edge of something that, once acknowledged, we can’t back away from.
I swallow hard. “And is this your way of making up for it?”
Something lingers in his expression—regret? Longing? I don’t know.
“Maybe," he admits, voice quiet. And then he smiles, and the air whooshes out of me. “Or maybe I don’t want you to hate me quite so much.”
I blink, thrown off balance by the sudden softness in his face, the way that rare, unguarded smile transforms his sharp edges into something else.
“I don’t—" The words catch before they can fully form, and I clamp my mouth shut because I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I don’t what? Hate him? I should. I did. But right now, I don’t know if I can say it and mean it.
His smile fades, but the warmth lingers in his eyes. “That’s a start, rebel girl,” he murmurs.
He steps back, and the tension between us eases. “Now, when you enter the ring?—”
He stops, noticing the scythe strapped to my back for the first time, and a relieved sigh escapes. “You were able to get it recast quickly. I was worried when you didn’t bond to a more suitable weapon yesterday.”
I give a noncommittal nod. “Mmm.” I don’t tell him about the goddess, either.
His brow furrows, and confusion dances across his face. He steps further back, taking in my entire outfit. The chainmail that fits like a glove. The tunic, the leather pants. The black combat boots that lace up to my knees. All of it covered in the goddess’ scrawling script.
“Who recast it?” He traces the silver etchings with a cautious finger and then gestures to my chainmail. “This doesn’t look like Barek’s work.”
I wave it away. “It wasn’t Barek.” A cloud passes over his face. Is he … jealous?
“Fine,” he says it in a way that’s distinctly not fine. “Did your generous benefactor teach you how to use that thing?”
“Well, no, I?—”
His eyes flick to my scythe again, then back to me, his confusion settling into something more measured.
“Give it here,” he says, holding out a hand.
I hesitate. “Why?”
He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “Because right now, that’s a weapon in your hands. I’ll show you how to make it an extension of yourself.”
I pull it from the sheathe at my back with ashink, chills cascading down my spine at the sound.
He swings the scythe in a controlled arc, the curved blade catching the firelight as he moves with an ease I didn’t think possible. He gives a low whistle. “Whoever did it needs to replace Barek,” he says. “The work is incredible.”
He grips it in the middle and adjusts his stance. “You don’t stab with it. You carve.”
“You reap,” I tell him. “I’m a serf, remember? Quite good at that.”
He smiles back at me, chagrined, and then moves again, twisting his body as he swings. The air hisses as the blade slices through it.
“The same general idea applies to the human body. Swing in wide arcs,” he says, before handing it back to me. I take a wide stance, holding the scythe high over my head, as a gong sounds from within the arena. My pulse quickens.
The grin fades from his face. His gaze follows mine toward the gate, where the first hint of dawn is entering the dark room. Another gong sounds. I sheathe my scythe again and take a hesitant step forward.
“Leina,” Ryot calls out. I turn to him. “You’ve been blessed by the gods. I know it. You know it.” He nods his head toward the arena, toward the sounds of the men gathering there. “It’s time that they know it.”
His words unfurl in me like a flame, bright and warm and right.
