Page 47 of Kissed By the Gods
Shaking, I drop my scythe to the ground and use both hands to unwrap the bandage secured to my temple. When the wool is fully loosened, I let the cloth flutter to the ground and raise my head high so they can all see the ugly scar that marks me as the gods’.
The outraged murmurs turn to gasps.
Lyathin’s face pales. King Agis has clenched his fists around his throne’s armrests. Even the other archons whisper amongst each other.
“It’s not adamas,” I say.
Archon Lyathin’s eyes light with something like reverence. “Where did you get that?” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.
I raise my chin higher. “I think you know. You all know.”
The murmurs swell before breaking into stunned silence.
I run my gaze over each of the men seated in the arena, lined up for a show. Well, I’ll give them a godsdamn show. Nyrica flashes a smile at me, his dimple winking. Thalric nods, looking relieved. But Ryot? He’s unreadable. He steps back, like he doesn’t know what to make of me.
I don’t let myself look at him for long.
Instead, I reach down, stretching out my fingers. My scythe answers, pulling free from the sand and snapping back into my grip, the heat of it fusing to my palm.
“Restart the fight,” I demand, my hoarse voice echoing in the now-silent arena.
Archon Lyathin hesitates, taking in my perfectly constructed scythe with new eyes. He shifts his gaze to Maxim, focusing on his mangled hand, before he looks back at the other archons for guidance.
“Perhaps we should re-eval—” Archon Nile starts to say, but I slash my hand through the air, interrupting him.
“You would defy the will of the gods?” I ask. “Youset us on this path.Youdetermined the gods themselves should deliver judgment.”
I gesture to King Agis with my scythe. He tenses at the move but doesn’t flinch. “You may have intended this fight as my doom, Your Majesty,” I spit his title out like the insult it is, “but I will finish it as my right, in accordance with the gods’ will. The time for judgment is now. Start. The. Fight.”
It’s the Elder himself who stands. He throws his cane at the large, golden gong hanging at the top of the arena, severallengths away. The cane slams against the drum the size of a man. The Elder’s cane neatly returns to his hand.
“Proceed,” the Elder says with a nod, taking his seat once more.
I stalk toward Maxim.
For the first time, there’s fear in Maxim’s eyes. No, not just in his eyes. I can taste his fear. It’s pungent, the flavor an assault on my senses. But lucky for him, I’m not one to toy with my prey. When he shifts, starting an attack, I surge forward. My feet barely touch the ground as I leap, my scythe arcing through the air, an extension of my own body. It slices through his throat in one effortless motion.
Because if there’s one thing a baseborn serf knows, and knows well, it’s how to reap.
Only, instead of wheat, I reap death.
I land behind Maxim, light as a faravar’s feather.
For a heartbeat, nothing happens. He stands there, frozen, his body catching up with the reality of what I’ve done. His mouth opens like he wants to speak, but no sound comes. Only blood. His eyes glaze as he slides to his knees, his fingers grasping uselessly at his gaping throat.
My breath is heaving and the injuries that I ignored until now throb—my swollen windpipe, my temple. There’s pain in my bones, in my joints. In my godsdamn teeth, again.
I watch him silently for a time, until the blood stops pumping from his throat. He’s the third man I’ve killed, and I vaguely wonder if I should feel something besides relief. I search for some other emotion, like grief or guilt, but I don’t find it. Does that make me a monster, too?
The Elder rises, his weight heavy on his cane. That sole motion in the arena drags my stunned gaze up from Maxim’s body. The Elder doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard, but still, he raises his hands in the air and shouts.
“The gods have passed judgment and found Leina Haverlyn innocent. Rejoice with her, brothers.” His milky eyes find mine. “Today is a day for celebration, for we have gained a sister. But tomorrow is for war because we are but humble servants to the gods.”
There’s a smattering of firm clapping in the area. I turn to find the clapping has been started by Thalric and Nyrica, then the others in Stormriven, until most of the men in the arena surge to their feet and clap.
I spin in a circle, my vision blurring over the men who watched, who judged, who waited to see if I was worthy. They see me now, but I don’t see them.
Because when the sound of their excitement reaches its peak, I stop spinning, my eyes on the archons, on the king. Tomorrow is indeed for war. Because my brothers, my people, won’t be safe until this entire system is nothing but ashes at my feet. The realization settles into my bones, sharp and searing.
