Page 39 of Kissed By the Gods
“So, you must be the infamousher,” Gorgeous says.
I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Infamous her? That’s the best you’ve come up with?”
His grin flashes even brighter. “I’m Faelon,” he says. “If you’re tired of the infirmary cots, you can share my room tonight. It’s?—”
One of the older men—the one I haven’t met yet—smacks Faelon upside the head before I have to. He looks like he made it hurt, too. “She’s fighting for her life tomorrow, son.”
Faelon winces, rubbing the back of his head. “What? I was trying to make her feel welcome.”
Leif steps forward and gives me a friendly bump on the shoulder with his knuckles. “The infirmary’s not so bad, yeah, Leina? At least you’ve got the ward room all to yourself now.”
Leif is moving with more ease than yesterday, but I can tell it still pains him to walk around. They’re not big on recovery here at the Synod, apparently.
“You look better,” I tell him.
“You look much, much worse,” Leif replies, but he softens the blow with that friendly grin of his. The easy teasing reminds me of Seb, and I smile, really smile, without thinking about it.
Faelon groans dramatically. “Great. He’s allowed to flirt?”
Ryot, who has been silent up until now, steps forward, arms crossed tight over his chest. His dark eyes flick between Leif and Faelon, then settle on me.
“Enough,” he says sharply. “She doesn’t have time for this. She’s facing Maxim in a fight to the death tomorrow, and I don’t think she’s ever even held a sword.”
He quirks his eyebrow at me, like he’s asking me. I think back to digging through the soldiers’ swords while I was looking formy scythe and decide that probably doesn’t count. I give a curt shake of my head.
“So, if you’re all done flirting, we should probably do something about that,” he finishes.
Faelon raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Like I said, I was only trying to make her feel welcome.”
The man who’d smacked Faelon on the back of the head crosses his beefy arms across his chest. “You can do that by helping her survive,” he says. “Not every occasion calls for joking, Faelon.”
Faelon lowers his eyes, but not in time to mask a flash of annoyance. “Yes. Caius.”
“Leina,” Ryot starts, “I believe you’ve already met Thalric and his ward Leif. Thalric is the commander of our cast. You’ve met Nyrica.”
Ryot points to the man with the beefy arms. “This is Caius.”
He next points to the youngest boy, the eager one. “This is Caius’s new ward Kiernan. Kiernan only presented a few weeks ago.”
With a touch of annoyance on his face, Ryot points to Gorgeous. “And this idiot is Faelon. How he’s advanced from ward to sentinel, none of us know. He was Caius’s ward. These are the men in my cast.” He says that with emphasis. He’s introduced me to his family, quirks and all.
“Men, this is Leina Haverlyn.”
Caius keeps his arms crossed over his broad chest. Kiernan is trying very hard not to gape at me, but you can see that the idea of a female Altor is still something his brain hasn’t fully processed.Same, Kiernan. Same.
Leif wears the same easy, friendly smile I remember from the infirmary. Faelon is smirking. Nyrica flashes me a kind smile, and I startle when a dimple winks out from that chiseled, hardface. Thalric looks at me with those piercing green eyes that I swear bear the burden of a hundred souls.
Thalric nods, stepping back. “We’d better get to work.”
Ryot strides over to the weapons rack on the side of the field. There are swords—long and slick, thick and heavy, short and jagged. Interspersed are daggers of all lengths—some curved, some straight—along with bows and arrows, spears, axes, hammers, whips, and other weapons that I can’t even name. All of them are blunted, to avoid the worst kinds of injuries. He grabs a sword from the mix and tosses it to me.
I catch it by the hilt with reflexes that have been terrifying my family for years. The pain that flares through my body is a reminder that I’m here for a reason. A goddess wants me here. And I’ll not have others paying the price for my failure. I toss the sword from one hand to another. It feels natural, but it doesn’t feelright. It’s not part of me, not like my scythe or my shears.
Ryot’s expression is grim as he looks at me. “You need to understand exactly what you’re up against.” His dark eyes sweep over the others. “One word, each of you. Describe Maxim’s fighting style.”
There’s a beat of silence before Thalric speaks, his voice steady.
“Crushing.”
