Page 48 of Kissed By the Gods
I wasn’t put here just to survive.
I point my scythe toward the archons lined up in a row, toward the royals on their cushions seated behind them. The applause falters. The king flushes a bright red under his nearly white hair, so like Princess Rissa’s.
I look directly at Archon Lyathin when I speak.
“I’ll have my audience about Selencia. Now.” I scrape out through my mangled throat.
There’s indecision on his face as he wrestles with whether he’ll punish me for my insolence or reward my audacity.
A grudging respect wins. He inclines his head.
PART II
THE WINGED
“The Altor do not govern the mortal realms. They hold no crowns, pass no laws, and swear no allegiance to mortal thrones. The Synod is the sword, not the scepter.”
The Annals of the Winged, a canon text in the Synod Reckoning Hall
CHAPTER TWENTY
I’m pacingthe council room, my movements jerky and uncoordinated, driven by lingering adrenaline from the battle. Each jostled step makes me wince in agony, but still, I can’t bring myself to sit in the chair. The arena came with me. My sweat has dried over a layer of sand, and grime blackens my fingernails and coats my hair. My throat is swollen from Maxim’s attempt to strangle me; my head is radiating pain from the blow I took to the temple.
Maybe I should’ve at least waited until I’d bathed before I went head-to-head with some of the most powerful men in the kingdom. But I suspect it would make little difference. I’ll always carry this day with me.
The door opens, but it’s not the royals or the archons who enter. It’s Ryot. He carries a small bundle tucked under one arm, along with a folded towel, a flask of what I hope is laomai, and a pitcher of water cradled carefully against his chest. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving us alone.
I stand there, rooted in place, too exhausted to hide the way my body sways. Ryot sets the towel down on the chair in the center of the room and passes me the flask.
“Drink,” he says, his voice low and rough.
I do, and the fruity taste of laomai coats my tongue. I drain the flask, and at least the tremors stop.
He’s looking at me grimly, his lips pressed together in a firm line. “You couldn’t have at least waited until you’d seen Elowen for this?”
I scowl at him. “Would you wait? If it was your people, your family, would you wait even one more heartbeat to bring them relief so you couldrest?”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking there. Then he exhales sharply and wets the towel with water from the pitcher. He presses it against a cut that’s dripping blood down my cheek. “No,” he says. “I wouldn’t.”
The towel trails down my neck, brushes the edge of my face, where a bruise is beginning to bloom. I flinch, and he pulls the bloodied towel back. He drops the towel into the pitcher, water sloshing over the side. He’s making a mess. He wrings it out, like he’s going to start again, but I take it from his hands this time.
I run it over my gritty arms and my hands.
“I don’t understand how it happened,” he says, mumbling, almost to himself.
“That I won the fight?”
“No,” he says, waving a hand. “I knew you’d win the fight. I mean, the neglect of Selencia.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “Neglect? Neglect would be welcome. It’s not neglect. It’s cruelty.”
He looks up at me then, and whatever words he’d been fumbling for die on his lips. I can see the shift in his eyes, the realization dawning across his face. Not only that I’m right, but that he hasn’t let himself see it fully until now. He nods again.
“Then don’t back down, Leina Haverlyn. And no matter what they try to tell you, you hold the power here today.” He gesturesto the scar on my forehead. “You’re blessed by the gods—which means the archons need your cooperation, rebel girl.”
