Page 15

Fifteen

Laya

Laya, lost in thought, was pretending to marvel at the spotted orchids at the garden entrance when the earth beneath the courtyard shifted.

Earthquakes were a common occurrence in Maynara?—some by natural causes, others by her mother’s will.

They rarely lasted longer than a few minutes, but never did they hit the capital with such fervor.

As the vibrations intensified, Laya lost her footing.

She pitched forward, grabbing on to the person nearest her for balance.

“Are you all right, Dayang?” It was Waran Sandata who helped her gather her bearings.

He was Bulan’s age, two years her senior, and the youngest of Datu Sandata’s many sons.

Although he possessed no spectacular talent and an unremarkable face, he had a kind smile and a genuine sense of humor, which was rare among highborn children, who often took themselves too seriously for their own good.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Laya looked around.

Several nobles in the courtyard had also lost their balance.

Many had stumbled onto the tiled ground and were dusting off their fine silks.

“The gods must be displeased,” one man joked as he passed Laya on his way into the gardens.

She looked up at the palace, where Hara Duja was hosting a council meeting.

“Not the gods,” she mused aloud.

She could feel the threads of power in the earth beneath her feet, even if she couldn’t wield it.

She could sense someone on the other end, struggling to tug back control.

If the queen had allowed her heir into the council room as she had promised, Laya would know for herself what was going on.

She thought of her mother’s worsening tremors.

Occasional lapses in control were to be expected in a Gatdula of Hara Duja’s age, but there was something about this earthquake?—a wild, defiant energy weaving its way through the threads?—that caught Laya’s attention.

She glanced at the eastern wing, where Ariel Sauros lurked out of sight of the nobles behind the closed window screens.

What else was her mother not telling her?

“Sorry, Dayang?” Waran eyed her, confused.

Laya glanced back down and realized she hadn’t let go of his arm.

She gestured to the gardens with her free hand.

“Care to escort me inside?”

He grinned broadly and inclined his head.

“It would be my honor, Dayang.”

They started down the main path, where began the tour.

The palace opened its gardens once a year, and Hari Aki did not spare any expense.

For weeks, he had been enlisting horticulturists and architects to revive the parts of the garden he deemed dull or uninspired.

Laya wished she had half her father’s vision.

Mere steps into the gardens, and she was dumbstruck.

For as far as she could see, flowers bloomed in patterns too complex for her mind to decipher.

Marigold and carmine and cerulean, and other shades too lovely to be named, swirled together in a visual feast.

Her nose flooded with the flowers’ scents, sweet and nectarous, as yellow sunlight streamed through the swaying palms above.

None of that would last?—none of it.

But for a moment, Laya, delighted by the gardens’ ephemeral beauty, forgot the secrets plaguing her.

“You are awfully quiet today, Dayang. Have I said something to upset you?” Waran asked as they reached the fountain at the end of the main path.

Jets spouted from the open jaws of the golden crocodile perched at the heart of the white-jade basin.

“Not at all, Waran. I have a lot on my mind.” Laya leaned against the mouth of the basin and dipped her hand into the water.

The liquid was cool against her fingers.

She cupped the water in her hands and let it fall back into the basin, watching rings ripple across its clear surface.

Waran leaned on the edge of the fountain beside her.

“Forgive my boldness, Dayang, but please know I am here if ever you’re in search of a confidant.”

Laya looked up to find Waran eyeing her hopefully as he inched too close for her liking.

Not him too.

“You’re very kind, Waran,” she said, feigning a smile.

The presence of one suitor summoned the others.

Bato Tanglaw strolled over to the fountain, a bandage pressed to the side of his face.

He’d been wounded at Luntok’s hand, which made Laya brighten in glee.

“Is he bothering you, Dayang?” Bato asked, eyeing the other boy with disdain.

Waran’s kind face contorted into a frown.

Laya spoke for him.

“No, Bato. No one is bothering me.”

Long before the tournament, Bato saw himself as Luntok’s rival.

Whenever Bato appeared, Luntok was never far behind.

As expected, the Kulaw boy appeared then in a bolt of scarlet, the hornbill hilt of his sword peeking over his belt.

Laya met his gaze as he, too, sauntered over to the fountain.

“La?—Dayang,” he called, catching himself before he lapsed into familiarity.

“Luntok,” she said breezily, “how wonderful of you to join us.”

He planted himself at Laya’s other side on the edge of the fountain, his shoulder brushing against hers.

Boldly, he reached over, a honey-colored narra bud between his fingers.

“May I?”

Demurely, Laya nodded and leaned in so he could tuck the flower behind her ear.

She held her breath, giddy at their sudden closeness.

For a brief moment, his fingers trailed from her ear, grazing the underside of her chin.

The touch was featherlight, nothing like the kiss they’d stolen after the parade the previous night.

Her skin grew hot when she thought about it.

With a sharp breath, she drew back against the fountain, lest the others see the fool Luntok made of her.

“Kulaw,” Bato barked, displeased with the onslaught of competition.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Luntok glanced at Laya, smirking, before turning to Bato.

“The tournament doesn’t resume until sundown?—ah, but you were eliminated in the previous round, weren’t you?”

“Come now, you mustn’t gloat,” Laya said, but her reprimand was without teeth.

Luntok smiled over at her, shoulders shaking with a suppressed chuckle.

Bato scowled.

“You may have defeated me, but I don’t envy you. Utu Luma will slice you to ribbons.”

“I have nothing to fear from Utu Luma,” he said, his chest puffing up with all the confidence he had yet to earn.

Bato opened his mouth to retort when Bulan rushed over.

His posture shifted, and he greeted the other princess warmly.

“Good afternoon, Dayang!”

Laya resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Bato had his sights set on Hara Duja’s heir, but he couldn’t resist courting her eldest daughter as well.

“How lovely to see you,” he added, and Laya heard an echo of his father’s groveling in his tone.

She wasn’t surprised to find him pursuing her sister.

Bulan did not possess the power of Mulayri, but perhaps Bato thought her Gatdula blood might revive the Tanglaws’ ancient ability to sketch out omens in molten candlewax or divine the future from runny egg yolks?—or whatever it was his family believed.

“Yes, hello.” Bulan all but ignored him?—flattery, like most games of courtship, slid over her head like butter.

She swept past Bato to join her sister, her brow knitted in worry.

“You felt it, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?” Laya asked.

“The earthquake.”

“Oh, that was but a minor tremor,” Waran said with a wave of his hand.

“Hardly lasted more than a few seconds. I made sure Dayang Laya was unhurt.”

Bulan met Laya’s gaze.

In an unspoken way, they both knew what that earthquake meant.

Something strange was happening with their mother.

“I’m sure it was nothing,” Laya said, but she gave a subtle nod to the flock of overly attentive suitors surrounding them.

We’ll speak of it more later.

Bulan nodded in understanding and made to turn away, but Bato called her back with polite conversation.

“We were just discussing the tournament, Dayang,” he said.

“Will you be attending the final round tonight?”

“I should think so,” Bulan said, her shoulders relaxing.

This was her uncontested domain.

Laya did not take any particular joy from sword fighting and weaponry, but Bulan could discuss it for hours on end.

She glanced between Luntok and Bato.

“I caught a glimpse of your fight the other day,” she told them.

“I didn’t make it up to the stands, so you might not have seen me.”

Luntok looked up in surprise, his attention momentarily pulled away from Laya.

“What did you think of it?”

She stared at him.

“You fought marvelously for a beginner. I was impressed,” she said, and Luntok’s smirk grew wider.

When she turned to Bato, however, she frowned.

“You surprised me, Bato. In previous years, you were more consistent.”

Red splotches spread over his wounded cheeks.

He was embarrassed.

“I suppose I wasn’t destined to win this year,” he said flatly.

Anyone with sense would have let the subject drop, but not Bulan.

“I don’t know if destiny has anything to do with it,” she remarked, oblivious, and went on to describe every mistake he made in frightful detail.

“Toward the end, you had the upper strike of an untrained infant. And you have to admit, when you’re tired, your footwork gets sloppy. Not to mention your stamina?—”

Laya was cruel, but she knew not to be insulting.

“Bulan,” she said tentatively.

“What is it?”

“To fight in the tournament at all is an achievement, is it not?” she asked, hoping Bulan would catch the warning in her tone.

“Yes,” Bato agreed, a bit too enthusiastically for Laya’s liking.

“With all due respect, Dayang Bulan, you have never competed in the tournament yourself.”

“Oh.” Bulan’s expression hardened.

“I suppose that means I know nothing, then.”

Bato hesitated then, sensing he had edged into hazardous territory.

“I only mean to say, Dayang, that it’s not the same when you’re up there on that platform. It’s nothing like training. You fight differently. Every reaction is heightened somehow. I don’t know how else to explain.”

Laya knew nothing about fighting, but she knew when her sister was being talked down to.

“I’m sure you don’t have to tell Bulan that,” she said harshly.

“She’s the finest swordsman in all of Maynara.”

Bulan’s eyes snapped to hers, shocked at the ferocity with which Laya defended her.

“Of course. I never meant to imply she wasn’t.” Bato’s skepticism might not have been intentional, but it seeped out anyway.

Laya frowned.

She might have cut him down where he stood had Luntok not butted in.

“Bato’s right,” he said abruptly.

“I didn’t realize it until yesterday. When you’re up there and the crowd is jeering... It’s nothing Vikal could have ever prepared me for.”

Laya rolled her eyes.

“Yes, well, Vikal is no Ojas.”

“No, that wouldn’t be fair, would it?” Luntok shot back sarcastically.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Laya tensed.

The gentle breeze ground to a halt around them.

Beyond the palm leaves, the sun ducked behind a passing cloud, casting shadows across the white-jade basin.

Any shred of lightheartedness between the lovers faded.

“Laya,” he groaned, reaching for her arm with brazen intimacy.

This time, she recoiled from his touch with a terse shake of her head?—another warning.

It was Bulan who spoke first, breaking the tension between them.

“You don’t believe I can win, do you?”

Bato’s eyes widened.

“No, Dayang, that’s not at all?—”

“It’s OK, I know what you meant... Anyway, like Luntok said, it wouldn’t be fair,” Bulan said in a tight voice, more to herself than to anyone else.

Distracted, she turned away, her fists caught in her skirts.

Laya frowned.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

But Bulan barreled through the gardens as if she hadn’t heard her, leaving Laya to ward off her suitors alone.

Her sister was still missing long after the royal gardens’ visiting hours ended.

The sun began to set on the horizon, and the nobles departed through the palace gates in a steady stream.

Laya joined them.

Feeling guilty from missing the beginning of the tournament, she agreed to watch Luntok’s final fight.

She tried her best not to worry about him as she made her way to the tournament platform, oddly with Eti in tow.

Laya tried to tell Eti that fighting was ugly and dull, but Eti had insisted on coming.

Why, Laya knew better than to guess, but she was grateful not to have to watch Luntok’s fight alone.

The entire capital had gathered around the platform to watch the tournament conclude.

Laya could hear the crowd all the way from the palace gates.

Drums echoed over the shouts, their harsh, hollow beats rolling off the goatskin membranes like thunder.

The pounding built, growing louder and louder as she and Eti hurried along the edge of the canal.

Long bamboo torches stood at each corner of the tournament platform, basking it in an orange glow.

Luntok Kulaw and Utu Luma had already climbed up to the top and were standing on opposite sides of the ring.

Laya stopped at the edge of the platform to admire Luntok.

He was not as brawny as Utu Luma, but his sturdy silhouette stretched just as tall across the platform.

The hazy light emphasized the toned muscles of his abdomen.

And the glow of the flames danced across his smooth, handsome face.

“Let’s go up to the stands,” Eti said, tugging Laya along.

She held back.

“No,” she said with a shake of her head.

“We’ll see the fight better from down here.”

Both Laya and Eti stood out amidst the throng of commoners with their gleaming jewelry and fine clothes.

Over her shoulder, curious whispers broke out.

A few of the commoners would have jumped at the chance to speak with them had the fight not been about to begin.

A small smile spread across Laya’s face as she gazed up at Luntok.

He held the love of the crowd tonight, that was certain.

Maynara may have hated his mother, but they adored him.

How could they not, with his easy smile and chiseled features?

Desire flared in the pit of her stomach as she watched Luntok draw his sword from its sheath.

Gods help her, she loved him.

Utu Luma’s bulky form towered over the opposite edge of the platform.

He wore nothing but a handloomed loincloth and a boar-tusk necklace, whose curved ends jutted from Utu’s chest like gnashing teeth.

He brandished a single-edged sword with a thick blade and a buffalo-horn hilt.

He gazed coldly at his opponent, face melded into a mask of steel.

Above, the sun dipped lower on the horizon.

Clouds stretched, painting pink and purple streaks across the sky.

Day faded into dusk as the crowd in the pit grew restless.

Laya’s hands clenched into fists as the two men started to circle each other on the platform.

The drums came to a halt.

Around her, the crowd held its breath.

On the other side of the platform, a deep voice rang out, cutting through the silence.

“Begin.”

Utu charged at Luntok first.

The air cracked with the sound of clashing metal as Luntok fended off his attack.

The sheer force made Luntok’s arms quake, but he managed to parry each and every blow.

The fight had barely commenced and already, Laya saw the sweat gleaming off Luntok’s face and chest.

If he was scared, he didn’t show it.

He matched Utu move for move.

But Utu was the one setting the pace.

He forced Luntok to keep up his defense, never once giving him a moment of rest.

Luntok had the nimbleness of youth, but he lacked the stamina that came with experience.

Laya was no expert in swordsmanship, but she knew that much.

How long would he be able to keep it up?

The crowd jeered as Utu made a swipe at Luntok’s neck, missing the skin by a mere fraction of an inch.

A cutthroat act for a friendly tournament, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Fire raged in the dark pools of Utu’s eyes.

Had Luntok done something before the match to anger him?

Utu looked ready to kill.

Utu Luma didn’t relent.

Each slash of his sword pushed Luntok back farther and farther until his right heel slipped off the platform’s edge.

The air left Laya’s lungs as he swung his arms forward, regaining his balance.

“Luntok!” Her shriek pierced the air.

Hundreds of heads turned toward her.

Laya didn’t glance at a single one of them.

She didn’t care who heard.

Luntok looked up, meeting Laya’s eyes.

She gave him a nod of encouragement.

Win, she urged him, clasping her hand over her chest.

If not for you, then for me.

He stood far away atop the tournament platform.

But to reach Luntok, Laya didn’t need words.

Her burning gaze told him everything he needed to hear.

Moments after she called out Luntok’s name, something in his demeanor shifted.

He held himself taller.

The crowd could sense the shift as well.

They spurred him on with deafening cheers.

Utu’s thick eyebrows were furrowed in concentration.

He raised his sword, beckoning to him.

Luntok didn’t hesitate.

He attacked.

Finally, Laya understood why the nobles had begun to whisper after watching Luntok’s first fight in the tournament.

Why the men in the crowd gasped in awe, calling Luntok a god.

He moved with inhuman speed, like a bird midflight.

In some maneuvers, his feet barely touched the ground.

His relentless strokes took Utu by surprise.

Not even a seasoned warrior like him could anticipate Luntok’s next move.

What use were the tusks of a boar against the swift wings of an eagle?

Before long, Luntok gained the upper hand.

He was the one forcing Utu to retreat across the platform.

He was the one setting the pace.

Utu could charge all he wanted, but none of his attacks landed.

Luntok slipped out of every trap Utu laid for him and succeeded in setting up a few of his own.

“Argh!”

Utu cried out.

Luntok had slashed him across the outside of his thigh.

When he drew back his blade, blood splattered over the stained surface of the platform.

The wound glowed red?—deep and, judging by the anguished expression on Utu’s face, debilitating.

Around Laya, the crowd grew rowdier.

Never had Utu been wounded in a tournament like this before.

Bravely, Utu lunged for Luntok, but he couldn’t place much weight on his leg without crying out in pain.

Luntok made the end brisk, bringing his weight down on Utu’s sword with two decisive strokes that brought him to his knees.

He cracked the hilt of his sword into the side of Utu’s head for good measure.

With a cry, Utu crumpled to the ground in a bloodied heap.

Luntok raised the hilt again.

The flash of steel in the torchlight brought terror to Utu’s eyes.

“Yield,” he gasped, raising his palm to defend himself.

“I yield.”

Luntok lowered his sword, relenting at last.

On all sides of the platform, the spectators burst into worshipful applause.

Laya threw her arms around Eti and hooted in delight.

The fight was over, but Luntok did not take a moment to relish his victory.

He stalked over to Utu like a tiger.

Before Utu could react, he raised his sword and cut the boar-tusk necklace clean off his neck.

Luntok met Laya’s gaze as he sauntered in her direction.

When he knelt over the edge of the platform, she reached for him instinctively.

He poured the necklace into her open hand.

“A token for you, Dayang,” Luntok announced and brought her free hand to his lips.

Cocky bastard that he was, he didn’t kiss her knuckles like a gentleman.

He turned her hand over and ran his lips over the tender flesh of her palm?—a ridiculous, sensual gesture that sent a naughty ripple through the watching crowd.

Laya forgot herself completely.

Her brown cheeks flushed pink.

She swayed on her feet, gazing up at him in rapture.

She could not help herself; love turned her into an idiot.

A helpless, moon-eyed idiot.

“Fool,” she whispered, so only he could hear.

“A fool for you,” Luntok murmured and released her hand.

By the time he rose, Vikal had fought through the tittering spectators.

He crossed the platform and raised Luntok’s arm high in the air.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he roared, “I present to you the greatest warrior in all of Maynara!”

Laya laughed as she watched Luntok drink in the glory.

He raised his bloody sword to the heavens, inviting more applause.

The drums resumed their thunder.

Joyous shouting swelled above the music like a wave.

How she yearned to join Luntok on the platform and kiss him for the entire city to see.

So giddy was she, she might have done this, when a new figure broke away from the crowd.

“This tournament isn’t over,” Bulan declared as she climbed up to the platform.

Eti gasped in Laya’s ear.

“What on earth is she doing?” she cried.

Laya didn’t answer.

Her heart sank as Bulan stalked closer to Luntok at the center of the platform.

She remembered the broken look on Bulan’s face when the men insulted her earlier that afternoon in the gardens.

Oh, Laya had a good idea what her sister was doing; she prayed to the gods she was wrong.

At the sight of the princess in the center of the fighting ring, the sea of spectators fell silent.

Luntok dropped his arms.

He and Vikal looked at Bulan in shock.

“Dayang Bulan!” Vikal said.

“What are you?—”

Bulan ignored him and faced the crowd.

She cleared her throat.

“I, Bulan Gatdula, challenge the greatest warrior in Maynara.” Then she turned to Luntok with a hardened expression.

“That is, if he’s brave enough to accept.”

Fury surged in Laya’s veins.

“Luntok’s already won. Don’t be ridiculous!” she called out, only to be ignored.

“I accept the princess’s challenge.” Anger flashed on Luntok’s face.

He took a threatening step toward her.

Bulan gave him a cold nod.

She drew her sword and threw the sheath over the edge of the platform.

“I knew you would.”

Vikal pulled Luntok to the side and whispered in his ear, trying to reason with him.

Laya lunged forward.

She wanted to grab Bulan and shake some sense into her, but Eti grabbed her wrist.

“Laya, no,” Eti pleaded, yanking her back.

“Not here.”

At the tears threatening to spill from her little sister’s eyes, Laya relented.

Maybe Eti was right.

For Laya to clash with Bulan within the privacy of the palace walls was one thing, but to air their grievances before all of Mariit?

Their mother might never forgive them.

Laya bit back a groan as she glanced back at the tournament ring.

Healers had mounted the platform.

They dressed Utu Luma’s wounds and carted him away for further treatment.

Servants came with buckets and rags, mopping up Utu’s blood the best they could.

Laya’s stomach turned at the rusty smell.

This was how the tournament would end?—her sister versus her lover.

Laya wanted to strangle both of them.

Instead, she stood helpless in the pit.

What else could she do?

Vikal whispered one last thing in Luntok’s ear.

He patted him on the back and descended from the platform, casting a grave glance at Bulan before he left.

Vikal was afraid, either for Luntok or for Bulan.

Laya’s eyes darted between the two warriors, terrified for both.

The drums picked back up as Bulan and Luntok began to circle each other on the platform.

The sun had set fully now.

In the glow of the torches, Luntok’s blade gleamed red, his face half basked in shadow.

Laya didn’t need to see him to know what he was thinking.

That this was his victory.

That Bulan couldn’t rip this away from him.

He wouldn’t let her.

And Bulan?—Laya wanted to scream at her sister.

Couldn’t she have chosen another moment to prove her worth?

Bulan attacked first from the upper right.

Luntok blocked with a flick of his sword.

Unlike in his previous fight, he shifted immediately into offensive mode and attempted a low strike to her knees.

Bulan parried and maneuvered out of his range.

With frightening speed, they continued to exchange blows.

The crowd roared as they watched them dart back and forth across the platform in a perverse imitation of a dance.

Luntok had speed and strength on his side, but Laya had watched her sister train her entire life.

He couldn’t match Bulan’s eye for weakness.

Bulan pursued every opening he gave her, no matter how fleeting.

She forced him to defend and counterattack again and again, refusing to let him catch his breath.

Luntok’s chest heaved, slick with sweat, as he came at her with an outward strike.

She deflected and returned his attack, aiming at his ribs.

This time, Bulan didn’t need to exert quite as much effort to push him back.

He was slowing down, tired.

Any physical advantage he lorded over her was useless.

Bulan broke free from the breakneck rhythm they’d fallen into and thrust forward, aiming straight for his groin.

Below the platform, Laya fumed.

No, Bulan, don’t you dare.

Luntok parried in time but lost his balance.

He regained his footing and stared at Bulan with wild determination in his eyes.

Bulan met his gaze with equal fervor.

Laya’s heart raced.

She knew what was next to come.

Bulan whirled her sword and advanced on Luntok in relentless, fanlike patterns.

He tried to gain the upper hand, tried to fly above her.

Each time, Bulan dragged him back to the ground, breaking his graceful footwork.

His frustration built.

He grew sloppy.

Bulan feinted, tricking him into a forward lunge.

Then she spun around him and swiped at the tattooed plane of his back.

Luntok cried out, and Laya gasped.

The cut was angry and long and red, but it wasn’t deep.

The true damage Bulan had inflicted was to his pride.

He whipped around, snarling.

“You’d wound a man with his back turned?”

“Don’t be a baby,” she shot back.

“That was a fair blow.”

In the shadows, his jaw tightened.

“What are you trying to prove?” he asked in a low voice.

“I’ve got nothing to prove to you.”

The corners of his mouth curled into an unkind grin.

“You’re a decent warrior, Bulan, but you’d have made a terrible queen,” he said, loud enough for the watching crowd to hear.

Bulan froze.

A look of alarm passed over her face for a brief moment, but Laya caught it.

Luntok had noticed it too.

Laya’s eyes narrowed as she gazed at Luntok.

Bulan may have challenged him to an unfair fight, but he had no right to speak that way to a princess.

To Laya’s sister .

Bulan swallowed hard.

In the torchlight, Laya could see the glint of tears threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes.

But Bulan didn’t crumble at Luntok’s taunts.

She squared her shoulders.

Raised her sword above her head.

Bulan refused to let him win.

After the tournament, no soul in Maynara would dare underestimate Bulan again.

Laya watched, horrified, as she descended on Luntok like a charging bull.

No clever strike could hold her back.

Any restraint she might have afforded him vanished.

She aimed for his heart, his throat.

Her blade threatened to maim, to disembowel.

Laya recognized the power radiating from Bulan’s body with every movement?—that immeasurable, godlike rage.

One mistake, and Luntok tripped over himself trying to match her.

He dived for her in a center thrust.

She sidestepped him and grabbed his arm.

Without hesitation, she switched the angle of her weapon and jabbed the hilt straight into his gut.

Luntok doubled over.

She raised her sword again and drove the hilt straight into the side of his skull.

Laya gasped as the force knocked Luntok to his knees.

Bulan kicked the sore spot.

The jeering grew louder.

Bulan didn’t care if they cried foul.

She drove the hilt onto his wrist.

He cried out, and his blade clattered to the platform.

Bulan couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.

Once more, she raised her sword and brought it straight down on his head.

And Laya?—Laya could no longer bear to watch.

“Stop!” she screamed, thrusting out both palms.

Before Bulan’s hilt could make contact, the air above the platform split.

A violent blast of wind nearly sent Bulan hurtling from the platform’s edge.

She skidded backward, away from Luntok, her sword swept from her grip.

Laya clambered into the ring and threw herself at Luntok’s side.

She cradled his swollen face in her hands, not caring who saw.

“Laya,” he groaned, leaning into her palm.

She smoothed back the hair from his bloodied brow and hushed him.

Her heart sank as she inspected the damage.

An angry, purple splotch had already spread across his cheekbone.

After witnessing the force with which Bulan had struck his head, Laya knew it was a miracle Luntok was still conscious.

“Bulan, you absolute maniac,” Laya breathed.

Her shoulders shook with anger.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at her.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Bulan said.

But her confidence from the start of the fight had long since faded, and doubt crept into her tone.

“Dramatic?” Laya let out a spiteful laugh.

“You could have killed him.”

She waited for another retort, but her sister said nothing.

After a long, painful moment, Bulan walked away.

Her footsteps echoed as she stalked across the platform.

The crowd had no cheers for her, no applause.

Only stunned silence.

Laya didn’t watch her sister leave.

She could not tear her gaze away from Luntok.

He stirred feebly in her arms.

Fear bubbled up in the back of her throat as she wrapped her arms around him.

She bit back tears as she wiped the blood from his swollen lips.

“I’m here,” she whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

My love.

My only love.

Luntok stirred again but did not try to speak.

Laya held him until the crowd emptied from the stands and the pit.

She held him until the beating drums and thunderous cheers faded to deafening silence.

She would have held him for hours longer, but then the curtain of night fell over Mariit.

With the moon came a unit of healers with their potions and dressings.

They waved her off, impatient, as they hoisted Luntok onto a stretcher.

Laya’s throat constricted as she wavered, alone on the platform.

She had no choice but to watch him go.