by Morgan Rice
“After today, I would have thought you’d be tucked in bed, falling fast asleep.”
She turned with a start to find Thanos stepping out from behind a willow tree, smiling.
Ceres lowered her sword and turned toward him, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. She saw he wore a loose linen shirt, the neck open, and dark curls framed his face. She tried to hate him in this moment.
But somehow her heart had warmed with his presence.
“I could say the same to you,” she said, raising an eyebrow, hoping he wouldn’t notice her racing heart.
“I was about to—but then I heard someone practicing in the arena below my room.”
She looked up the tower to the balcony, his door open, red curtains dancing in the wind.
“I’m sorry I kept you up, my lord,” she said, looking back at him.
“Thanos, please,” he said, bowing toward her, keeping eye contact.
He smiled and took a step toward her.
“You weren’t really keeping me up. I left the party as soon as I could to look for you, and that’s when I saw you from my balcony,” he said.
“Why were you looking for me?” she asked, trying to ignore the nervous energy that pulsed through her.
“I wanted to thank you for today,” he said.
She stared at him blankly for a moment, trying to hold onto the anger for him that was quickly vanishing.
“What brilliant skill you have,” he said. “You have been taught well.”
She wouldn’t reveal she had been dressing up as a boy, training with the combatlords at the palace. He could report her. And he would, wouldn’t he? They might be allies in the arena, but in the real world, they were enemies.
“My father was a bladesmith,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t pry anymore into her training.
He nodded.
“And where is he now?” Thanos asked.
Ceres looked down, thoughts of her father hundreds of miles away weighing heavily on her mind.
“He had to take work elsewhere,” she whispered.
“I’m sad to hear, Ceres,” Thanos said, stepping even closer.
She wished he would stay away, for when he was this close, it was hard to consider him her nemesis and to despise him so.
“And what of your mother?” he asked, watching her closely.
“She tried to sell me into slavery,” Ceres admitted, thinking there was no harm in telling him the truth about her mother.
He nodded once, and squeezed his lips together.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
It irritated her that he apologized for that. A prince. It was partly his fault her father hadn’t been paid enough at the palace and needed to look for work elsewhere.
“How are your wounds?” she asked, walking over to the table and placing the sword on it, hoping to steer the conversation onto safer subjects.
“They’ll heal,” he said as he followed after her.
Standing next to her, his arms folded, he studied her face for a moment.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
“What?” Ceres said.
“Out in the arena today. First, you threw me a shield. I have never heard of a wolver, let alone that any animal could spew flames.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I had heard of wolvers from my father,” she fibbed.
“Then, my sword…it was lodged in the wolver’s skull,” he said, his eyes squinting. “You raised your hand and the blade jutted into my hand with this force—”
“I did no such thing!” Ceres interrupted him, backing away, afraid he was onto her.
He glanced at her with kind eyes and cocked his head to the side.
“Are you saying I imagined it?” he asked.
She balked. Was he trying to trap her? She needed to choose her words carefully or she could be thrown into prison for implying he was a liar.
“I am certain I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said.
His eyebrows knitted together and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead, he stepped toward her, placed a hand on her shoulder, and let it slide down her arm.
A delightful shiver went through Ceres, and she loathed how her body betrayed her so.
“No matter,” he said. “Thank you, though. Your selections of weapons made all the difference.”
“Yes, perhaps your lovely hair would have been singed off had I not offered the shield,” she said with a smirk, trying to make light of the situation.
“You think I have lovely hair?” he asked.
Her breathing staggered, and she couldn’t understand how she could have let such a flippant comment escape her lips.
“No,” she said rather sharply, folding her arms in front of her chest.
His lips twitched.
“Well, then, I don’t think you have beautiful eyes, either,” he said.
“Then it’s settled.”
He nodded and Ceres walked over to a willow tree.
“It’s getting late,” she said.
“Perhaps I may escort you home?” he said, following her again.
Ceres lowered her gaze and shook her head.
“Or perhaps you need a place to stay?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Should she tell him the truth? If she didn’t, she knew she would have to sleep outdoors every night.
“Yes,” she said.
“There is no room for you inside the castle walls, but just down that path next to the well is a vacant summer home, and you are welcome to stay there.”
He pointed to a small cottage secluded by trees, covered in vines.
“I would be very grateful,” she said.
He took her arm and was about to walk her there, but then a girl emerged from the bushes. She was lovely, Ceres thought, with blonde hair and brown eyes, her skin as smooth as silk, her lips blood red. She wore a white silk dress, and when a breeze gusted against Ceres’s face, she noticed the girl smelled of roses.
Feeling a bit awkward, Ceres pulled her arm away from Thanos’s.
“Hello, Stephania,” Thanos said, and Ceres could detect a slight irritation in his voice.
Stephania smiled at Thanos, but when her eyes reached Ceres, the girl frowned.
“Whom have we here?” Stephania asked.
“This is Ceres, my weapon-keeper,” Thanos said.
“Where are you going with your weapon-keeper?” Stephania asked.
“That is none of your concern,” Thanos replied.
“I am certain King Claudius would be thrilled to know you are meeting with your female weapon-keeper late at night, escorting her to unknown destinations,” Stephania said.
“I’m certain the king would be equally thrilled to learn you are wandering around the palace grounds late at night in your sleepwear, unescorted by your handmaidens,” Thanos snapped.
Stephania lifted her nose up, turned on her heels, and vanished down the paved walkway and back into the palace.
“Never mind her,” Thanos said. “She’s just upset I refused to marry her.”
“It was her?” Ceres asked.
He didn’t respond to her question, just jutted out his elbow, offering it to her again.
“Perhaps she was right. Maybe this is inappropriate,” Ceres said.
“Nonsense,” he said, and then he paused before smirking and saying, “Unless you were considering making it so?”
“Of course not,” Ceres said, bothered, her cheeks flushing hot.
When she looped an arm through his to prove her point, she became irritated with herself for liking it, and immediately, she strengthened her resolve to not let the charming prince anywhere near her heart.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Standing atop a hill overlooking Cumorla, the capital of Haylon, a remote isle in the Mazeronian Sea, Commander Akila’s heart soared with joy as he watched the statue of King Claudius come tumbling down. He inhaled the air, and the sweet sensation of justice filled him, as
smoke from the king’s castle rose into the azure heaven above the city.
Justice, Akila thought. Justice was finally being served today. Every last royal relative of the king had been locked inside that abominable seven-spired structure, and now it had burned down.
Wind pushed at his armor as he beheld the thousands of men on the hillside, their red banners flapping for the revolution’s cause. Before twilight, he would lead them into a battle that would free them, finally, from centuries of oppression. His chest swelled with pride.
The people of Haylon had suffered long enough under the rule of tyrannical kings. They had paid unreasonable taxes, sent their best warriors to Delos, and bowed their heads to the ten thousand Empire soldiers that plagued the streets day and night. His entire life, Akila had watched women and daughters raped, children flogged and arrested. The young were forced to work long days in the king’s fields, returning with welts and dejected eyes. He knew it was long past since they needed to take back their freedom, to take back their lives.
A messenger approached.
“Western Cumorla has been secured, sir,” he said.
“The Empire soldiers?” Akila asked.
“Fleeing to the east.”
“How many civilian lives lost?”
“Three hundred, thus far.”
Akila clenched his fists. It was less than expected, but each life lost was a weight on his conscience, another son or daughter dead, a mother, brother, sister, father butchered while defending this land’s freedom.
He dismissed the messenger and signaled to his lieutenant to alert the final wave of militias. They would trap the invaders on the western entrance and treat them with the same courtesy with which they had treated his people. Not much would be left of them after that, and that brought great joy to Akila’s heart.
Akila kicked his horse forward, leading the lieutenant and his men into battle. He rode down the hill and in through the northern city gates, past balconied passageways, closed inns, and padlocked work shacks. He passed families huddled in corners, children lying facedown on the stone streets, and horses on the run without riders. The militias followed Akila without the city walls, hiding behind trenches to await the thousands of Empire soldiers that would soon flee through the gates and try to escape toward the harbor.
Not a one must escape, Akila had told his men this morning as he had ordered hundreds of men to stand guard at the docks. For even one escapee meant word would get back to Delos—and then the king would send tens of thousands of Empire soldiers to Haylon.
Minutes passed, and minutes more, until they had been lying in wait for nearly an hour, as twilight descended.
Then, suddenly, the first Empire soldier rode out on a horse, holding the Empire ensign, Akila saw.
“Long live King Claudius!” the soldier yelled.
Three flaming arrows hit him in the chest.
He fell off his horse, into the canal below the bridge.
Three more Empire soldiers followed, all felled, too, as they rode through the gates.
Soldier after soldier then trickled out of the city gates, and a brutal battle ensued.
Akila led the way with a fierce battle cry as night fell. All around him men were losing their lives to the cause of freedom, a freedom they would never see, but that perhaps their children would.
Akila gathered his most ruthless warriors to ride with him into the city, and he looked side to side to see them now, their horses thundering in his ears. He led the group of three hundred through the southern entrance, and then as they rode split them into four groups of fifty, each to search for Empire soldiers in different directions.
With torches and swords, Akila led his men down winding streets, stopping at every house, searching—hunting high and low, not a single enemy to be found. Almost at the end of their search, they happened upon a stable behind the high priest’s mansion, and Akila thought it looked like an excellent hiding place for Empire soldiers.
As he was about to command his men to search the stable, the high priest stepped out from his house.
“Have you seen any Empire soldiers this way?” Akila asked, descending his horse.
“No,” the priest said, his hands clasped as if in reverence in front of his body.
But there was something unsettling in the priest’s eyes that made Akila think he was lying.
“Search the stable,” Akila told his soldiers, and they immediately headed toward and entered the building.
There was a sudden uproar, and when Akila turned toward the commotion, the priest took off running down the street. Akila ran after him, but when he arrived at the street, he saw the priest galloping on a horse in the direction of the southern entrance.
Akila whistled, and once his horse was by his side, he hopped onto it and rode after the escapee. Through the city gates the priest went, with Akila on his heels, but Akila couldn’t quite catch up to him.
Riding eastward, Akila whipped his horse onward relentlessly, his eyes on the escapee. He passed palm trees and hopped fences, rode through grassy fields and sand dunes. Following the priest down a steep sloping hill, it was then he saw a makeshift dock, hidden below a dome of trees. None of his men had been ordered to watch this dock because no one knew it was there.
To his dread, he saw the priest push away in a small sailboat, the wind catching the red sail immediately.
Almost there, Akila wondered if his horse would make the leap from the landing pier and into the boat, the distance increasing by the second. The horse’s muscles tensed beneath him, but Akila drove it forward.
The horse leapt from the dock and into the vessel, skidding as it landed on the slippery wooden deck, throwing Akila off in the fall.
Slightly dazed from the rough landing, Akila rose to his feet and drew his sword.
The priest charged immediately, his sword held high, and he lunged and stabbed with the ferocity of a man who knew his life was at stake.
Akila dashed forward and slashed his blade toward the traitor, slicing him in the face. The man growled, dropped his sword, and whipped out a dagger, flinging it at Akila. But Akila saw it coming and blocked the dagger with his blade.
The priest spun and hurled a basket at Akila, then a wooden crate. Akila hit them away. Next, the priest grabbed a net and tossed it so Akila’s sword hand became wrapped in it, and then he pulled on the net, causing Akila to stumble forward.
Coming at him, the priest picked up his sword and aimed it at Akila’s chest, but Akila wore heavy armor and the man’s sword slid off the metal like butter, causing the priest to stumble forward.
Taking advantage, Akila shook the net from off his arm and stabbed the priest.
He collapsed to the deck, dead.
Akila pulled his blade out of the priest’s limp body and cleaned it on the net before sliding it back in its sheath.
Not wasting a second, he looked to the city walls, and seeing the black sky was turning navy blue, he realized he needed to return to his men, and quick. He sailed the boat back to the dock, set the boat on fire, and rode with all he had toward the eastern entrance.
Just as he arrived, pink graced the sky. Victory was called, and a new banner was placed atop the outer walls of Cumorla.
As bells of freedom tolled through the capital, Akila rode through the city’s streets with his militia, men, women, and children cheering them on.
He looked toward the north and thought of his family members in Delos, still in bondage, and he knew in his heart that freedom was coming for them, too.
For here, for the first time in history, he stood on the first free land in the Empire.
The revolution had begun.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ceres felt a pang of fear as she realized someone was following her. She quickened her pace on the rocky white pathway, lit by the morning sun, winding her way amidst green lawns and endless rows of flowers, her mind still reeling from her encounter the night before with Thanos. She paused and looked over her shoulder,
listening for the footsteps she knew she had just heard.
Yet there was no one in sight.
Ceres froze and listened. She didn’t have time for annoying games. She needed to get to the palace training ground with the weapons in the barrow before practice started, or Thanos would be weaponless.
Who could it be?
Overheated, she glanced up into the sky as a drop of sweat rolled down her forehead. The sun was a hot glowing disk already, and just like the gardens, she was withering. The muscles in her arms and shoulders started to burn, but she couldn’t afford to rest. She was late as it was.
Pushing the heavy handcart, she picked up her pace, and when the footsteps came again, and she spun and saw no one, her irritation increased.
Finally, as she neared the gazebo, the footsteps grew louder, and when she glanced over her shoulder again, this time she spotted Stephania, wearing a red silk dress, a golden wreath in her golden hair.
Of course. The snooping princess.
“Hello, weapon girl,” Stephania said, a slight frown on her face.
Ceres bowed her head and turned back around, eager to get away. But before Ceres could escape, Stephania stepped in front of her, blocking the narrow path.
“How does a girl become something as lowly as a weapon-keeper, I wonder?” Stephania asked, her hand hitting her hips.
“Thanos hired me,” Ceres replied. “Now if you would so kindly—”
“You will address me as your highness!” Stephania snapped.
Ceres startled and she wanted to give the spoiled girl a piece of her mind, but instead, she kept her head down, reminding herself she wasn’t here to protect her honor, only to fight for the revolution.
“Yes, your highness,” she said.
“It is important you know your place, would you not agree?” Stephania said.
She walked a slow circle around Ceres, eyes probing, hands clasped behind her back, and fancy shoes clicking against the bricks as she strode.
“Since the day you arrived, I have been watching you. I will always be watching you. Do you hear?” Stephania said.
Ceres pinched her lips together so she wouldn’t be tempted to say something disrespectful in return, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to remain silent.
