Chapter 44

The more I gain consciousness, the more the pain strengthens.

My eyes peel open and life welcomes me back into being. I shift slightly, feeling the goose feather bed beneath me with fluffy pillows. And a white sheet laid over me, spun from spider silk, sumptuously soft. Both of my arms are bandaged at different places with cream wraps, surrounded by minor scrapes and cuts.

The sheet is raised to my chest, pain hampering even the tiniest of movements. I lift it up to peek at the gauze on my side. My discoloured stomach billows with bruises from light shades of inflamed red, tints of yellow to a dark purple. I release the sheet.

"You are awake."

I look beyond the canopy frame of the bed. In the bedchamber, there are white drapings that hang from the ceiling all around, draperies of silky white. Warm air rouses them all, causing them to rustle and frolic. Amidst the white, a shadow roams. A brawny figure outlined behind a dancing drape. Kelan reveals himself and moves to stand at the foot of the bed. He is not in his uniform, he wears casual clothes with the same cloak he wore at the light festival, shrouded over his dark clothing.

"How long?"

His face twitches with something uncomfortable. "This is the third day."

My gaze falters before I drag it back up to look at him. "And how long have you been...waiting, here with me?"

A defined muscle protrudes from his jaw. "This is the third day."

I can barely move. My body is inoperable. A giant weight dropped on me, mooring me to the bed. Every graze and wound on my body throbs and aches, searing ceaselessly. Battered, bruised, and sapped of all my strength. But I lived. Though others did not, and many who fell before my blade. Because of me.

I glance back at Kelan and he observes me thoughtfully. His meticulous gaze traces every feature of my face, like he's studying me. It feels like he is scrutinising every mark that tarnishes my skin.

If I look how I feel, then I'm glad I cannot see myself.

"Why are you staring at me?" I demand.

"Because," he states.

My eyelids are so heavy, I fight to keep them open. "Because." My lungs are struggling. "Because what?"

"I have seen you wear the most exotic gowns," he begins and moves away to round the bed, slowly making his way to me. "Many times, you thought I did not see you, but I did. And each time you looked magnificent. But you have never looked more beautiful than as you do right now."

I chaff at the compliment. Even though my heartbeat dashes, sparking like black powder before it plateaus again.

"You do not believe my sincerity?"

It's too much effort to shrug, so I force a dubious smile. "How can I when I'm sure I look like I have participated in the Blood Games, killed, was nearly slain and got pummelled by Spartans." I feign a look of remembrance. "Oh wait, that did happen."

He stops at my side. Those stygian eyes look down at me. His gaze embraces mine, so palpable it's like his arms are around me. "That is not what I see." Outstretching his arm, his fingers brush against my cheek. His touch is like a balm over every wound. A remedy for my pain. "Every bruise shows how you fought. Every wound proves your might and despite it all. You triumphed. Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." His knuckles softly trailing down. "And your courage is unparalleled. You fought with heart and skill and there is nothing greater, nothing more beautiful than the one that overcomes."

I lug up an arm, skin at the edge of my face tautening. I hold onto his hand. His eyes examine my neck for a moment, then he looks back at me, tethering my gaze to his.

All that tenderness is gone.

"You battled a champion gladiator and defeated him, unscathed," he recalls. I already dislike where this is going. "Whereas when you fought Rimnick. At first, you seemed startled, frightened...weakened."

I release his hand; it retreats to my stomach.

Despite my visible discomfort with the subject. He continues, saying, "Your fight seemed...emotional. There was a lot of talking. In a fight to the death. What did you speak of?"

A part of me wants to tell him to leave me. But that is not what I need.

I inhale deeply. I ready myself to speak, but the sound of my bedchamber door opening causes my lips to fasten. Kelan straightens and takes a wary step from me, rendering an appropriate distance between us. His head tilts to inspect the visitor. My eyes follow to search between the waving panels of drapes.

"Hera."

Vince steps out, dressed in a sleeveless, fitted top garment with loose trousers. Both a dark blue. Vince's injuries are minimal. His left eye is slightly swollen, an aggravated pink that darkens into red. Only minor abrasions on his arms, but other than that he is in perfect health.

"So the warrior still lives," he says with a dazzling smile.

However, when I look into his eyes, I see death. I see his blood-speckled face back in the arena, and the traumatic memories flood back, threatening to overwhelm me. The killing. Zekei's death. And the last words he whispered. My sword plunged into Rimnick's chest, his words that will forever haunt, memories that will forever torment. Vince hurries towards me and shoulders past Kelan purposefully. He makes himself comfortable, seating himself on the side of the bed.

"How is the pain?" He brings his hand to my face—I nearly recoil.

Vince makes an unnecessary effort to examine my face with his fingers, tilting my chin to assess imaginary wounds. Because there's only one abrasion on my face. A thin graze on my left cheek. I did not know it was possible. But somewhere Kelan's eyes of the night blacken, darkening by several shades. Two orbs of fiendish black.

"Soldier, send for a servant," Vince orders Kelan, but his eyes are on me. His tone is cold and aloof. "Tell them to bring a jar of water and prepare a herbal broth to restore the Hera's strength."

Kelan doesn't move.

"You may go."

Vince knows very well that he is the Primus. Even without his uniform and armour.

Kelan remains where he is. His glower burning holes into Vince's back.

A deadly look stills Vince's gaze. He rises, turns, and marches right up to Kelan until they are nose to nose. Kelan is half a head taller than Vince.

"I gave you an order," he says icily. "Leave us, it was not a request."

Kelan's hands curl into fists. Unsure if he's about to launch one of them or he's attempting to restrain himself from doing so. Either way, I fear it will end with someone being pounded to the ground. Kelan rips his gaze from his and looks at me. I implore him with pleading eyes and a subtle nod.

He impales Vince with one last glare before he swivels around.

"You seem to be forgetting something, soldier."

"Primus," I interject.

Kelan pauses and swivels to muse him with a questioning look.

"Bow to me."

"Vince—"

"Bow to your superior," he exclaims over my reproach.

Kelan inclines his head and stares him down like Vince is nothing but a speck of dirt beneath his boot. "When I am before her, I shall." He draws back into the fluttering drapes before a loud bang echoes, the walls trembling.

Vince turns to face me with a hybrid look of indignation and perplexion. "Why was Primus Kelan in your bedchambers?" He asks with budding anger, eyebrows colliding. Rumples of skin crushed together. He rattles off his questions. "What did he say to you, what did he want? What gave him the assumption that you would welcome him in your bedchambers?"

If only I could fall unconscious again.

"He was just doing his duty," I say in a monotone. "Safeguarding those under his care."

Distrust warps his face. "Inside your bedchamber?"

"What is it you are implying?" Weary of this whole inquisition.

He approaches me slowly. "In fact, this is not the first time. The stone-faced Primus has been hovering over you since long before. During our journeys to new locations. At new locations. He has been either at your side or watching you in particular, guarding your person, intimately."

"He is very thorough in his duty," I say casually.

"And how is his company, then? You must find him dull, perhaps even forbidding. After all, he is a Primus for a reason."

Is he trying to incite a reaction of some sort?

"No," I say, too carefree. "He is something that... well...even words fail to put a measure on his character." Putting up no night, I succumb to my exhaustion. "Vince, I am grateful that you came, but I need rest."

His eyes find mine again. A look of sorrow flickers in his eyes. "I do not wish to add to your pain, but I thought you should know that Tamani perished the night before last."

Despair grips my throat—shock snaring a breath.

"Though he survived his solo match after the Quarter Sage." Vince gropes for words. "His wounds were too grave."

Tears burn behind my eyes. "Thank you for telling me."

A fraught silence stretches out until I sever its length.

"What of Rimnick?"

Fury melts the sorrow in his eyes. "What of the scum?" he asks aggressively.

"Vince—"

"No, death was too kind for him. It irks me that it was not done by my hand," he says and takes a brief moment to analyse my expression, reading my eyes. "Do not tell me you bore him sympathy...guilt over slaying him? Did you forget what he had done to you?"

I turn my face like he had struck me. "How could I, Vince? And no, it's more than that."

"Then what is it?" His voice rising. "Tell me."

Averting an escalation, I ask, "Where is he?"

"Duce Merian had arranged to have his miserable corpse be shuttled back to the Kingdom of Mela. Now what follows is a respite of some kind."

I process the news silently, adding weight to my unfit self.

"I will go review the progress on that herbal broth. But it is likely that your Primus did not relay my order." He turns and makes a start to the door. Vince stops in his tracks, spins on his heels to face me, and claps his hands. "In fact, I will make it myself." A smile brightens his eyes.

"You know how to cook?"

He snorts and whirls back around. "Only if throwing random ingredients into a boiling cauldron classifies as cooking. Then yes, I can."

***

In the next few days that follow, I spend all my time in bed or at the bathhouse, and they bring all meals to my chambers. Every morning, even against my wishes. Kelan carries me, cradling me to his chest, back and forth, from my chambers to the bathhouse and back with on-duty servants that assist me into new daywear or my nightgown. Whether I am being dressed, my gauzes changed, or I bathe. Kelan remains outside either the bathhouse or my bedchambers until I finish.

Even though I am confined to my bedchambers, I can do nothing else but rest. Fortunately, I am well-entertained, visited frequently by Solaris, Vince, and Treyton, with Kelan posted just beyond the door. Vince is not a terrible cook. The broth he makes for me is quite heavenly. A vegetable stew with seasoned meat bits.

Even now, I await a fresh bowl.

My door creaks open with a whine.

"Finally. I am famished."

"My apologies, Hera," a feminine, strangely high-pitched voice, says, "Herem Vince was called away and said I could deliver this broth for him."

I know that voice.

A woman emerges with a tray in both hands. A white cowl concealing her face. She shuffles closer and as she walks to the flank of my bed; I can see glimpses of her turquoise gown beneath, too fine of a material to be worn by a mere servant.

She places the tray on the bedside table and clasps her hands in front of her. "Do you require anything else?"

"Hmm," I say. "Do you mind checking on Herem Vince's whereabouts? We were engaged in a riveting conversation before he left. A conversation about family and how I grew tired of mine. Especially my wretched sister."

"Wretched." Her hands unclasp. "How so, Hera?"

I push out a drawn-out, thoughtful sound. "She is so overbearing. She thinks she is the prettier sister, the more charming sister, the more likely to wed first, sister." All is true. "Delusional, I tell you."

"Well, you are fortunate," she says. The pitch of her voice drops to a normal, all too familiar tone. "If you were not beaten already, I would do so myself."

With a swipe of her hand, she removes the hood.

Seliah.