5. Leah
Leah
I’m relieved when I find out fledglings get private rooms. The unoccupied bedroom Filippa finds for me is small and plain, but perfectly comfortable.
And here, there’s no need to put on a strong front for anyone.
I can let down my guard and take a minute to process everything the day has held—all the turmoil, all the horror.
I began the day in bed with Syrus and ended it in a completely different world, with visions of ephilium being burned or plucked by their own kind running through my head.
My head that still feels so empty without Syrus.
I keep thinking I feel him outside my mental barriers, running an experimental touch over them, looking for a weak spot.
I hate the part of me that wants to let him in.
I’ve got so much to fight against here. I shouldn’t have to also fight against myself.
The next morning, I rise to the sound of fledglings chattering outside my door, feeling like I’ve barely rested at all.
There’s a box already in my room that Filippa told me yesterday has standard issue uniform in it. I’m just buckling the strap of a leather breastplate when she knocks and calls through the door.
“Come in!” I answer.
She pauses in the doorframe, looking me over with a pensive expression. Not for the first time, I get the sense that Filippa thinks a lot she doesn’t say.
“You look good,” she says. “Like you fit in.”
I turn my body and glance over my shoulder at her. The breast plate naturally has an open section at the back where it’s meant to sit around your wings. “You mean, even without a certain set of appendages?” I ask skeptically.
“Even without them,” she says. “Some people just have that look, you know? Like they naturally know the handle of a blade from the pointy end.”
I laugh. “Thanks, you’re too kind.” I chew my lip, thinking. “Captain Pellery talked about me getting wings like it was a possibility. Do you think…?” I trail off, embarrassed by my question.
She looks apologetic. “I don’t really know much about nephilim. But if you grew up in Strata, it makes sense they didn’t come in yet. Especially if your magic only just started showing.”
I raise my eyebrows at her, wondering how she knows that.
“I got a letter from the general last night,” she explains. “He told me about the seraphim and how you didn’t actually have much choice about entering the trials. I mean, he didn’t put it like that, of course, but I read between the lines.”
“Yeah, a series of deadly tests wasn’t exactly high on my list of desired tourist experiences when I decided to come here,” I say.
She tilts her head, as if weighing up whether to say something. “I have to admit I’m kind of relieved. I thought you might have gotten caught up in the whole eternal glory thing and made some stupid choices.”
“Nope,” I say, understanding her aloofness yesterday a little more. It seems Filippa might not fully share her grandfather’s views. “Any stupid decisions I’ve made were entirely free of glory in the motivation department. I’m sorry if that disappoints the general.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t tell him.” She smiles then, and I’m relieved that we seem to have reached a better understanding of each other.
“Now,” she says, straightening up and stepping away from the doorway.
“Where does food rank on your list of motivators? Because if we don’t move soon, all the good stuff will be gone from breakfast.”
“Oh, it’s high,” I say with faux seriousness and follow her out of my room.
The dining hall is immense, with a series of galleries running around it and chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, made from clusters of glass orbs. When I look closer, I can see that the orbs are lit with bright white lightning crackling inside them.
We plate up our food from a long banquet table at one end. I hesitate for a moment, remembering Viz’s exasperated words of warning during my first breakfast in Infernum.
I’m not so worried about the food here; it looks more similar to Stratan fare, and I am part ephilium, but the memory catches me out anyway.
They’d been looking out for me from the beginning—keeping me safe and comfortable, even if I thought danger was lurking around every corner back then. Whereas here—
“Are you coming?” Filippa asks, looking at me oddly.
I realize I’m standing around staring at the eggs with a wistful expression and quickly reach for the nearest pile of bread. “Yep.”
I follow her to one of the wooden tables lined up in rows across the hall. I can see now that there’s obvious seating arrangements—bronze and leather-clad fledglings at the end furthest from the food, a bulk of silver-armored cadets in the middle, and a smattering of gold at the other end.
“This isn’t everyone, right?” I ask as we sit a few seats down from Bianca and Rowan.
“No,” Filippa says. “We eat in sittings. There’ll be more cadets along in an hour—we have to clear out before then.”
“I’d like to see the kitchens try to keep up with us all eating at the same time,” Bianca says casually, taking a large bite from an apple.
“Have you seen Zinah?” Filippa asks.
Bianca shakes her head. “I think she’ll probably skip training for a few days before showing her face again.”
“That would be stupid,” Rowan says, not unkindly. “She doesn’t know when or what the first trial is going to be, so she needs to take advantage of all the time and training she can get. Especially if she’s going to get used to fighting with her wings clipped.”
He seems to remember I’m there in all my wingless glory and throws me an apologetic look, but I’m busy thinking about Zinah’s crime and the way no one around here seems to know anything about the trials.
“You really have no idea when they’ll be, or what they are?” I ask. “How do you even know there’ll be fighting involved?"
“Because there always is,” Filippa says, a bitter note to her voice.
Rowan frowns and jumps in to say, “It’s not just about violence. Each trial is designed to test a core value: strength, courage, and wisdom.”
“Which all mostly translate to fighting in these parts,” Filippa says, reaching for her cup of water only to knock it over. I dart my hand out and catch it, righting it fast enough that only a few drops spill.
“Good catch,” Rowan says, impressed. Filippa just flushes and mutters a thanks. She nearly tripped over on the way here too, I recall. Keros’s insults yesterday about her combat abilities start to make more sense, along with her disdain when talking about fighting.
Filippa might be an Illidore, but maybe she’s the black sheep of the family?
My thoughts are interrupted by a return of a pressure on my mental walls, urging me to open up.
Syrus.
I thought he might have given up, but that was naive of me. That man doesn’t surrender to anything. He’s going to keep lurking at the edges of my mind, waiting for the moment I’m distracted. And the moment I slip up, he’ll slip in, probably to take control of me and force me back to Infernum.
But I got powerful enough to shut him out all on my own, and I know I can get powerful enough to stop him controlling me too. I just need to stay strong.
I realize Bianca is saying something to me. “I’m sorry, what?” I ask, blinking at her.
She throws Rowan a look like she thinks I’m a bit slow. “I said, what were you doing in Strata before you came here?”
“Oh, um…odd jobs here and there,” I say. Maybe word about me being scavenger will get back to the fledglings eventually, but I don’t need to advertise it. I don’t think it will help my popularity much. “I…I’m going to go get more food,” I say, rising with my plate.
“I’ll come with you,” Rowan says quickly, hopping up to join me. Filippa gives him a calculating look. I’m not quite sure what to make of his friendliness, but I can’t help thinking it would be helpful to have someone so popular on my side.
“Rumor has it your grandfather claimed you at the muster yesterday,” Rowan says as we walk up to the banquet table.
“I guess news travels fast,” I reply. “But yes. Captain Pellery presented me to the seraphim. I didn’t know General Garion was my grandfather until he stepped forward after I gave my grandmother’s name.”
“Wow, so you met the seraphim your first day in Aradis?” he says, impressed.
I squirm internally as I make a vague noise in response.
I doubt he’d be so impressed if he knew I was dragged in front of them in handcuffs—or that the seraphim only put me in the trials to make sure I wasn’t a demon spy.
It seems that part of the meeting hasn’t made its way to Rowan yet, and I’m not inclined to share it.
Part of it is because it’s good to have allies in this place…
but part of me also wants to keep him thinking well of me.
A group of cadets troops into the dining hall ahead of us, and we end up waiting behind them. They’re loud and excited, chatting and jostling each other in the line. It takes less than a minute for me to catch the word “Infernum” in their conversation, and my ears prick up, listening hard.
“…not just infighting. On the brink of civil war, Major Tauley said. With Kaliban dead—”
“Kaliban’s dead?” Rowan pipes up. “As in, the Lord of Rancor?”
Three of the cadets turn around. I expect them to ask Rowan who the fuck he thinks he’s talking to. Instead, the tallest one among them grins and slaps Rowan on the back. “Hey, Gradis, I heard you were showing off yesterday. Putting the other fledglings to shame.”
Rowan smiles, humble. “It was a close thing,” he says, politely if not honestly. He was the winner by—well, not quite a mile, but a good twenty feet. I feel the cadets’ eyes drift over to me, taking in my lack of wings with various expressions of surprise and confusion.
“Oh, this is Leah Illidore,” Rowan says. “She’s nephilim. But is it true?” he asks, clearly more eager to learn the juicy gossip than to discuss me. “One of the demon lords is dead?”
“Yes. It’s all the Brigade is talking about this morning,” says the tall cadet. “My brother Falchius says he was murdered.”
I go rigid, my muscles locking up. Maybe I’d rather have them talk about my lineage after all.
“What?” Rowan gasps. “By who?”
The air in the large dining hall suddenly feels too close.
Me. I helped murder him. I blasted him full of lightning so someone else could finish the job.
“Oh, it gets better. They’re saying it was the Lord of Malice.”
Syrus. My mind supplies the name before the cadet can say it, even as a pressure dances on the border of that mind.
Fainter than before, but still there. He’s still there, as his enemies talk about him just feet away.
What would happen if I messed up and let him into my mind now?
Would they be able to tell? Would I immediately be held down like Zinah yesterday?
I don’t have any feathers to shear away, so would they carve me up instead?
“Ancestors,” mutters Rowan. “Do they know why he did it?”
The cadet shrugs. “Why does a demon do anything? Especially one as powerful and dangerous as the Lord of Malice. They say he took Kaliban’s head as a trophy.”
The cadet next to him shakes her own head. “Fucking maniac. I can see why they keep him off the battlefields. They’re probably terrified he’ll go rogue and start killing off his own kind.”
“Nah,” the tall cadet answers. “Falchius says if he wanted to be fighting, no one would be able to stop him. The Lord of Malice does what he pleases.”
If I wasn’t so nervous, I’d laugh at the irony. It’s precisely because he can’t do what he pleases—can’t go wherever he wants—that Syrus is never seen in Strata.
“Better for us, though,” the female cadet says with a smirk. “I’d rather he stay in Infernum causing chaos than meet us out on the plains.”
“Speak for yourself,” Rowan says, drawing himself up.
“I’d like to test myself against a demon lord.
” This earns him a good-natured laugh from the cadets.
They seem charmed by his bravado, even if I have to suppress an eye roll at his naivete.
I suspect if Rowan actually met Syrus, he’d feel differently.
The third cadet, a slightly smaller woman who’s been quiet up until now, clears her throat. “How’s your family doing in Aphelion, Gradis? Are things as difficult as they’re saying?”
Rowan pulls a face. “It’s not good, no. The wheat farmers have been hit the hardest. But it’s nothing we can’t handle. We Aphelites are made of strong stuff.”
“Hear hear,” says the tall cadet, giving Rowan another clap on the back and casting one last curious look at me before turning back to the banquet table.
With the conversation finished, I’m not so worried about looking distracted anymore, so I risk checking back in with my mental walls. Frantically examining them to make sure there aren’t any weak points, I breathe a quiet sigh when I find the presence pressing on them seems to have retreated.
He’s gone. For now.