Chapter 24 Leila
Leila
Leila dragged Her feet across the dusty road, willing Herself to take yet another step forward.
Perhaps She could’ve asked to ride one of the carriages in their phallion, but the idea of looming high over the others, fully on display, kept Her low to the ground.
Besides, they were nearly there already.
She could tell, because with each passing hour the air grew cooler, chilled by the approaching winds of the north.
Regardless, the sun was peeking over the horizon—a sight that would’ve struck Her with fear had it not been for the mask still secure on Her face.
Wherever they were, the phallion had to stop eventually.
As the night faded, so too did the Festival of Pleasures.
A few celebrators still danced in the streets, albeit slowly, weighed down by their lethargy.
A lone singer from within their phallion belted out off-key tunes, but no instruments accompanied them, nor did anyone clap along.
Torn ribbons littered the path ahead, and more than a few shopfronts were busted open, their contents scattered along the street in puddles of booze and blood.
A few people lay across benches and even the dirtied ground, limp amid their own waste.
Leila hadn’t the energy to wonder if they were dead or merely unconscious.
All She could think about was placing one foot in front of the other.
Tobias strode at Her side, a steadfast comfort despite the demonic nature of his mask.
The rest of their traveling party had become less concealed as the night progressed.
Enzo’s mask rested atop his head like a boarish hat, and both Raphael’s and Hylas’s face paint had been reduced to smears through the sweat of travel.
The others in their phallion were in similar states—flower crowns ripped and wilting, lips wine-stained and crusted, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
They’d have to find shelter sooner rather than later, and for once, Leila would be grateful to be stuck in a Trogolian inn.
“We should seek refuge soon,” Raphael croaked, his voice hoarse from a night of shouting. “Before . . .”
He didn’t need to finish his sentence. Before the drunkards sobered and questioned their new travelers. Before the soldiers were no longer distracted. Before Leila’s glow became too much to conceal.
Enzo grunted in approval, then abandoned the phallion. “I find inn.”
“More than one room,” Tobias called out.
“Yes.” Raphael groaned. “Please, for the love of God.”
Tobias took Leila’s hand in his, warming Her from Her fingertips all the way to Her toes. Respite. She hadn’t a clue if they were near to the Kovahrian border or miles away, but they had survived the night and were that much closer to their destination. That was a victory in itself.
“We did it,” Tobias said under his breath. “Kovahr is just—”
“A two days’ journey away,” Raphael added. “Maybe less.”
Hylas kept quiet, glassy eyes trained ahead, his sleep deprivation not so easily hidden.
Leila could relate. She hadn’t spoken a word in hours, Her voice weary.
Soon, She’d be able to relax, to breathe.
Enzo would return with news of their lodging, and She could eat, bathe, and wrap Herself in the arms of Her beloved.
Voices dinned in the distance, louder with the growing chill.
Shouting. Booing. Tobias’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into Hers as they had the night before, and Leila was starkly aware of the veins bulging from his forearm.
The phallion around them slowed, then stopped entirely.
Many celebrators sat hunched in their wagons barely conscious while others swayed along the ground, numb to the change in conditions.
Raphael and Hylas quickly strode toward the front of the caravan, and Leila and Tobias followed.
They reached a town center not unlike the one they’d left the night prior.
A part of Leila was relieved to see it—Her realm wasn’t the only one so uniform and plain, and Trogolia was no doubt plainer with its unending grey.
But as they wove between the bodies, flashes of red appeared in the distance.
So many soldiers.
They stood in an X formation in the center of the square, strong and steady as the masses heckled them. Rotten fruit and vegetables were tossed their way, though they didn’t flinch. Their stoicism—and numbers—chilled Leila more than the northern air ever could. She tucked Herself against Tobias.
“Citizens of Trogolia.” A single Thessian soldier stepped forward, taking root at the dais. “We stand here per the order of your righteous and moral king, a trusted ally to His Majesty, our sovereign.”
His Majesty? Leila nearly started. Her father had advanced his title already, as if She were dead and buried, a long-lost memory.
“Thanks to the significant efforts of a father in turmoil and the heroic account of Flynn Joseon, we are now most assured that The Savior and Her captor are here within the great realm of Trogolia,” the soldier continued.
Booing erupted within the square, and more rotten produce was tossed his way. The man didn’t falter, didn’t flinch. Leila envied his calm, as Her insides were a twisted contradiction—clenched but wavering, firm but unsteady, a mess of taut anxiety and rampant anger.
“We have no aim to disrupt your home, nor a desire to worry your minds,” the soldier spoke over the voices. “All we want is to find our beloved Savior and free Her from bondage. And with the assistance of your trusted guard, we are taking all necessary steps to ensure Her safe return.”
The Trogolian guards were scattered throughout the square, limp and apathetic, as if they were keen to have their titles overtaken.
Perhaps they didn’t mind the clear seizure of power.
Perhaps they didn’t care any which way at all.
Something about that disturbed Leila, and the relief that had nearly settled into Her bones quickly morphed into despair.
“For the foreseeable future, you will notice our presence,” the soldier said. “You will see our crests as often as the changing sun. But we only have one purpose in your homeland.”
Leila swallowed a scream. They were so close. They’d risked so much, had traveled all night. How is any of this fair? She gnawed at Her bottom lip, thanking whatever God loomed above for the discretion of Her mask.
“Until The Savior and the wretched Artist are found, the Trogolian borders will be closed for passage.” The soldier raised his chin. “No one may enter this realm, and no one may leave.”
One step in front of the other—except it wasn’t enough. It never would be.