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Amaya runs away, the first time they fight each other. She’s not so stubborn as to stand her ground against an elf wielding a Sunfire blade. Tales of such weapons, capable of shearing the strongest metals in half like a knife through butter, proliferate around the human kingdoms. She didn’t count on them being no exaggeration. A strategic retreat was her best option.
Still, she catches herself mentally grousing that if not for the advantage of that enchanted sword, she might’ve had the elf beat. Granted, it was a shock to meet a warrior who could match her move for move, parrying and whirling and using the surroundings. Amaya takes pride in her troops, but rarely does she feel challenged when she spars with any of them. So fighting the elf was also, overwhelmingly, a pleasure. A dance — a conversation between bodies.
Afterwards, her thoughts keep straying back to that. To her.
Disarming the elf has to be her priority, next time round. Amaya practises dozens of variations with Commander Gren, in the heat of noon to mimic the temperatures down in the Breach. She gulps water, pictures the hard lines of the elf’s face. Signs, asking to go again, even as the shield grows heavy on her arm.
She has to be ready. She wants to catch her off guard, surprise her. Almost, she thinks, she wants to impress her.
To Amaya, each fight is a dialogue. But it’s not the battle cries and senseless grunts of effort that she listens to. It’s the minute physical cues, which give away her opponents’ next move. The flick of their eyes, the way they favour one side or the other. Being deaf just helps Amaya cut out distractions and read people better. How aggressive are they? What styles do they favour? Where are their weak spots, and how can she exploit them to win?
The next time she meets the elf, Amaya smiles with relish and beckons her forward. Show me what you can do, she thinks. Show me what you’re made of.
Their second fight is a draw, and from the elf’s every parry and thrust, Amaya learns that she is quick-thinking, dutiful, protective. That she rallies with ferocity, and that she does not back down.
Amaya does not need reminding that she is an enemy. An enemy leader, even.
And yet…
And yet.
Their third fight, Amaya wins.
She’s been flung aside by the force of the explosion. Her side aches where she smashed into the rock wall. Lava is pouring down on all sides, trapping her. But she’s won.
She’s won, and the elf is hanging on to the ledge by the tips of her fingers.
Even then, she lifts her chin at Amaya, defiant to the last. Her eyes aren’t blazing with adrenaline anymore. They’re cool, dignified. Insouciant.
You have beaten me, they say, but I shall not bow.
Amaya does not feel pity. She does not give mercy.
But out of respect — out of the grudging admiration that has been growing in her chest, for a warrior who mirrors her own self — Amaya drops to her knees, and pulls her up.
Part of her knows, even then, that she will not fight her again.
It’s only later, as the elf’s prisoner, that Amaya finds out how gentle her hands can be. Many a soldier she’s known has been unable to stop being martial in their bearing, even off the battlefield.
But after the light, amid the echoes of her own voice in her head screaming, Not my eyes — the elf takes half her weight and more, helping her stumble away.
She brings Amaya back to where she has been held captive, but the place is cool now, and dim. She must have ordered the ring of fire to be deactivated temporarily.
The elf helps lower Amaya to the ground. Sprawled there, Amaya clutches the fabric of her own tunic, grounding herself in the texture while she blinks and blinks and waits for the afterimages to fade from her sight.
There are calluses on the elf’s hands. They are oddly soothing against her skin, as the elf tilts up her chin and wipes at the tears on her cheeks. Amaya thinks she could not withstand it if her touch were entirely kind. She would fall apart — which she mustn’t.
She’s still half-blind, but she can make out the elf’s expression of genuine alarm and concern. Idly, Amaya wonders if she’s letting that show on her face because she thinks Amaya can’t see it.
Kazi is standing in a corner of the room, wringing their hands and looking quite at a loss. They’d introduced themself earlier, confirming Amaya’s suspicion that they weren’t experienced in interrogating war prisoners. They’d also let slip the name of Lux Aurea’s Golden Knight, although Amaya hasn’t been using it outwardly or in her head.
She raises her still-shaking hands to get their attention. But she doesn’t thank Janai, not for getting her out of a situation she inflicted on her. Instead, by way of asking what happens to her next, she signs: Am I not to be shackled?
Kazi interprets the brief response: No. But the look on Janai’s face needs no translation.
From one leader to another, Amaya warns her what kind of man Viren is. What kind of danger he poses.
When she holds Janai down, letting her burn her, hurt her — Amaya does it as a friend.
Later, she watches Janai rattle off orders for her troops. Where to assemble, how soon to be ready, what few supplies to bring on their rapid march to the Storm Spire. Speaking through Kazi, Amaya makes a few suggestions based on what she knows of Viren’s character and the forces he may have amassed from the other kingdoms. This startles the Sunfire lieutenants initially, but with a pointed look from Janai, they raise no objections.
Janai dismisses her subordinates at last, and takes two deep breaths. “Thank you, General,” she says, without looking directly at her. Amaya watches Kazi’s hands, then turns her attention back to Janai.
Her face is largely impassive, yet Amaya knows how her grief must still feel. Raw, fatal. A gaping hole punched through her chest. As if buckling from it, Janai leans against a table.
Strewn across it are detailed battle plans and formations her army has trained in for just such an exigency. Without her own Standing Battalion, Amaya feels adrift, impotent. Viren would never have invaded Xadia without military backing, but she hopes, anyway, that some of her troops have defected rather than follow the lead of a false king.
(Gren. Surely, Gren.)
She steps closer to Janai, waiting for her hand to go reflexively to her scabbard. But it doesn’t. Janai only looks up and watches her, silent, with the air of a hurt animal permitting a stranger’s approach.
She thinks of Janai’s touch, how it soothed her by remaining just this side of comforting. Janai can’t break yet. This isn’t Big Feelings Time, as her nephews still refer to it, because there isn’t anything she or Amaya could say to make the loss of a sister hurt less so soon.
Please call me Amaya, she signs while Kazi interprets. I am no General without an army. So I will stand with yours.
I will stand with you, she thinks. Swears.
Slowly, never breaking their gaze, Janai nods.
The battle is rough. One of the messiest Amaya has ever been in — usually, there isn’t quite so much magic involved. Plus, she has to switch her shield to her left hand since her right is too badly burned to grip things reliably. Bandages would slow her down, make her fumble at a critical moment. Whereas pain, in this instance at least, keeps her sharp. It reminds her they’re fighting the worthless man her sister died for, so that her kingdom would not starve. The same man who killed Khessa.
No more dead queens, Amaya vows, and doubles down, racing to plug a hole in the wall of shields. She spares a moment to look over her shoulder. Janai catches her eye and smiles at her like the sun coming out from behind storm clouds.
Amaya has a split-second to wonder, When did that happen? Then she’s shoved backwards. She registers only sheer, brute force, and an attacker who, by a significant stretch of the imagination, resembles Prince Kasef of Neolandia.
There’s no way she can brace for impact, but when it comes, it’s softer than she thought it would be. She finds herself cradled against Janai. Her face is pinched and worried again. For her…
But there’s no time, no time. With Soren’s help, she gets out of Janai’s way, vaguely indicating her chest to convey that she’s winded.
She watches as Janai’s expression contorts with righteous fury. Golden veins light up beneath her skin, like lava melting through volcanic rock.
Later, she will remember this as the moment she recognised, in Janai’s ferocity, love.
Amaya follows her to Lux Aurea. Purportedly as a representative of the human kingdoms, her presence sanctioned by the Dragon Queen herself, but really, she goes for Janai’s sake.
They fly there, all through the night, on the Sunfire mount. By the time they arrive, Amaya’s exhaustion is finally catching up to her. She hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since she was taken prisoner at the Breach.
She trails after Janai, practically too tired to think. Only when they reach a set of decidedly regal-looking doors, does she pause. These are the Queen’s quarters. They are where Janai is supposed to sleep, now that she must take the throne.
A muscle jumps in Janai’s cheek.
She turns and strides further along the corridor, so quickly that Amaya has to scurry after her, stumbling a little as she does.
Janai stops again in front of a plainer set of doors. She pushes them open to reveal a (still rather luxurious) guest bedroom, then faces Amaya. “Sleep here tonight,” she says. “You need rest.”
Amaya narrows her eyes at her. Where will you sleep? she signs, even though Janai’s vocabulary is limited. She’s hoping that context, plus the accompanying look she gives, will be enough for her to understand.
It doesn’t seem to matter whether it is, though, because Janai’s whole manner changes when she catches sight of the burn on Amaya’s hand. Her shoulders slump. A different kind of sadness casts its shadow over her face.
She reaches out as if to take hold of her hand. Instinctively, Amaya pulls away, trying to conceal the injury. The last thing she wants right now is to add to her emotional burden.
But hurt flashes across Janai’s face anyway, and Amaya belatedly realises how her action must have looked: like she was afraid of her touch.
No, no, Amaya thinks, and shakes her head fervently, touching Janai’s arm briefly with her unhurt hand. It’s okay, she insists.
Janai still looks troubled. “Come with me,” she says, and leads her into the room.
There’s a small basin for washing, along with a covered ewer of water. Still wary of touching her, Janai gestures for Amaya to remove her glove and hold out her hand. She inspects the burn carefully — there’s dirt in it, general grime from the battle. She gives Amaya a deeply disapproving look. Amaya shrugs.
The cool water, when Janai pours it over her hand, feels amazing. Decidedly less amazing is the sensation of Janai wiping at the wound with a cloth. The material is soft, but it still hurts. Amaya tries to keep her wincing to a minimum.
“Better not to cover this,” Janai says when she’s done. “Just keep it clean. I will have salve sent to you in the morning.”
Amaya observes her closely. Where she’s been tender and solicitous, now the lines of her body are hardening, becoming brusque and businesslike. She means to leave, avoid sleep. Hold grief at bay by keeping busy.
“I have matters to attend to,” Janai adds, confirming Amaya’s guess.
Wait!
Amaya reaches out to stop her. When Janai turns back to her, she hesitates for a second. Then, for lack of a better idea, she asks: Are you sure you trust me to roam about unattended? Whatever happened to being your prisoner?
Janai’s face remains blank right up until she gets to the sign for prisoner, which Kazi had interpreted in her presence before. Her brow furrows.
“You should know by now that you are not my prisoner,” she tells Amaya, having guessed what her question was wrongly.
Amaya’s about to correct her, or if all else fails maybe drag her to bed and hold her down until she agrees to get some sleep — but then Janai continues, “More and more… I think I am yours.”
What? Amaya cocks her head at her. Repeat, she signs. She must be too tired to read her lips properly.
For once, Janai seems barely able to meet her eyes. “You…” she starts, and bites her lip. “You hold me… captive.”
She doesn’t say it like someone confessing their feelings. She doesn’t watch for Amaya’s response, or even seem worried about what it might be. It’s more like she deposits this fact with Amaya for safekeeping. Tucks it into her pocket in good faith and certainty. Unconditionality.
For all that she can read people, for all that she thought she understood Janai’s mind from her body language, Amaya is blindsided by the depth of her affection and trust.
Then stay with me, she tells her, the motions of her hands gentle and heavy. Janai stares back at her, uncomprehending.
And so Amaya leans forward to kiss her cheek. I will stand with you, she swore before. Now she says it to her — and still, and always, she needs no words.
She tastes the salt from her dried tears.
She lets it sting and burn her lips.