The Dining Hall of Liptus palace blazed with gold and firelight, a testament to absolute power. Crystal chandeliers made the air shimmer above tables groaning with roasted meats and jeweled fruits. Silent servants moved like ghosts, but to Leonotis, hidden within his Lia disguise, the luxury felt like a slaughterhouse.
Around him sat the survivors of the tournament so far. They laughed and ate, yet their eyes remained cold. They knew this feast was only a pause before the next bout.
At the head sat King Rega on a throne of gold. Though not much older than Leonotis, his eyes held an ancient, calculating coldness that cut deeper than any blade. Leonotis felt that gaze immediately, a physical weight pressing on his ribs. He lowered his head, focusing on his empty plate, but the King's stare never wavered./
"Eat," Low muttered beside him, her voice a low, convincing rumble that vibrated through the table. She tore into a slab of roast lamb with a theatrical gusto that drew a few amused glances. "The food is here for us to take. A warrior needs fuel. Don't look weak."
Leonotis picked at a piece of honey-glazed bread. The smell was rich, the crust still warm and brushed with oil and garlic, but he could barely focus on the taste of it.
"A fine display in the arena today, Adebayo," came Neema's voice from across the table. The grappler's tone was formal, precise. "Your command of Mgba is a credit to your ancestors. You have made the earth your ally."
Adebayo, who had been quietly contemplating a pomegranate, looked up and gave a nod of respectful acknowledgment. "And your victory was one of pure discipline, Neema. You turned your opponent's strength iagainst them. There is honor in such skill." The two warriors, paragons of their respective arts, found a moment of common ground in their shared dedication to form and tradition.
Zola chimed in, her voice bright despite the pain that flickered in her eyes. "Honor is all well and good, but did you see Grom's throw? I thought Kazimir was going to leave a crater!"
Low let out a hearty, booming laugh, slapping the table so hard the goblets rattled. "The bigger they are, the more noise they make when they fall!" she roared in her best dwarfish growl, winking at Zola. "Just a simple mountain technique!"
The table erupted in a few chuckles, some genuine, some strained. Leonotis forced a thin, shy smile, bowing his head as if embarrassed by his companion's boisterousness. Inside, his skin crawled. He felt utterly exposed, his disguise a paper-thin shield under the gaze of so many hardened killers, and worse, under the gaze of the King.
The feast dragged on, an endless parade of decadence. Venison stuffed with spiced pears. Flaky fish baked in saffron and lemon. Pies filled with sweet, airy custard and dusted with cinnamon from the eastern isles. Wine, ruby-dark and potent, was poured freely, staining lips and loosening tongues.
Yet King Rega never once raised his goblet to his own lips. He simply watched. His fork picked idly at a slice of melon, but his attention was a tangible force, drifting from one finalist to the next. He watched the way Nurabia held her knife, the way Adebayo measured his sips of water, the way Silas sat in a pocket of absolute silence, a void at the boisterous table. He was measuring. Weighing. Hunting.
And always, his eyes returned to Leonotis.
They lingered too long, probing, dissecting. It was a look of intense, almost academic curiosity, as though Leonotis were a fascinating, unclassified specimen.
Leonotis's pulse thundered in his ears, a frantic drumbeat against the soft melody of the court musicians. His disguise, the entire carefully constructed persona of Lia, felt like it was dissolving under that relentless gaze.
Low leaned closer, her thick, false beard brushing Leonotis's shoulder. "Stop fidgeting," she muttered, her voice a low growl beneath the noise of the feast. "He'll smell your fear. Breathe. Eat. Be the quiet girl you're supposed to be."
"I'm not fidgeting," Leonotis hissed back, but his hands betrayed him. They were curled so tightly around his wooden goblet that he could feel the grain of the wood pressing into his palm, the rim threatening to splinter.
From his seat of unnerving stillness, Silas finally moved. He raised a cup of water to his lips, and as he did, his gaze flickered across the table, meeting Leonotis's for a fraction of a second. There was no malice in his eyes, no threat. There was nothing. It was like looking into a deep, starless well. But in that void, Leonotis felt a flicker of that same corrupting purple àṣẹ, a silent, chilling acknowledgment that was more terrifying than any open threat. He looked away, his stomach lurching.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Rega's lips. He had noticed the exchange. He noticed everything.
Finally, as the last of the dessert plates were being cleared, King Rega lifted his goblet of dark wine. He didn't stand, but his small gesture had the effect of a thunderclap. At once, the hall fell silent. The music trailed off, the conversations died mid-sentence, and every eye turned to the young monarch.
"To strength," Rega said. His voice resonated with an unnatural weight, the inherited command of a dozen generations of kings. "To the survivors who sit before me tonight. You have bled on the sacred sands and proven yourselves against the weak. Tomorrow, you will prove yourselves against the worthy."
The finalists raised their cups. Leonotis could feel the King's gaze lock onto him, making it hard to swallow.
Rega's eyes did not leave his. "And to the ones who surprise me most of all."
The hall erupted in a chorus of dutiful cheers, the sound of goblets clashing echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings. The other champions drank deeply, their faces flushed with wine and pride. Leonotis raised the goblet to his lips but the wine tasted like ash. He couldn't drink. The King's words had not been a general honorific. They were a hook, baited and cast directly at him, a clear and undeniable signal.
King Rega smiled then—a cold, sharp, knowing smile that held no warmth, only the chilling promise of a predator who has successfully cornered its prey. He knew. He didn't know everything, not yet, but he knew the shy girl from Greenwater was a lie.
Low leaned over one last time, her boisterous act gone, her voice now a low, grim whisper that barely carried over the renewed chatter. "He's not just watching us. He's playing with us. This whole night was a test."
Leonotis nodded faintly, though his chest ached with a cold, spreading dread. The King's gaze had held more than just suspicion. In the final moment, as he delivered his toast, it had held a flicker of something else. Something that looked terrifyingly like recognition.
The feast was over, but the interrogation had just begun. Leonotis understood that the most dangerous opponent he faced was not a warrior in the arena, but the clever boy sitting on the throne.
The echo of the toast faded, but the King's final words hung in the air. He lowered his goblet, the dark wine sloshing untouched, its rich aroma now thick with the scent of his own mounting panic.
The court musicians, taking the end of the toast as their cue, began to play again. The low hum of conversation resumed as finalists turned to one another.
Adebayo and Neema were locked in a quiet, intense discussion about grappling stances, tracing patterns on the polished table with their fingers. Further down, Zola was laughing at a story Nurabia was telling, her pain seemingly forgotten for a moment in the warm glow of the hall. It was a perfect portrait of celebration, a beautiful lie that made Leonotis's isolation feel all the more acute.
King Rega did not join the conversations. He leaned back in his throne, a simply observed, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his goblet.
Then, his gaze settled on Leonotis.
It was like being pinned beneath the stare of a hawk, a feeling of absolute, helpless exposure. The hall, with its music and laughter, seemed to fall away, leaving only the vast, silent distance between the throne and his seat.
"Your victory today, Lia," Rega said, his voice deceptively light, yet it cut through the ambient noise with effortless precision. The conversations around them faltered as heads turned. "It was… unconventional."
Leonotis's throat closed. The heat of a hundred torches seemed to coalesce on the back of his neck. He gripped his goblet so tightly his knuckles were white stones.
Rega swirled the wine in his cup, watching the dark liquid climb the sides. "Your opponent, Thabo, is a master of rhythm. His footwork is said to be as predictable and as flawless as the turning of the seasons. And yet, at the most critical moment…" He paused, taking a slow, deliberate sip. "He stumbled. Tell me, how does a quiet girl from Greenwater, anticipate the single misstep of a master? It almost seemed as though the earth itself rose up to aid you."
A faint, predatory smile touched the King's lips, but his eyes were all blades. This was an accusation dressed as a compliment.
Leonotis's mind raced, a frantic scramble for a plausible lie. Jacqueline's words—be undeniable—mocked him. He could feel Amara's quiet, analytical gaze on him from one side, Low's tense, warning presence on the other.
"Your Majesty…" he began. He dared not meet the King's gaze, staring instead at the distorted reflection of candlelight rippling in his own untouched wine. "It was… it was merely luck. And instinct. Yes, instinct." He could hear how weak they sounded. "He was so fast… I just reacted. I did not even see the opening until I was already through it."
The silence that followed stretched for an eternity. Finally, King Rega gave a soft, dismissive chuckle and leaned back in his throne, as though indulging the nervous babbling of a child. He didn't press further. He didn't have to. The unconvincing denial was an answer in itself.
Then, with a casual grace that was terrifying in its suddenness, he turned his full attention to Low.
"And you, Master Grom!" His tone boomed now, becoming jovial, a stark contrast to the quiet pressure he had applied to Lia. "Your strength is the talk of the court! Remarkable! Some might even call it… unnatural." He grinned, a flash of white teeth in the torchlight. "Tell me, is all of your kin so mighty? Do all dwarves of your clan lift men twice your size as casually as we men lift cups? I confess, my knowledge of dwarven physiology is… lacking."
The word "unnatural" hung in the air, a direct challenge to the legitimacy of her persona. Low froze for half a breath. Leonotis could see the storm of calculation in her eyes. A simple denial would be an insult to the King's intelligence. She had to build the lie, to commit to the role so completely that its sheer audacity would serve as its own defense.
She slammed her hand on the table and leaned forward, her expression shifting into one of gruff, conspiratorial pride. She lowered her voice to a gravelly rasp, as if sharing a sacred, long-held secret of her people.
"Aye, Your Majesty. You have a keen eye," she rumbled, her voice resonating with false sincerity. "It is not a strength we are born with, not entirely. It is earned. Forged." She took a dramatic swig of ale, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. "Life in the deep holds, you see, is different. The air is heavy with stone-dust and iron. We train from birth. Before the morning meal, we lift fallen boulders from the mine shafts to stretch the muscles. It is our morning prayer."
Across the table, Neema exchanged a barely perceptible, skeptical glance with Nurabia. Low ignored them, her focus entirely on the King.
"And we eat… the sacred mountain moss," she continued, her voice dropping even lower. "It grows only in the deepest, darkest parts of the world, where the mountain's heart beats. It is full of iron and spirit. And we drink from the springs that run over veins of pure ore, water that tastes of metal and cold fire. It builds a power in the blood, a strength of bone that lasts a lifetime." She finished with a loud, booming laugh, slapping her thigh. "Makes the softness of the surface world feel like a feather bed, Your Majesty!"
An utterly preposterous fabrication, delivered with the unshakeable confidence of a master storyteller. A few of the other finalists smirked into their cups, entertained by the dwarf's outlandish tale.
"My champions," King Rega said, his smile widening into something that looked almost genuine, if not for the coldness in his eyes. "You have endured much today. Tomorrow will test you beyond measure. But tonight—tonight you must be cleansed of the dust and blood of the arena. The palace bathhouses are at your disposal. A courtesy of the Crown."
The hall stirred with murmurs of approval. For the other warriors, this was a welcome luxury, a moment of respite. For Leonotis, it was a death sentence. Did he need a bath? Yes but he was dusguised as a girl which meant he had to go to the woman's bath. The baths would be closed in, the space small, more intimate, more impossible to hide within. He felt a wave of nausea. He had to say something, deflect, refuse—
His panic, however, chose the worst possible path. He shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly on the marble floor. "Oh—wonderful!" he blurted out, the voice of Lia high and uncharacteristically enthusiastic. "Yes, a bath would be splendid! Thank you, Your Majesty!"
His heart plummeted the instant the words left his lips.
Low's head snapped toward him, her glare sharp enough to cut stone. Idiot she mouthed to him.
She recovered instantly, masking the moment with a gruff, dismissive chuckle. She rose, her bulk creating a diversion. "Thank you, Majesty, but we are simple folk, Lia and I. A quick wash with a bucket in our chambers is more than enough for us. We are… unused to such noble luxuries."
It was a good save, a desperate attempt to regain control. But the King was no longer playing their game. He waved a dismissive hand through the air, his gesture final.
"Nonsense," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The royal baths are a privilege, not a burden. All of my champions will partake." He then delivered the final blow. "Grom, you shall join your fellow men in the northern wing. Silas, Adebayo and Neema will join you." He then turned that razor smile back on Leonotis. "…And Lia. You will enjoy the women's bath. Amara, Zola and Nurabia will be happy to accompany you."
Leonotis stood frozen. To be stripped of his disguise in the steamy, intimate confines of a bathhouse surrounded by the most dangerous warriors in the land. It was a checkmate.
King Rega raised his goblet one last time, his voice light but his gaze unyielding. "And you know I just might join you."
Leonotis and Low exchanged a single, desperate look across the table. The lion had invited them into his den and they were about to be devoured.