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Authors: Trisha Wolfe
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Phoenix.” I tie my sash, drawing the belt tightly around my middle, the pleats of my cream shift folded shapely against my skin. Then I pull back my curtain. Phoenix is sitting on the corner of my bed, his face buried in his palm. A dull red snakes up his forearm. His Flame is faint, but reveals his emotions.
Narcos are far from even-tempered. Any and every emotion is heated, like their power. His dim light conveys that he’s worried, though to the average human he may seem angry.
Looking up, his lips part, but he only plants his face in his palms again. “What is it? Just tell me,” I say, moving to his side and resting my hand on his toned thigh.
He raises his head and stares at the wall. His dark hair falls over his ears, their pointed tips peeking through. “Have you spoken to Fadil lately?”
I shake my head.
“I’m not sure I should say anything, but it’s been—” He breaks off. A muscle in his jaw jumps against his skin. “Fadil told me that the Leymak are not bound to their creator, to Octavian.”
My stomach sinks. “How does he know this?”
“Fadil claims Isis spoke to him through a priestess. That she revealed Octavian had commanded the Leymak into existence with a sacred relic of Set”—my mind flashes to the macehead I discovered in the Library—“but because he didn’t perform the creation ritual properly, they’re only aiding him in this war. They are not slaves, not like the Narcolym and Shythe are.” He turns his head toward me. A haunted look simmers in his eyes. “Octavian has offered the Leymak high ranks among his legions and land in Rome. He pays for their service, and they fight battles for him. They are rewarded, Star.”
A pang hits my chest. I bite down on my bottom lip, searching for the right words to calm Phoenix. Knowledge of Kythan able to live freely among men, with no binds to command their power—is dangerous. Why would Fadil reveal this information to him? To any Kythan? But especially a Narco. Of the two races, Narcos despise their slavery the most, as it goes against their free nature—the nature of the sun god Ra whose flame is free to burn at will.
I remind myself this is Phoenix. Even though he’s a Narco, he’s first my friend.
Phoenix shakes his head. “Never mind.” He laughs darkly. “I forget the Shythe are content worshiping their masters. Like Alexander proclaimed, you’re above us—created from Zeus himself—part the great Alexander’s legacy. Of course the superior Shythe are happy.”
Blowing out a tense breath, I select my words carefully. “You know I don’t believe in that nonsense.” And I don’t. I respect the late Alexander, but his claims are as farfetched as his mother’s—declaring him to be the son of Zeus after she was struck by lightning while pregnant. “And besides, wasn’t it Alexander who said the Narcolym were descended from Apollo? Don’t forget that, oh, descendant of the great sun god.”
He laughs, and the sound loosens the vise gripping my chest. “I love how they put down the Romans and their beliefs, yet they are just like them, twisting everything to meet their needs for their gods.”
I comb my fingers through his hair. “You’re right. They all twist our ancestry to meet their needs of worship. It’s been the way of it. Even the legend of Osiris has changed through the centuries to fit the peoples’ needs.” I take a breath, gaining my ground. “But we know the truth. Though slaves, we’re our own beings, special—not like them. That is why they try to put divine claim to us. They fear what they cannot understand; something created from the magics.”
His eyes hold mine. “Set was evil until his power was used to create us.” The fire pit in the corner crackles. The room freezes with the sound. “Does that mean we’re evil? Does that mean because the Ptolemies believe Octavian is evil, that the Leymak are evil? What is evil? If you ask me”—he lifts his chin—“evil is humans
Narcos are far from even-tempered. Any and every emotion is heated, like their power. His dim light conveys that he’s worried, though to the average human he may seem angry.
Looking up, his lips part, but he only plants his face in his palms again. “What is it? Just tell me,” I say, moving to his side and resting my hand on his toned thigh.
He raises his head and stares at the wall. His dark hair falls over his ears, their pointed tips peeking through. “Have you spoken to Fadil lately?”
I shake my head.
“I’m not sure I should say anything, but it’s been—” He breaks off. A muscle in his jaw jumps against his skin. “Fadil told me that the Leymak are not bound to their creator, to Octavian.”
My stomach sinks. “How does he know this?”
“Fadil claims Isis spoke to him through a priestess. That she revealed Octavian had commanded the Leymak into existence with a sacred relic of Set”—my mind flashes to the macehead I discovered in the Library—“but because he didn’t perform the creation ritual properly, they’re only aiding him in this war. They are not slaves, not like the Narcolym and Shythe are.” He turns his head toward me. A haunted look simmers in his eyes. “Octavian has offered the Leymak high ranks among his legions and land in Rome. He pays for their service, and they fight battles for him. They are rewarded, Star.”
A pang hits my chest. I bite down on my bottom lip, searching for the right words to calm Phoenix. Knowledge of Kythan able to live freely among men, with no binds to command their power—is dangerous. Why would Fadil reveal this information to him? To any Kythan? But especially a Narco. Of the two races, Narcos despise their slavery the most, as it goes against their free nature—the nature of the sun god Ra whose flame is free to burn at will.
I remind myself this is Phoenix. Even though he’s a Narco, he’s first my friend.
Phoenix shakes his head. “Never mind.” He laughs darkly. “I forget the Shythe are content worshiping their masters. Like Alexander proclaimed, you’re above us—created from Zeus himself—part the great Alexander’s legacy. Of course the superior Shythe are happy.”
Blowing out a tense breath, I select my words carefully. “You know I don’t believe in that nonsense.” And I don’t. I respect the late Alexander, but his claims are as farfetched as his mother’s—declaring him to be the son of Zeus after she was struck by lightning while pregnant. “And besides, wasn’t it Alexander who said the Narcolym were descended from Apollo? Don’t forget that, oh, descendant of the great sun god.”
He laughs, and the sound loosens the vise gripping my chest. “I love how they put down the Romans and their beliefs, yet they are just like them, twisting everything to meet their needs for their gods.”
I comb my fingers through his hair. “You’re right. They all twist our ancestry to meet their needs of worship. It’s been the way of it. Even the legend of Osiris has changed through the centuries to fit the peoples’ needs.” I take a breath, gaining my ground. “But we know the truth. Though slaves, we’re our own beings, special—not like them. That is why they try to put divine claim to us. They fear what they cannot understand; something created from the magics.”
His eyes hold mine. “Set was evil until his power was used to create us.” The fire pit in the corner crackles. The room freezes with the sound. “Does that mean we’re evil? Does that mean because the Ptolemies believe Octavian is evil, that the Leymak are evil? What is evil? If you ask me”—he lifts his chin—“evil is humans
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