The aftermath of the confrontation with Zuri settled over the women's bathhouse like a fresh layer of steam, thick with awkwardness and a strange, shared vulnerability. The other women, who had been silent, captive witnesses to the tense exchange, now pointedly looked away, granting Leonotis a wide, respectful space to himself. He was no longer just the strange, silent girl from Greenwater; he was the modest warrior Zuri herself had vouched for. Any suspicion had been transmuted into a kind of protective pity.
Seizing the opportunity, Leonotis retreated to the quietest corner of the bathhouse, finding a secluded, shallow pool fed by a small waterfall. He slipped in and sank down onto a submerged marble bench, letting the warm water and the billowing steam create a much-needed shield. He could feel the ghost of Jacqueline's illusion, a faint, tingling coolness on his skin, a reminder of how close he had come to absolute ruin. He closed his eyes, his entire body trembling with the adrenaline of his near-exposure.
He tried to focus on the soothing sound of the water, but the quiet murmur of voices from a nearby terrace pool cut through his attempt at peace.
"His indifference is what makes him dangerous." The voice was calm, measured, and belonged to the stoic spear-woman, Nurabia Kabirui. "Adebayo fights for honor. Neema fights for discipline. Grom fights for the thrill of the blow. But Silas… he fights for nothing. There is no spirit in his movements, only a terrifying, empty precision."
"Precision is a weapon like any other," another voice replied, softer but with a sharp, analytical edge that made Leonotis's eyes snap open. It was Amara. She sat with Nurabia, their forms partially obscured by the steam.
"It is," Nurabia conceded. "But all weapons have a wielder. Who wields him? What is his purpose? His `àṣẹ` does not feel like a gift from the Orisha. It feels… hollow. Consuming."
"It is," Amara agreed, her voice a quiet confirmation that sent a shiver down Leonotis's spine. "It is a parasitic power. He does not generate `àṣẹ`; he absorbs it, corrupts it, and turns it back on his opponents. Did you see his fight with the Sun-Priest? He did not block the holy fire. He devoured it. He is a void. To fight him with power is to feed him."
Leonotis sat frozen, listening. This was not the gentle, serene priestess who summoned spirits with a prayer. This was a strategist, a scholar of power, her mind as sharp and as dangerous as any blade in the arena.
"Then he cannot be beaten with àṣẹ," Nurabia stated, the conclusion a grim, simple fact.
"Not directly," Amara corrected. "A void can be overwhelmed, but not by simply pouring more into it. It must be broken from the outside. His weakness is his perfection. He has absorbed the styles of every fighter here—Laamb, Mgba, Engolo—but he only has the form, not the soul. He knows the rhythm of a Dambe strike, but he does not understand the spirit of the drum that guides it. To defeat him, one must be unpredictable. A storm of chaos he cannot analyze."
She paused, and Leonotis could almost feel her thinking.
"Like Grom," Amara said thoughtfully. "The dwarf's victory over the berserker was not brute strength. It was patience followed by a single, explosive act of strategic redirection. Silas would not anticipate such a tactic. He would see only a brute."
Leonotis was stunned. Amara had dissected the finalists with a chilling, insightful accuracy that even Jacqueline would have admired. She saw past the surface and into the very heart of their fighting souls. The realization was both terrifying and deeply alluring.
As if she could feel his attention, Amara's head turned slowly, her gaze cutting through the steam and finding him in his secluded corner. She held his stare for a long, unblinking moment, and a slow, knowing smile touched her lips. She whispered something to Nurabia, who nodded and rose, melting away into the deeper parts of the bathhouse, leaving the two of them in a pocket of charged silence.
Then, Amara rose and began to walk toward him.
Leonotis's heart leaped into his throat. She moved with a fluid, deliberate grace, her own towel wrapped elegantly around her torso, her dark hair slicked back from the steam, revealing the clean, sharp lines of her face. The steam swirled around her, clinging to her skin, making her seem both real and divine at the same time.
He wanted to run. He was trapped, half-submerged in a pool, clad only in a damp, clinging towel. The intimacy of the situation was a new kind of terror. He instinctively pulled his knees to his chest, trying to make himself smaller.
She stopped at the edge of his pool, her smile widening as she took in his panicked, defensive posture. "You are a creature of quiet corners, aren't you, Lia?" she said.
"I… I am not used to… places like this," he stammered.
"No?" She slid gracefully into the water, the ripples from her movement lapping against his skin. She was close. Too close. The sight of her bare shoulders clouding his thoughts. "I would have thought a warrior who fights with such ferocity would be more comfortable in her own skin."
Her eyes, dark and intelligent, roamed over him, and he had the distinct, terrifying impression that she could see straight through Jacqueline's lingering illusion, through the towel, through his skin, and directly into the frantic, terrified heart of the boy cowering beneath.
She knew he liked her, and was using that knowledge as a weapon, a tool to pry him open.
"I am not ferocious," he managed, his voice barely a whisper.
"No?" she purred, moving a fraction of an inch closer. Her shoulder almost brushed his. "You could have fooled me. And you could have fooled Gregor. You have a fire in you, Lia of the Greenwater. A wild fire. I wonder what feeds it."
He had no answer. He was drowning in her proximity, his mind a short-circuiting mess of panic that he could feel creeping up his neck.
In the men's bath, the mood had shifted from awkward comedy to a tense, simmering unease. Low, still submerged in her ridiculously soggy clothes, had weathered the King's amusement and was now trying to blend into the background, a feat made difficult by the fact that she was the only person present who was not naked. Adebayo and Neema were engaged in a quiet debate about the ethics of Silas's victory, their voices low but charged with intensity. King Rega himself was leaning against the edge of the pool, a servant holding a goblet of wine for him, his expression one of bored, regal satisfaction.
The trap had been sprung, the questions asked. He had sent Zuri to reveal the girl from Greenwater as a fraud and now, he was simply observing the rats in his maze.
The quiet was shattered by the sound of armored footsteps echoing from the entrance. A guard, his face grim and set, strode into the steamy chamber, his armor glinting in the torchlight. He went directly to the King and knelt.
"Your Majesty," the guard said, his voice urgent. "A message from the council. It is critical."
King Rega sighed, a sound of pure, annoyance. "Can it not wait? We are cleansing ourselves of the day's burdens."
"I am afraid not, my King," the guard insisted, holding out a sealed scroll. "There have been whispers. More than whispers. A credible threat. They speak of an assassination plot."
The word hung in the hot, humid air, instantly chilling the atmosphere. Adebayo, who had been mid-gesture, froze. Neema's head snapped up, his eyes alert. Low jolted out from her watery hiding place.
The King's bored expression vanished, replaced by a flash of cold fury. He snatched the scroll from the guard's hand, breaking the wax seal with a flick of his thumb. His eyes scanned the contents, his jaw tightening.
"Fools," he spat, crumpling the scroll in his fist. "They dare to threaten me in my own palace, during my own tournament?"
Adebayo rose from the water, his powerful form slick with moisture, his expression one of deep concern. "A threat against the throne is a threat against the sanctity of this land, Your Majesty. Who would dare such a thing?"
"Who wouldn't?" a voice, devoid of all emotion, said from the far end of the pool.
All eyes turned to Silas. He hadn't moved. He sat perfectly still, the water around him undisturbed, his gaze fixed on some distant, unseen point. His indifference was a profound, unsettling counterpoint to the sudden, sharp tension in the room.
"All kings have enemies," Silas stated, his voice a flat, toneless thing. "It is the nature of power. It invites destruction."
His detachment was more threatening than any open hostility. He spoke of the potential death of his King with the same emotional investment one might use to comment on the weather. Adebayo looked at him with a mixture of confusion and disgust.
Low, meanwhile, felt a wave of profound, selfish relief. The assassination plot was a terrifying development, a new, volatile variable. But in that moment, it was also a gift. It was a distraction. The King's focus, and the focus of everyone else in this steaming, testosterone-filled pressure cooker, had been violently wrenched away from the strange, soggy dwarf in the corner.
She played her part , letting out a low growl. "Assassins!" she boomed, her voice filled with feigned dwarven outrage. "Cowards who strike from the shadows! If they want the King, they'll have to get through the fists of Grom Stonehand first!"
Her boisterous declaration of loyalty was met with a few approving nods, but the mood had been irrevocably broken. The easy camaraderie was gone, replaced by the cold reality of the world outside the arena. The tournament was not the only game being played in Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú. There were older, deadlier contests afoot, ones that were fought not with fists and àṣẹ, but with poison, whispers, and hidden daggers.
King Rega looked from Adebayo's earnest fury to Silas's chilling indifference, and finally to Grom's theatrical rage.
A slow, cold smile returned to his face. "Do not trouble yourselves, champions," he said. "The sun does not fear the shadows. Let them whisper. Let them plot." He stood. "It will only make my victory, and the victory of my chosen champion, all the sweeter."
He stepped out of the pool, allowing his servants to wrap him in a thick linen robe. The trial of the bathhouse was over, interrupted by the grim intrusion of the real world. Low sank a little deeper into the hot water, the weight of her wet clothes a small price to pay for having survived. The King's game had been paused, but she knew, with a cold certainty that it was far from over.
The heavy wooden doors groaned shut behind King Rega and his entourage, leaving a vacuum of silence in the bathhouse that was quickly filled by the bubbling of the hot springs. The air felt thinner, the tension of the King's presence replaced by the lingering dread of the news the guard had delivered.
Neema waded closer to the center of the pool, his brow furrowed. He looked at Adebayo, then turned his gaze toward Low, who was currently wringing out the hem of her sodden tunic.
"An assassin," Neema murmured. "To strike now, during the tournament... it is a bold madness."
Low snorted. "You lot worry too much," she scoffed, leaning back against the stone rim. "The man has an army of guards. More steel around him than a blacksmith's shop." She gestured vaguely toward the door where the King had exited. "besides, didn't you see him? That wasn't the body of a man who sits on a throne eating grapes all day. The King has calluses. He can fight."
Adebayo, who had been staring at the water in deep contemplation, looked up. He nodded slowly. "You have a warrior's eye, Grom. His Majesty is indeed formidable. But a blade in the dark cares little for a warrior's skill." He placed a fist over his heart, his face the picture of solemn dedication. "I am loyal to the Kingdom of Liptus. If the King is in danger, if he calls for aid, I will answer. My strength is his."
Low couldn't help it. The sheer, blinding earnestness of the man was exhausting. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and muttered under her breath, "Of course you would."
Neema's head snapped toward her, his hearing sharp. "What was that?"
Low froze. She realized her mask had slipped for a fraction of a second. She quickly splashed water, making a show of scrubbing her face to cover the moment. "I said, of course you would!" she boomed, deepening her voice back into the gruff timbre of Grom. "We all would! We're all citizens, aren't we? Good, law-abiding citizens who love a good King!"
Adebayo didn't seem to catch the sarcasm. He nodded, taking her words at face value. "It is good to hear you say that, Grom. Vigilance is required. Someone has already attempted such a darkness in the past." His voice dropped, taking on a tone of reverent sorrow. "King Rega's father... the previous King... he was murdered in a coup attempt much like this threat implies."
Low paused. She watched Adebayo carefully.
"It was a tragedy," Adebayo continued, his eyes distant. "King Rega was unable to save his father in time. But the ones responsible... they were dealt with. It was a blessing from the Orisha that the rot was cut out before it could spread, allowing King Rega to secure peace."
Low stared at him, genuinely taken aback. Her internal monologue came to a screeching halt. Does this fool actually believe that nonsense?
The "official" story was that a rogue faction had killed the old King, and Rega had heroically avenged him. But certainly among those who paid attention it was an open secret. Rega hadn't spotted a coup; he had orchestrated it. He had walked over his father's corpse to sit on the throne.
She looked at Adebayo's open, honest face. He wasn't lying. He truly believed the propaganda. He believed Rega was a hero, not a murderer who took the throne.
He's not just honorable, Low thought, a mix of pity and scorn rising in her chest. He's blind.
She felt a dangerous urge to correct him, to shatter that glass worldview of his, but the survivalist in her clamped a hand over her mouth. Telling the truth about the King in a room full of his champions was a quick way to lose a head.
"Right," Low said abruptly. The water suddenly felt too hot, the air too stifling. "Well. Blessings and Orisha and all that."
She hauled herself out of the pool, her heavy, waterlogged clothes clinging to her like a second skin. It was miserable, but at least it covered her shape. She grabbed a thick towel from a nearby rack and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, shivering slightly not from cold, but from the proximity to such dangerous ignorance.
"I'm done with the steam," she grunted, not looking back at the two men. "I'm off to my room to dry out. Try not to save the world while I'm gone."
Without waiting for a response, she squelched across the tile floor and out the door, eager to be alone, away from the deadly politics of Liptus and the suffocating loyalty of its champions.