The crowd's cheers were still shaking the stone benches when Leonotis stood abruptly, brushing the dust from his cloak. His heart was still hammering—not from the match, but from the image of Zola collapsing, her light nearly snuffed out in front of thousands.
He needed to see her. Needed to do something.
As he turned to leave, Amara's voice caught him immediately.
"Where are you going? The next match is about to start."
Leonotis froze for half a second then forced a shrug, letting his borrowed softness as Lia fall away for just a breath.
"I'm just… going to check on Zola," he said. "She took a bad hit."
Amara's brows lifted. "Then I'll come too."
That was the last thing he needed. He needed Jacqueline to see Zola, and Amara was sharp, intuitive, too observant and would see right through the lie that he wasn't supposed to be weaving.
He thought fast.
"You can't," he said, holding up a hand. "Adebayo's already up and wandering. If we both leave, we'll lose our seats."
Amara stared at him her eyes appraising for a long, uncomfortable heartbeat.
Then she exhaled sharply. "Fine, but bring back some fried plantains on the way back."
Leonotis blinked. That was… easier than expected.
He nodded, already backing away. "I will. Just—save the seats."
Amara's gaze followed him as he turned toward the exit tunnel, her expression unreadable. But he could feel the tension in her stare, the tight suspicion coiled behind her calm.
He didn't blame her.
He was lying again.
And he was getting too good at it.
The roar of the crowd was a distant, monstrous thing, its waves of sound breaking against the stone corridors of the coliseum's underbelly. Down here, the air was cooler, heavy with the scent of dust, sweat, and something acrid that spoke of hastily brewed healing poultices. Leonotis moved through the throng of departing spectators and weary fighters, his mind a tempest. The image of Zola's broken body being carried from the arena was seared into his vision, a brutal counterpoint to the memory of her radiant, joyful dance. It felt fundamentally wrong, a violation not just of a person, but of a principle. A light had been deliberately, cruelly dimmed.
He found Jacqueline in the upper tiers, away from the main flow of traffic, standing in the sliver of shade cast by a massive stone pillar. She was observing the arena below, her eyes washing over the crowds. She looked up as he approached, her brow furrowed with concern.
"A predictable outcome," she murmured, her gaze returning to the sand. "His àṣẹ was a chaotic variable. Her style, while beautiful, relies on predictable rhythm. Misfortune is the enemy of rhythm."
"That was a terrible fight, Jacqueline. It was a crippling," Leonotis said, his voice tight with an anger that was still coiling in his gut. He dispensed with the pretense of his Lia disguise; his tone was low, urgent, and entirely his own.
Jacqueline finally turned to face him fully, her expression shifting to one of caution. "We shouldn't be seen together like this, not in the open. People are going to connect the faces that arrived together."
"I don't care," he shot back, stepping closer. "He broke her knee. The sound… it cracked. You heard it." He took a breath, his frustration warring with the plea in his voice. "You have to help her."
Jacqueline was taken aback, her carefully maintained composure faltering. She blinked, a flicker of disbelief in her eyes. "Help her? Leonotis, she is a competitor. One you may have to face in a later round. We should not heal our opponents."
"She's not just an opponent!"
"Furthermore," Jacqueline continued, her voice regaining its logical, unyielding cadence, "they have their own healers. Priests of the Orisha, trained for exactly these kinds of injuries. My interference would be unnecessary and, more importantly, deeply suspicious. I'm supposed to be a wandering scholar. Would it make sense that I also happen to be a master healer? It would draw far too much attention."
Her reasoning was flawless. It was strategic, sensible, and utterly correct from the perspective of their mission. And Leonotis didn't care. The image of Zola's face, contorted in agony, flashed in his mind again.
"I'm not asking the scholar," he said, his voice dropping, becoming intensely personal. "I'm asking you. As a favor." He met her gaze, letting her see the raw, pleading honesty in his eyes. "Please, Jacqueline. Her àṣẹ… it was like sunlight. That kind of light shouldn't be put out because of someones cheap cruelty. Don't let him take her dance away from her."
His plea hung in the air between them, stripped of all tactics and strategy. It was a raw appeal to a friend. Jacqueline stared at him for a long, heavy moment, her own internal conflict visible in the subtle tightening of her jaw. She wanted to be the voice of reason. But she was also his friend. She saw the guilt and fury warring in him, the desperate need to do something, anything, to push back against the darkness they had witnessed.
With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of every risk she was about to take, she finally relented. Her shoulders slumped slightly in defeat. "You are going to be the death of this mission," she muttered, but there was no real venom in her words. "Fine. But we do this my way. Quietly. No witnesses."
Relief flooded through Leonotis. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," she said, pulling her hat lower. "Let's go see what Orisha-blessed medicine has managed to accomplish first."
They descended into the heart of the coliseum, navigating the winding corridors that led to the healers' enclave. The area was a hive of quiet, focused activity. Acolytes hurried back and forth with clay pots of steaming herbs and clean linen. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh and something sharp and metallic that Leonotis recognized as blood-staunching moss.
As they rounded the final corner, a familiar, hulking figure emerged from the largest of the canvas tents. Low, still in her Grom disguise, was wiping her bloody knuckles on a rag, her expression a mask of grim annoyance. She saw them approach, and her eyes pinched, suspicion curling at the edges..
"Don't worry guys I'm fine," Low grunted before they could even speak, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The healers did their job. Stabilized it. I'll live."
"We're here to help Zola," Leonotis said, moving past her toward the tent flap.
Low's hand shot out, grabbing his arm. Her grip, even restrained, was like iron. "Help?" she growled, her voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Leonotis, she signed up for this tournament. A potential enemy. We don't 'help'. We observe, we survive, and we move on. This is not our responsibility to help everyone."
"Maybe it's not yours," he said quietly, meeting her fierce gaze.
Low let out a long, frustrated sigh, releasing his arm. She looked from Leonotis's stubborn face to Jacqueline's resigned one, and the fight seemed to go out of her. "I shouldn't have been surprised," she muttered, shaking her head. "That bleeding heart of yours is going to get us all killed." She took a step back, gesturing toward the tent with a wave of her hand. "This is why I didn't want to fraternize with them. Feelings get in the way. They make you stupid."
She didn't try to stop them again. She simply leaned against the stone wall, a silent, disapproving guardian, her expression a mixture of exasperation and a deep, weary understanding of the friend she had sworn to protect.
Leonotis and Jacqueline slipped through the tent flap.
The inside was dim, lit by a single oil lamp that cast long, trembling shadows. Zola lay on a cot, her face pale and streaked with tears. Her leg was crudely splinted, wrapped in thick layers of linen poultices, but the unnatural angle of her knee was still sickeningly apparent. Two healers, their faces etched with fatigue, were packing up their supplies.
"There is nothing more we can do," one of them was saying, his voice heavy with regret. "The àṣẹ of the blow must have been laced with misfortune. The bone is shattered in too many places. We did our best, but…" He trailed off, unable to voice the final, grim prognosis.
The two healers took a step back.
Zola's body was shaking with silent sobs. "My knee… it's gone, isn't it?" she whispered, her voice broken. "They said… they said they might have to… to amputate it."
The word, amputation, hung in the air like a death sentence. To the dancer, it was the same thing.
Leonotis's heart clenched. He stepped forward into the lamplight. "Don't worry," he said, his voice as gentle as he could make it. "He's not going to take your leg. I brought the best healer I know."
Zola looked up, her tear-filled eyes wide with confusion. The healers turned, their expressions wary.
Jacqueline stepped forward, pulling back her hat. She ignored the other healers, her focus entirely on Zola. "Let me see it," she commanded softly. With a nod from Leonotis, she began to carefully unwrap the bandages. The healers started to protest, but a single, sharp look from Jacqueline silenced them.
The injury was worse than they could have imagined. The knee was a swollen, discolored ruin of torn ligaments and shattered bone. A faint, ugly greyish aura clung to the wound—the residue of Hadririya's misfortune àṣẹ, actively resisting the natural healing process.
"Hold still," Jacqueline instructed. She knelt, placing her hands on either side of Zola's knee without touching it. She closed her eyes.
The air in the tent grew cooler, the humid heat replaced by the fresh, clean scent of a riverbank after a storm. A soft, blue-white light began to emanate from Jacqueline's palms. It wasn't a harsh glow, but a gentle, luminous pulse. A perfect sphere of shimmering, liquid light formed between her hands, hovering over the ruined joint. It looked like a droplet of pure water, holding the light of the moon within it.
She lowered her hands, and the sphere of water descended, sinking into Zola's flesh without breaking the skin. Zola gasped, her eyes widening not in pain, but in shock. A wave of profound, cleansing cold washed through her leg, extinguishing the firey pain of the injury.
From inside the wound, the blue light pulsed, visible through the skin. It flowed like a living river, weaving through torn muscle, coaxing shattered fragments of bone back into alignment, knitting sinew and ligament with threads of liquid light. The ugly grey aura of misfortune hissed and dissolved as the pure, clean water magic washed it away. The swelling visibly receded, the bruised, angry flesh regaining its natural color.
The process took several long, silent minutes. When Jacqueline finally lifted her hands, the light faded. The wound was gone. The skin was smooth and unbroken, save for a network of faint scars that shimmered for a moment before disappearing.
Jacqueline sat back on her heels, a thin sheen of sweat on her brow. "It is not totally healed," she said, her voice strained with effort. "The bone is mended, the ligaments reattached. But the memory of the injury remains. It will be weak for a time. But," she looked Zola directly in the eye, "if you are careful, you will be able to dance again."
For a moment, Zola was speechless. She slowly, tentatively, bent her knee. It moved. It was stiff, aching, but it moved. A fresh wave of tears streamed down her face, but this time, they were tears of overwhelming, incredulous relief.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. She looked from Jacqueline's tired face to Leonotis's relieved one. "Both of you. I… I don't know how I can ever repay you."
"Stay safe," Leonotis said softly. "That's enough."
Jacqueline was already on her feet, pulling her hat back up. "We need to leave," she said. She gave Leonotis a look that was both a warning and a concession.
They slipped out of the tent, leaving Zola to her tears of gratitude and the two Orisha healers staring in stunned, reverent silence. Low was still waiting outside the tent, leaning against a wall, her expression unreadable. She just shook her head slowly as they emerged.
Jacqueline didn't linger. "I'm done playing medic for your strays," she said to Leonotis, though her tone was light. "I have to go. Zombiel is probably trying to make the other kids eat crickets in the play area if I don't go and get him."
The image of Zombiel force feeding bugs was so jarring to the current situation it almost made Leonotis laugh. She gave them both a final, meaningful look. "Stay out of trouble. And try not to adopt anyone else."
With that, she disappeared into the growing dusk, a shadow melting into other shadows.
Leonotis and Low stood in silence for a moment.
"That was a stupid risk," Low finally said.
"I know," Leonotis admitted.
"You're too soft."
"I know that too."
Low sighed, pushing off the wall. "Come on, hero. Let's go back to our seats. There are still more people who need to get beat up before the day is over."
They walked back toward the roar of the arena. Leonotis knew he had taken a risk, broken their own rules, but as he walked, the heavy weight of guilt in his chest felt a little lighter. It was replaced by the faint, warm feeling that he had helped save someones hope from being extinguished.