Page 106 of The Fake Divination Offense
When I’m prepping for a game, no matter what play I study, I know I have to operate within the bounds of general rawball rules. Which, to be fair, aren’t many; it’s a pretty brutal sport. But all told, the rules are so ingrained in me that I unconsciously don’t question them.
And I’ve been approaching the Galaxrien cult the same way, keeping general rules of logic as a self-imposed restriction. I’ve been hoping I can figure out a way to prove their beliefs wrong, but that wouldn’t stop them from acting on their beliefs, would it? It wouldn’t free Bel from the danger of his demonic ancestry.
I’m going to come at it from a different angle. No fucking around this time, no keeping myself within set parameters. Fuck the rules, right? Bye-bye, logic; hello, demented.
I’ve got a sense of peace coming down the hall, my bag over my good shoulder—right up until I approach the turn that’ll take me to the player chute, where I’m supposed to meet Bel and my parents. There’s a publicist waiting for me, the one who told me they kept Bel from getting to me; he shuffles in place, still looking cowed, and thrusts a paper toward me.
“Talking points,” he says and motions to the corner behind him.
People usually clog that hall, a clash of journalists and families, so outlets get the fluffy pictures of partner hugs or parent tears.
I frown at the publicist until my eyes hit the paper.
It’s a list of things to say to reporters. How I’ll keep fighting despite my injury; this setback won’t hold me down; Urzoth makes me unstoppable.
My shoulder throbs along with the sudden sinking of my heart.
“The Urzoth church requested it,” the publicist says, looking uncertain at my silence. “I assume this is all right? It seems in keeping with their doctrine.”
“Yeah. It’s—it’s fine.” I shove the paper back at him. “I got it. Thanks.”
He nods, relieved, and hurries off.
I’m lucky none of the cameras picked up Naell’s taunting. If they had, I’d…
What? Be outed as someone who’s given up on Urzoth? Would that really be so bad?
Yes. Because Bel needs this cover to stay safe.
I take a deep breath as I round the corner and pull up my best smile. It’s plastic and doesn’t reach my eyes, but no one calls me on it; of course they wouldn’t.
Every time a reporter stops to ask me about the game or my injury, I recite one of the canned responses like a good little prop, meditating on my mantra ofthis will keep Bel safe.
It doesn’t matter that I credit Urzoth for my healing. That I talk about how much strength he gives me to push on. It doesn’t matter how much I lie, because it’s all for Bel, and I’ve made my peace with that.
Peace.
Undeniably peaceful.
So peaceful my good hand is digging crescent moons from my nails into my palm by the time I get through the gauntlet of reporters and notice Treva standing by the player exit with Bel at her side.
Tension bleeds out of me, a breath releasing, my fist unclenching.
Bel spots me. With a relieved cry, he shoves his bag to the floor and sprints forward. I reach for him and wince when my shoulder pulls, the sling reminding me not to move it too much.
“Fuck, Orok.” Bel stops in front of me, hands hovering between us, like he’s afraid to touch me. “What—”
I grab him with my good arm and haul him up to me, dropping my head to burrow down into him as much as I can. He only has a moment of resisting, a feeble protest of “I don’t want to hurt you,” before he throws his arms around my neck and nestles into me.
Even more of my strain vanishes, swept away by his body against mine.
My thumb trails along the small of his back, and I push my face into his shoulder until I feel that his necklace is still on. It’s covered by the illusion magic.
“Gods,” he whispers. “Are you okay?”
“Phei bandaged me up.” I kiss behind his ear because I can, because doing it makes both of us relax. “They said the soreness will wear off in a few hours. I’m okay.”
“What happened?”
