Page 157 of The Mortal Trials

Mostly.

“You need a new leg,” he answers, his voice thick as he gestures to my prosthesis.

My head ticks back and my lashes flutter. “What?”

He sighs and points toward the rusty joint. “It’s falling apart.”

“I’m on the craftsman’s list.”

“And how long will you be on it?” he challenges.

I throw a hand in the air. “That’s not up to me.”

“Well, forgive me for trying to do something proactive instead of waiting for a turn that may never come, while that prosthesis rusts in two!”

Firstly, I would still have to wait, even if we had the coin for a new one. Secondly, it’s my leg and my problem. Not my baby brother’s. He should be focused on learning his craft, not worrying about this.

I raise my chin. “It’ll be fine. Abuela saved some oil. I just need to –”

“The oil be damned.” He growls in frustration. “If that thing lasts the month, you’ll be lucky and you know it.” His shoulders sink and I feel the same exhaustion settle heavily in my bones.

He was never going to leave. I accused him of betrayal when he was merely worried and trying to help.

I blow out a tense breath and vow to apologize for that miscalculation later.

For now? No amount of coin is worth the risk he’s taking, regardless of the good intentions behind it. “Please return the robes to the girl. I’ll place a request to get in with the craftsman sooner.”

If the sad thing breaks, he’ll be forced to make me more of a priority. Not that waiting until it does is ideal, because then I’ll have to wait for one to be made to fit me and be more immobile in the meantime.

He narrows his eyes at me. “Why haven’t you gone directly to Morrigan about it?”

It’s a valid question. Because at one point, the goddess favored me.

Why haven’t I approached Morrigan when she could easily influence the craftsman to move me up the list?

Because it’s not that simple. And because I’m afraid. I haven’t seen her since she carried me off the battlefield. I’m terrified the goddess will take one look at me and decide I’m too broken to continue in her ranks.

Instead, I say, “Morrigan doesn’t deal with trivial matters, and she’d consider this one.”

Cillian raises his brows. “She’ll help you. She—”

“Or she could end my commission, Cillian!” I shout. I take a shuddering breath. “If that happens, a new leg will be the least of our worries.”

Because not only would I be removed from the craftsman’s list, since we wouldn’t be able to pay him, but we would likely starve.

Cillian is an Olympian stone mason’s apprentice. He’s paid a paltry fraction of what he’ll one day earn despite his hard labor, simply because he’s still learning the craft. His salary doesn’t cover a quarter of what we spend each week, and mine only provides what we can’t live without.

If I lose my commission, I will be free to pursue work elsewhere, but I don’t know a single soul in all the realms who would risk hiring the infamous Callalie Ryan.

2

Cillian argues the finer point that extra coin would be helpful regardless of what we use it for, and stresses that he gave his word and can keep it and his pride intact if he washes and mends the robes for the girl with the mangled fingers. Just this once.

I don’t get to spout adamant and unyielding displeasure at the situation he’s put us in, because there’s a knock at Abuela’s door.

Breath catches in my chest.

I’m jolted back to a morning like this one, a few years and yet a lifetime ago. We were sitting down to eat breakfast then, too.