Page 165 of The Mortal Trials

“Good luck,” I mutter, handing the leg over to him.

Niall pretends to be busy in the kitchen, though he occasionally peeks into the room. I almost ask my visitor to slam the door.

The craftsman isn’t bothered by his intrusion in the least. He hums as he stretches the ankle joint and hisses when the knee screeches in his ear. He examines every inch of the unfortunate appendage, and then his bushy gray eyebrows rise when he finally lays it on his lap. “Frankly, I’m not sure how you’re still walking with this. It’s dated, damaged, and the hinge is all but worn away. How old is it?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

He harrumphs, patting the prosthesis. “Well, when did you lose your leg?”

“About a year ago. But this wasn’t made for me. I inherited it.”

“Inherited it…” He waits, watching me like he’s expecting a punch line I don’t have.

I bristle. Not everyone has coin to spare. He of all people should know that, despite the ample living he likely earns in this luxurious city. “It fit me well enough, so I used it. I’m not sure how long the soldier who wore it before me had it, or if it was made for her. She might have made do with it, too.”

He looks away for a second. I wonder if he’ll throw his hands up and leave, Morrigan’s request be damned.

But I need his help. Desperately. I swallow my pride. “All we had at home was a little cooking oil for lubrication. Do you have anything better? Something thicker might buy some time.”

He heaves a sigh. “It’ll take far more than grease, girl.”

I offer a brilliant, teasing smile. “You could always move me up your client list.”

He scoffs and hands the prosthesis back to me before dragging his bag up onto his lap. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew who was ahead of you.”

Morrigan either has a good relationship with him or holds some power over him. Maybe he owes her a favor. Whatever the reason is, he works for the goddess and is undoubtedly famous.

“What’s your name?” I ask, wondering if I’ll recognize it. It’s been a year since I watched any telecasts.

“People call me Daedalus.”

Does that mean Daedalus isn’t his name?

My brows meet as I study him. He bears the name of a brilliant craftsman who lost his son – his everything. Even though Icarus was warned not to fly too close to the sun, his fall would have been no less painful for his father to endure.

Does this man use the moniker as a ploy to hint at how intelligent his designs are, or is there more depth to his story? A sky’s worth, perhaps.

Daedalus drags a nearby table across the floor, lays out his tools, and starts to work on my leg.

“Do you owe Morrigan a favor?”

He scowls half-heartedly and gives a pious sniff. “I don’t make it a habit to become indebted to the divine. And I don’t suggest anyone else do it, either.”

“Yet you added me to your illustrious client list and came here today to make me presentable – because Morrigan requested that you do it.”

His weathered gray eyes meet mine. “And now the goddess is indebted to me.”

I lean forward, hoping he’ll continue… He doesn’t disappoint.

With a heavy sigh, he reveals, “She’s agreed not to conscript anyone from my lineage in exchange for this work.”

Quite the bargain struck. My brows rise. “For how long?”

“For eternity. No one in my line will be called into any battle on her behalf. She can’t guarantee they won’t be summoned by the Greek pantheon from which my wife’s blood flows, but it betters the odds that they won’t end up…” He sheepishly clears his throat, catching his words before they betray what he was thinking.

“Like me,” I finish for him.

“My apologies. I meant no offense.”