Page 183 of The Mortal Trials

I rub the soft, pale fabric between my fingers. “Never mind.”

Whoever brought the food must have noticed I needed another blanket while they were straightening up. I look at the one still nailed to the wall, covering what my mind remembers. I’m glad they didn’t tear it down and toss it on me while I slept. I would’ve woken up screaming.

7

My hair is still damp when I step outside into the warm salt air. The sun paints the sea orange on either side of my island, and far beyond it. All the way to the horizon, the ocean gleams. I cross the narrow path and watch for kelpies, or any other monster that might like to take a bite of me or drag me into the depths.

Grains of sand are once again stuck and grating in the joint of my prosthesis. Even gentle Daedalus might swear if he heard the gritting noise. Luckily, they grind to dust on the marble steps leading to the temple.

My dress has a corset top cinched over an accordioned skirt with a bold slit to my hip that will show my prosthesis.

Some would argue that this metal and wood isn’t part of my body, but it’s become a part by extension. I know how far the joint will bend in every direction, how it stiffens and sounds when it needs care, and how many times it’s held me upright when I should have fallen. And all the times I did fall, it allowed me to get back up and keep going.

If my days are numbered, I want to honor this prosthesis and all it’s done. I regret not doing more with it in the time I had. I let my fear bind me even as this leg granted me mobility and freedom. It didn’t deserve that.

Several of the other contestants are climbing the staircases ahead of me. Niall is among them. He crests the marble mountain in a suit so dark it swallows all light as he disappears over the stone summit.

He’s the only one not wearing white.

Niall Kelly – the first mortal championed. And by Morrigan, no less. If bets are being taken, I’ll wager no one saw that coming.

If he survives the trials, he’ll make it to the games. He’s one step ahead of the rest of us.

I reach the landing in the middle of the staircases and start across it when someone with a large stride emerges from behind me.

“Callalie,” August greets as I start climbing the next set of steps.

“August.”

August Aymes is in white clothing from head-to-toe, too. His button-down shirt is wrinkled, tucked into a matching pair of pale slacks. At his neck, the buttons are undone; his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. Even his shoes are ivory leather.

We push to the top landing where the temple sits, looming beautifully and ominously overhead, blocking the last rays of sun.

August’s hair is tousled. Dark at the root, golden at the ends. His blue eyes smile even when his mouth is still. It’s unsettling how charming he is, given our current circumstances.

Niall lingers in the middle of the terrace. His peridot eyes find me, then slide to August beside me. He turns away, slips beneath a delicate swath of fabric, and enters the temple alone.

“Your friend is the only one not wearing white,” August says. “Does he already have a champion?”

“Morrigan.”

August’s mouth gapes open a little. “She chose him?”

“She did,” I reply, taking a deep breath.

“Over you?” he clarifies.

I nod. “Yep.”

We stand beside the same swath of fabric Niall ducked behind. The wind gusts and the bone-colored cloth billows and falls against our backs. We’re suddenly in a temple that crackles with power and is teeming with gods who want us dead but won’t kill us outright.

Hera and Athena are front and center, conspiring and discussing the contenders who’ve already arrived. Both females are draped in blue, but while Hera’s is the regal hue of a sapphire, Athena’s is paler, like a morning sky, or the lips of someone who died in the snow.

Musicians play in the center of the space. Zeus takes Hera’s hand and rakishly pulls her into a dance. For a long moment, everyone in the room watches. The couple’s movements are so natural. So beautifully instinctual. They’ve had millennia to practice and teach each other, and they have conquered this art, like they conquered the Greek pantheon, and the many others who defer to them now. He leads and she follows, and they flow effortlessly.

Yet it doesn’t feel genuine.

Morrigan’s presence fills the space. The goddess stands beside Niall with her wild, dark curly hair, obsidian dusted over her eyelids, and a black dress that at first glance seems simple, but at second, could devour entire galaxies and not leave a trace of light.