Page 195 of The Mortal Trials

A pale bodysuit with patterns of dotted lines stretches over me from neck to wrist to ankle. My natural foot is bare, and I can only hope the fabric of the suit keeps the knee of my prosthetic free of sand, debris, and blood.

This competition is just another of Ares’s futile wars. This time, he declared it not on the deities who pissed him off, but on any mortal he considers a threat, bloodlines be damned.

Before I left for Morrigan’s army, I asked Abuela why the gods fight one another. As she worked the tangles from my long, damp hair, she told me that some people thought the wars were a way for the divine to amuse themselves, a cure for the boredom that comes with the burden of having an immortal life, but she didn’t completely agree. She thought it was their way of controlling the mortals in their care. We wouldn’t squabble amongst ourselves or revolt against them if we were busy trying to stay alive, and too busy fighting for them.

It wasn’t until I fought in one of those wars that I recognized the truth and that Abuela, and everyone else, was wrong. At least in part.

After the battle that changed me forever, I had a long time to think about why it had happened. The answer is deeper, but far simpler I realized.

Monsters like Ares want to make monsters of us. For the divine, immortality is empty.

The gods envy our humanity, how we love and live, because despite their power, they’ll never have what we do. I’m convinced that over the millennia, evil has crept into their hearts. So, they push us to our breaking points and prove it fills ours, too.

After all, they’re right. To protect what we love, we would do most anything. Horrible things. Evil things.

I leave my oikos just as the sun stretches from its watery bed and yawns over the pastel pink sea. When the golden horn blows from the temple, the tentacle of a great creature slaps the water between my house and Niall’s. I’m not sure if it senses my presence and finds it distasteful or is spurring me along.

It works.

The paths to our homes are open, so I start down the narrow strip of sand.

Tension hums in the air and goosebumps spread over my skin despite the sun’s warmth. The hinge of my knee still feels okay.

The least Daedalus could offer was better than anything I could have afforded. I’m grateful for his help.

Contenders emerge from their houses, hearing the gods’ call and obeying it.

Niall’s black uniform is tailored and new. He nods in acknowledgement of me and this moment. This is it. The first trial is about to begin. These moments will carry us on to the next, or to our deaths.

Wind catches the feathers in my hair and spins them in circles. They brush my shoulder blades. I’m not sure if Hermes is broadcasting us yet, but if so, Cillian and Abuela will see the familiar green hue and know I’m carrying them with me. They are the reason why I want to win.

Behind me, I hear August speaking with someone.

I turn as he offers help to an older gentleman clad in a fine white suit, whose legs and back are bowed with age. The man’s smile is warm as he takes August’s hand and glances up. His eyes meet mine.

“Hello, young lady,” he greets.

“Hi.” My heart breaks. Why was he nominated for this? What did he do to anger one of the divine? I pause and wait for them to catch up and then walk on the man’s other side to offer my hand. The three of us climb, easing his burden for a time.

“Thank you both,” he wheezes when we reach the landing. “I’m not sure what today will bring. These staircases are trial enough.”

“That they are,” August kindly commiserates, not winded in the least.

The older man’s brown skin is deeply wrinkled, his hair a mixture of salt and pepper. We wait for him to catch his breath.

“My wife – who was my best friend in the world – died last year. And since this old body is starting to give out, I’m ready to go and meet her,” he muses. “But you two have plenty of life left to live. I wish you both luck with the trials and games ahead. I hope you make it through.”

As August and I thank him, I wonder if we can somehow help him survive today or if we should even consider it. It would put us at risk, but beyond such a selfish thought, it seems like he’s made his peace with death.

Even when I was laying on the battlefield bleeding out, I never wanted to die. I had too much to live for. And despite losing my sister, I’ve learned that my heart isn’t just mine; it belongs to the ones I love.

The kind man says my name and his tone pulls me from my thoughts and makes my pulse jump. I search his rich brown eyes, confused. Not because he knows who I am, but because of how he said it. He didn’t speak it the way a stranger might.

“Callalie,” he repeats, “before we go inside, I want you to know something.”

I tilt my head, wondering if I’ve met him and when. I don’t remember his face.

He reaches out to touch one of the quetzal feathers in my hair. “Carina kept one of these feathers on her desk for luck. She talked about you and Cillian all the time.”