Page 21 of The Mortal Trials

I gladly became her canvas. She painted such a beautiful future.

The night before I left, we used her press (and guest) pass to realm jump to Tokyo at the open invitation of goddess Amaterasu-Omikami to watch August Aymes sing and strum his guitar. She told security at the venue that we were covering the event for The Parthenon Press, a lie that got us in because everyone knew her face.

We wanted to stay there and never leave the amphitheater where his lyrics met his melodies and sang to our souls. We swayed to his songs under a starry sky, holding hands and hearts.

When Carina was young, she had the biggest crush on him, one that lingered even as she matured, rising in fame and social circles. She gushed over how his dark roots peeked out of his dyed-golden hair, how it darkened when it was wet from sweat, and how the veins in his forearms looked when he plucked the strings. She swore he made eye contact with her for three whole heartbeats as he sang and often bragged about the moment after that.

Each time I was able to visit, she would reminisce about that evening. When I was far from home, she mentioned it in the letters she wrote, doggedly reminding me of ‘the happy’.

My sister was a beacon. A light in dark and difficult moments when we were in harm’s way, far from the ones we loved. I looked for her in the stars when I was supposed to be sleeping, and I held her in my heart with every beat.

Carina volunteered to cover news of Morrigan’s wars for The Parthenon Press so she could keep tabs on me.

The deities allowed mortals to relay news, as long as the mortals didn’t disparage them. What mortal would dare, except my sister?

I didn’t know she was covering our battles until I came home injured. She searched footage every day for proof I was still alive. She also must have combed the faces of the dead for mine. Thank the gods she never brought up the people I killed in the name of the goddess who’d conscripted me.

“Are you okay?” August asks, his dark brows furrowing.

One of my last happy moments with my sister, one of the most joyful of my life, was spent with him and he doesn’t even know it.

“Lost in thought. Sorry.” I look away only to glance at him from my periphery a moment later.

During my time in the army, the fame he found in youth hadn’t ebbed. August Aymes only climbed higher up the mountain of prestige. But where has that notoriety gotten him? What is he doing here, a contender in The Mortal Trials? What have any of these people done to anger the gods?

“Callalie?” Niall says in a low, warning tone. The hair on my neck stands at attention. Niall’s chest swells and crashes as he fixes his frightened stare on the Greek god of war.

Every mortal feels Ares’s approach. He’s a storm encased in immortal, indestructible flesh, ichor, and bone. Violently electric. Only his father’s power feels slightly rawer and more potent. More deadly, but only barely.

That miniscule imbalance is the only reason Zeus has kept his seat as the king of their pantheon for so long. Power easily changes hands among mortals. Could something cause it to shift amongst the gods?

He strides toward us, reveling in the apprehension he sparks. If Athena is the calm wisdom of battle, Ares is its impatient, arcing blade.

Ares is broader and taller than any of the people scrambling out of his path. But it’s not his size that punches me in the gut – I remember it well enough – it’s the bastard’s smile.

“When you face him, don’t reward him with your fear.”

Morrigan’s words land again like a second blow. She knew this was coming. Because she knows Ares, she knew his horrible grin was what I’d see when I faced him again. She thought I’d be frightened. That I was the same broken girl who limped home to heal and hid herself away after Carina’s murder.

But I’m not the same at all. I’ve been transformed. And I am livid.

Then it hits me: Morrigan meant to ignite me. Hermes said she knew how to send subtle messages better than anyone he knew. Her advice wasn’t as simple as Keep your head up and back straight, soldier, which is what she says on the battlefield. She intended to prepare me for a greater war.

More than the ancient crow and the house she lent us, this gods-awful body suit, and the help she sent to ready me for this moment and to bolster the strength of my prosthesis, the wisdom she gave me was her biggest gift.

Without her council, I would already have lost whatever game he’s crafted. All I would’ve seen is the godly trash who put Carina’s battered body on display as a warning to anyone else who’d dare speak out against him again. Who left her there, like bait, knowing I’d come for her.

If I didn’t know the goddess, I wouldn’t know that the divine could feel pain; briefly, if it’s physical, but there’s a deeper kind. Heartache so vast, it spans mortal lifetimes, reaching into eternity. That kind of heartache is always present in Morrigan’s stormy, serious gaze.

Morrigan doesn’t smile. She never wears an arrogant smirk. She bears a bone-deep, profound sadness and a fury to rival a bolt of Zeus’s hot, forked lightning.

Even her realm reflects her grief. The heavy gray clouds carry her tears. The wind sweeps through the air like a mourning song. And then there’s the soil. Rich and plentiful, like something precious is being well-kept within its confines.

It’s nothing like the barren earth upon which Abuela’s home was built. Empty and thirsty, neglected and abandoned. I know she still prays to the gods of her blood, but all her prayers go unanswered.

Niall’s shoulders sink and cave like he’s trying to make himself smaller. He’d kneel for Ares if he thought it would save his skin.

He and I are not, and never will be, the same. Ares would have to crush my remaining knee for me to bow to him in this lifetime. Some of the contestants do just that as he erupts from the frightened throng.