Page 44 of The Mortal Trials

Will this bright white earth soon be stained red? It’s all I can imagine. How the gods will ruin this beauty or have us do it for them.

At our backs, we hear horses snorting and wheels grinding on the crunchy earth as the animals shift their weight and test the salt under their hooves. Thirty chariots, each drawn by two stallions, wait behind us in a perfect row.

The horses are massive and muscled, pawing at the ground, nostrils flaring. These are Ares’s prized warhorses, bred for battle.

Dread sinks into my stomach. What are we fighting? Or will they make us fight one another?

The feathers in my hair spin wildly.

“Mortals!” Hermes greets as he swoops down and lands with a flourish. “Your first trial is a race.” He smiles and gestures toward the chariots. “There’s only one rule: Do what you must to reach the finish. At the race’s end, you’ll find a portal. Pass through it first and you will be crowned with the golden laurel.” He raises a crimson pennant that raps in the angry wind. “Claim a chariot and move to the starting line.” He points up ahead, where a scar bisects the flat. “The race begins when I drop this flag.”

The rule he gave – Do what you must – is a statement that there are none. Sabotage is expected, even encouraged.

Koda makes his way to the nearest chariot. I take the one beside him and August steps up into the cab of the one on my right. He leans over to examine the wheels, jumps up and down to test the sturdiness, and finds the best place for his feet. He tosses a kiss into the air before twisting the reins around his fists.

It’s the same thing he does at the start of his concerts. I guess this is another performance, of sorts.

The chariot’s bottom is made of smooth wood, cold under my foot. I’ve never seen a chariot up close, let alone driven one, so I mimic August’s wide stance, twist the reins around my hands like he did, and hope for the best. My bare toes grip the floorboards and I bend my knees, hoping my prosthesis doesn’t rattle apart despite Daedalus’s intervention.

August urges his horses toward the line, getting the feel of how they respond when he tugs left and then right. A shaft of sunlight slides over him, igniting his dark gold hair. The fabric of his shirt snaps in the wind like the flag Hermes holds.

Niall tried to reach the next closest chariot but was beaten to it by a young man with olive skin and a lethal, amber stare. One he aims at me when he sees me studying him. His chest is bare and flecked with scars.

“You gave me this one,” he says, tapping a finger on a raised silver slash in the middle of his abdomen, just below his sternum.

My brows furrow. I twist to glance behind me to see if he’s talking to someone else.

“Yes, you, Callalie Ryan. We fought just before Ares cut you down!” he shouts, his tone full of wild hatred.

While I feel a stab of guilt for having hurt him, I know he would have done the same or worse on that field. In battle, you defend yourself or die. Deep down, he knows that truth, but he’s blind to it right now. He seems to think we’re still fighting, still on that battlefield despite the time that’s passed between the circumstances that took us there, and those that brought us here.

Per Morrigan, an enemy’s anger can be used to your advantage in a fight. You stoke the fire into a blaze that ultimately consumes his focus. The goddess also taught me to strike fast and first, especially when an enemy is physically stronger.

Be ruthless without hesitation, she always says. The merciful fall first.

Back straight and chin up, I parry. “Looks like I won.”

I don’t remember him or dealing him that wound. The rest of the battle was a blur of ground gained and lost, clashing metal, the sting of split skin and tired muscles. And from every direction, a chorus of cries from those desperate to survive their mortal wounds and moans from those succumbing to them.

I know how it feels to sing that macabre, mournful song.

And so does he, because of me.

Despite facing each other and brushing against death that day, we survived. When Ares cut me down, I thought I would die on that field. My hatred for the Greek god of war burned as brightly as this man’s does for me now.

My chest caves as his truth washes over me: I’m his Ares.

His grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, but today, the gods have smiled upon me and given me a new opportunity.”

Too wrapped up in the surreality of this entire event, I haven’t considered who the other contenders might be. This man must be one of Ares’s soldiers. Beyond the battle wound, he’s been taught to hate me for a very long time. How many of the other mortals dragged into this game want me to die in it?

“I’ll be sure to aim higher this time,” I reply before refocusing on what lies ahead.

Ignoring the Greek soldier, I bend my prosthesis to brace for the momentum the start of the race will bring. I guide my horses forward.

One glance at Koda makes me uneasy. His smile is peaceful, his grip on the reins relaxed. “You okay?” He eases forward, so I snap the reins and move with him to the start. “Meet you at the finish?”

He smiles. “I’ll see you, Callalie.”