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28
Achilles
The moment we walk through the tunnel and into the arena, it’s like entering a different world. I think it’s the sheer noise the people in the stands make. It reverberates through my body right down to my bones. The maze is gone as if it’d never been here to begin with. Instead, the oval is sand like it was during the opening ceremony. They’re really leaning into the gladiator shit, which is about what I expected since the final trial is combat.
Last person standing becomes the next Ares.
I glance at Patroclus. He’s got his game face on, every expression locked down and nothing slipping through. He’s wearing his normal gym clothes, and he’s limping a bit, but he’s moving better than he was yesterday. That’s fine. He doesn’t have to be in top form for this trial. He’s here to watch my back, which means there’s no reason for him to be sticking his neck out.
I’ll make sure he doesn’t feel like he has to, even if I have to eliminate him myself.
I have on clothes similar to the last two trials, gold and black that give me a dark prince kind of vibe. Or that’s what Athena’s designer informed me when he put together the clothing I was to wear for each event and trial.
Helen is in her warrior queen getup. I watched her put on the golden one-piece earlier, and it had been entertaining and sexy to hear her swear as she wrestled it up her body, but I can’t deny that the overall effect is stunning. It’s a body suit that leaves her arms bare and stops a few inches above her knees. There’s plenty of give so she can move, but the slick surface is similar to the one she wore in the second trial. It will make it damn near impossible to grab her or pin her. She’s pulled her hair back into a braid thing that’s pinned up around her head—another potential handhold gone—and there’s the ever-present gold glitter dusting her skin.
She catches me watching her, and her gaze skates away from me. She’s been like this all morning. Skittish. I can’t blame her, but part of me wants to comfort her when I should be focused on my end goal within sight. Pass this trial, win the next. Ares is so close, I can taste it.
The camaraderie from the second challenge is gone. We don’t have that padding between us any longer. At the end of this trial, one of us will have our dreams crushed, and the others will be left to pick up the pieces.
A shiver of foreboding goes through me. We will pick up the pieces. The three of us together work, and that’s rare enough that I’m not willing to give it up without a fight. I like Helen a whole fucking lot. She’ll forgive me eventually. She has to.
The crowd quiets as the spotlights make their way to Athena. She’s in another suit, a deep amber one this time that is about as fancy as she gets. She looks good, though. She always looks good. She lifts her hands, instantly commanding the attention of everyone in the space. When they’re quiet enough, she speaks. “The final trial is the trial of combat.” A pause while people lose their shit. They quiet down faster this time. “The champions will fight until only one remains. Elimination is by tapping out or first blood.” She waves a graceful hand to encompass the oval of sand we stand on the edge of. “Choose your weapons, champions. The trial begins in three…two…”
Patroclus tenses. “Batons.” He jerks his chin to the right, and I see exactly what he means. There are a trio of expandable batons hanging on a rack halfway around the arena on the right. It means running past several options, but he’s right. We should stick to what we know.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Don’t wait for me. I’ll be right behind you.”
He turns to Helen, but it’s too late. Athena’s voice says, “One. Begin.” The crowd’s screaming drowns out everything else.
I don’t hesitate. I sprint across the sand toward the batons. They might not be flashy, but they can break bone easily enough and have a decent reach on them. More importantly, we use them regularly during our tasks for Athena. The heavy handle is comfortable and familiar against my palm.
The feeling of someone behind me surprises me. Surely Patroclus didn’t keep up with that sprint? I turn, expecting to see him beside me, but Patroclus is nowhere in sight. Instead, it’s Paris bearing down on me, a dagger in his hand. The fucker is aiming it right between my shoulder blades. I dodge back, the sand giving beneath my feet and threatening my balance. Fuck, we should have thought to practice sparring in a sand ring. It’s a complication I hadn’t anticipated.
