6. Nyssa
Nyssa
I’d been right to assume my adversaries had spent the previous evening forming alliances, while I remained alone, by choice.
They now clustered in small groups, exchanging glances and low whispers. Hera stood with Ares; Aros lingered near Caelus; Archimedes and Apollo flanked Artemis and Diana; Poseidon and Leander plotted with Hermes and his son; Hestia, Athena, and Aphrodite stood together in the centre.
We were all haphazardly gathered around the heart of the Parthenon, its open space once again immaculate, no trace of the banquet left behind. No drop of liquor or scrap of food to tell the tale that we had been there at all.
The familiar weight of isolation settled over me as I stood apart. Charon — being neither champion nor primal — had remained in the Underworld, overseeing the realm.
It seemed clear the Olympians had come to a shared understanding: for now, strength lay in numbers. And I was the outlier. The threat.
The differences between us had never felt starker. I was dark and dangerous. They were golden and adored. They feared me as much as they feared their own demise — perhaps more so. It didn’t matter. Nothing did, except winning the crown and choosing which version of the prophecy would come to pass.
Trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
I surveyed the space as we waited for Hermes, herald of the gods, to appear. He had eagerly volunteered to chaperone the Rite, undoubtedly due to the fact that he loved the sound of his own voice.
A telltale snap reverberated around the chamber. Hermes appeared — quite literally out of thin air. As the god of travel, he was the only other god who could transport himself in an instant; the rest relied on gateways, scattered through the realms.
“Ahem.” He cleared his throat, desperately waiting for acknowledgment. “Champions! Gather round!”
Nobody moved. We were already gathered.
“You’re all aware of why you’re here. The path to the throne will be fraught with danger, sacrifice, and suffering.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course he was turning this into a soliloquy.
“You will need to demonstrate feats of courage, keen intellect, and comradery, for the crown will not deem you worthy otherwise.”
I decided it was neither courageous nor intellectual to speak on behalf of a semi-sentient piece of headwear responsible for the fate of two realms. Three, if Zeus’ prophecy was true.
A quick glance around the room confirmed I wasn’t the only one unmoved by his speech. Several champions wore identical expressions of boredom, clearly over Hermes’ aggravatingly nasal voice.
“Thirteen of you stand before me as champions. You represent either yourselves or your primal god. In six months, only one shall bear the crown.” He scanned the room, straightening and puffing out his chest. “Today marks the first of twelve Herculean Trials. Each has been set by a different Primal, their order drawn by random lottery. Every two weeks, you will endure a new trial — or be eliminated. One, however, is an exception. It may summon you at any given point between now and the final task, with no notice or allowance to prepare.”
He paused, letting his gaze briefly touch on each of us, barely masking the distaste in his pale eyes as they slid by me.
“The first trial,” he continued, “has been set by the god of the sun. Apollo shall explain the task and its parameters. Good luck, and may the Fates bless you. And especially you,” he added to his son.
Hermes stepped back, and Apollo silently took his place at the forefront of the grand chamber. He raised his hands, and words formed between his graceful fingers in quick, fluid signs.
Your first challenge will test your grit. It will be gruelling. It will demand every ounce of determination you possess.
“Wonderful,” a snide voice breathed to my right.
Apollo’s eyes narrowed at the son of Poseidon, as though he had heard the remark — which was impossible. More likely, he was just very attuned to the habits of Olympians. Someone was going to complain about it.
Your objective? he signed. Find your way to me. This will be imperative, not just to your continuance in the Rite, but to your general health and wellbeing.
I raised my brows. What exactly did the sun god have in store for us?
“Wait, but doesn’t he have to compete too?” A different male voice whined. Hermes’ son.
His father frowned at him, then addressed the room at large.
“Apollo will complete his own trial, entwined with your own. His perseverance will also be tested. His fate tied to yours,” Hermes declared cryptically.
Shall we begin? Apollo questioned.
Hermes nodded and led us to the gleaming marble arch at the far end of the hall. Apollo placed his palm against the white stone and a wavering red image appeared between its pillars. Heat blistered through it, dragging with it tiny red particles of sand.
Wonderful , I repeated the earlier sentiment. A desert.
Apollo strode calmly through and vanished before our eyes.
“Well then. Let us begin the Ascension Rite,” Hermes decreed.
One by one, champions filed through the gateway, leaving their Primals behind, if they represented one.
Unsurprisingly, I was last.
Hermes gripped my elbow roughly before I could step through, yanking me around to face him. I acted without conscious thought, conjuring a dagger of shadow in my unobstructed hand and driving it deep into his offending bicep.
Hermes screeched and staggered back, his face twisted in a picture of horrified outrage.
“You would do well to remember this, demon,” he hissed, his voice pitched so low no other could hear him. “Hades will not wear this crown too. Surrender to the trial, and I might let you live.”
I couldn’t help it — I laughed. Lethal and cutting.
Yanking the blade free, I let it dissolve between my fingers and watched as his ichor vanished along with it.
“Touch me again, and I’ll ensure the only afterlife you see is Tartarus.”
I left the sputtering god on the threshold of the arch, striding through with fury raging through my veins.
With my resolve newly sharpened, I braced for the scorching winds I knew would greet me on the other side, and stepped forwards.