42. Nyssa
Nyssa
The sky was eerily dark, the sun hours from rising.
It was poignantly reminiscent of my nightmare, but this was no dream. I fought the shiver crawling down my spine. I was firmly in possession of my body, and Hera had summoned us to her trial.
The twelfth and final trial.
The training arena had once again been transformed in our absence. Gone were the riotous crowds and racks of weaponry. Gone was the stain of Leander’s blood on the earthen floor. No targets lined the centre of the running track. No sunlight yet kissed our skin.
The absence of raucous cheering was almost as jarring as the single, glaring spotlight aimed at our faces.
I stood with the last remaining champions — my newfound friends, and if Caelus was to be believed, secret allies.
Apollo and Archimedes stood to my left; Aros and Caelus to my right.
Each waited in varying degrees of impatience.
Hera had summoned us an hour ago and was now pushing ‘fashionably late’ to its limits.
Moments ago, she’d sent a servant to lead us out onto the arena floor.
The girl was a lower Olympian, maybe of dryad descent — small and timid, her skin tinted green, and eyes that refused to rise above our knees.
It was not an act of respect, but rather visceral fear.
My fists clenched. Rage burned through my veins at the thought of someone instilling that fear in her —for it was assuredly a learned response.
Caelus’ warm hand grazed my own, calming my already fraying emotions.
“Reign it in, Nightshade, or she’s already won before you even set foot in her trial,” he whispered.
He was right, of course.
Suddenly, the spotlight swivelled south, illuminating the centre of the arena. There, a perfect circle of mirrors had been erected — polished silver and gleaming glass. Through the single opening, Hera stood in a fine golden gown, not a hair out of place.
“Welcome, champions.” She raised her arms like she was unveiling a great masterpiece.
“Come, come!”
As I stepped into the ring of reflections, the back of my neck prickled. A heaviness descended upon me, as if a blanket had been thrown overhead. I turned slowly, examining each panel. Fifty versions of myself stared back.
“I had the distinct honour of crafting your final trial — the one that shall separate our ruler from the rest,” Hera crooned, a proud smirk tugging at her lips. “Behold: my Mirrors of Truth!”
She paused for theatrics. Whatever reaction she expected didn’t come, and her disappointment was obvious when she huffed and scowled. I risked a glance at Caelus and caught the slightest eye roll. I struggled to bite back a laugh.
Hera narrowed her golden brows as she noted the smirk that slipped free.
“The mirrors will reveal a truth you have kept hidden. After all, we cannot have a ruler with…” she eyed me with distaste, “…skeletons in their closet.”
She strolled around the ring of mirrors, dragging a pointed nail along each of their surfaces. A high-pitched whine was followed by the dull thud of her fingertip tapping the frame.
Skreeee—thunk.
Skreeee—thunk.
“To pass — and be eligible for crown selection, or to win for your patron god or goddess — you must speak your truth. Should you try to fight it… well, you’ll soon learn the consequences of secrets.”
Hera’s grin could rival Ares’ in malice. It seemed odd that she should be so gleeful about subjecting her son to the same pain or embarrassment as the rest of us. But then again, she’d never struck me as particularly maternal.
“Well, then! What are you waiting for?” she snapped.
We moved forward, each towards a different mirror. I tilted my head as I approached an ornate silver frame, its edges blooming with roses and butterflies that sprouted from its edges. I had to admit, the workmanship was incredible.
Hephaestus, surely.
“There’s just a ruggedly handsome redhead staring back at me,” Aros drawled. “I mean, I’m not complaining. He is rather good to look at.”
A muttered, “Agreed,” came from Arch’s direction.
“But shouldn’t this be a bit more… woo-woo?” Aros wriggled his fingers in the air like he was tickling an invisible beast, eyes wide with mock horror.
“Patience, son of Ares,” Hera barked. “After all, it is a virtue one expects a king to possess.”
She was baiting him. Thankfully, Aros realised it too, and remained silent. Though, I saw him shooting her a scathing glare in the background of my mirror’s reflection.
Then, the surface pulsed, rolling as if the glass had turned liquid. Curious, I tapped a pale finger against it — the glass rippled outwards in tiny waves. Odd. It didn’t feel watery.
When the motion stilled, my reflection stared back. But it was not me .
The image scowled and crossed her arms over her chest, though I had not moved an inch.
She grew another foot taller, her biceps doubling in size.
She shook her hair like a lion shaking its mane, and when she stopped, it was cropped short, like Caelus’.
Her skin ebbed from a pale moonlit white, to a softer muted grey, and upon her head now rested a black crown made entirely of shadows.
Her face still bore my features, but it was not myself I recognised.
The figure staring back at me was my father.
“Daughter,” Hades whispered.
“No,” I whispered back, dread scraping its razor-sharp claws along my heart.
The sound of fracturing glass tore my attention to the side. Aros stood with his fist clenched, blood dripping steadily onto the dirt. He didn’t seem to be aware of it, though. His eyes were squeezed firmly shut, his breathing was ragged and uneven.
I hurried over, a dark shadow following in the mirrors as I rushed past. Pausing, I tentatively called out to the fire-wielder.
His amber eyes snapped open — a whirlwind of flames danced within his irises. Slowly, I reached out, gesturing to the pool of golden ichor at his feet.
“Your hand.”
He looked down like he was noticing it for the first time.
“Leave it,” he grunted, flexing his shredded fingers.
“Are you alright?” I asked quietly.
“Daughter,” my father sang from the next mirror. I refused to look, suppressed the urge to shudder.
Through gritted teeth, Aros said, “I saw my father… and my mother…” He left the sentence unfinished, clenching and flexing his fingers repeatedly.
“It’s okay,” I said gently. “You don’t have to say any more.”
“Oh, but he does,” Hera said, grinning delightedly from behind us. Her fingers were splayed before her face, their tips drumming together in rapid rhythm. She reminded me of a spider tapping its legs across a freshly woven web.
Somehow, I knew the comparison would prove true. We were all insects caught in her twisted web of games and deceit, masquerading as truth.
“The mirrors will make him,” she explained vaguely.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than the shards of broken glass began to vibrate against the floor. They scattered backwards with a soft hiss, and I watched, transfixed, as they lifted themselves into the frame — like an invisible hand was piecing them precisely where they belonged.
The glass sealed seamlessly, as though the shattering had been rewound before our eyes.
“Creepy,” Aros breathed.
I was inclined to agree.
Unfortunately, now that the mirror was whole again, my father glared at me from within its surface. Aros appeared to be able to see him too; rage ignited his long locks as he growled, “Don’t fucking touch her.”
I placed my hand atop his raised fist, only to hiss and recoil — his skin burned with the same intensity as Hephaestus’ forge. To his credit, Aros winced slightly.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I narrowed my eyes just as Caelus appeared at my other side, frowning at Aros.
“No, you definitely should be,” he snarled.
“Stop it, both of you. We don’t need a dick-measuring contest right now.”
But a new question had formed in my mind.
When would Aros have ever had dealings with my father? Especially to have evoked such visceral hatred.
The answer: likely, never.
“What do you see?” I asked Aros softly.
“My father. Don’t you see him?”
I shook my head. “I see my father.”
“And you?” I asked Caelus.
“I don’t see Ares. Or Hades, for that matter,” he answered vaguely, refusing to look directly at the mirror.
Aros quirked a ginger brow. Just as he opened his mouth to reply, a sharp sting slashed across my cheek, and I gasped in the duality of shock and pain. Both gods snapped their heads to look as I pressed a hand to my face, wincing at the freshly raw skin.
When I pulled my hand away, my fingertips were bloodied. Caelus leaned in to inspect the wound.
“How?” he asked softly.
A flicker of movement in the mirror caught my eye.
I looked up to see Hades’ manic grin. He waved a blood-coated shadow dagger in wicked greeting.
My head cocked to the side. This wasn’t a version of my father I’d ever seen myself, though I’d heard the stories — the horrific tales of what the King of the Underworld had done before Persephone softened him.
Caelus hissed. A fresh gash on his thigh trickled blood down his breeches, dripping onto the arena floor.
“Careful, son,” Hera warned. “My mirrors love to play with liars. I wonder what secret you’ve managed to keep hidden, even from your dear mother.” She spoke with faux sincerity, her high-pitched whine clawing at my eardrums.
Caelus said nothing, enduring her baiting in silence. But soon, several more wounds opened on his body. On each of us. We were each a patchwork of cuts, tears, torn clothing, and grimaces of pain.
Every time we gave in — every time we smashed the polished glass — the mirrors simply repaired themselves. The cycle restarted.
Death by a thousand cuts, indeed.
Eventually, Arch was the first to break. He fell to his knees with a cry of anguish as blood blossomed from the space beneath his cuirass. A circular puncture wound, almost as if a spear had impaled him, marred the flesh just above his hip bone.