4 #3
If Ares’s sister is here, he likely is, too.
My skin crawls under her scrutiny, and at the thought of his. When I turn to watch her pass, I meet the cold stare she tosses over her shoulder.
I jolt when a thunderous voice booms, arcing from the center of the enormous, hollow room and spreading over the space like forked lightning over the sky. Everyone knows that voice by heart.
“Zeus is here,” Niall breathes.
Zeus, King of the Greek pantheon as well as the father of half-siblings Athena and Ares, among many others.
He has only descended from his home on the great, sky-bound mountain in rare circumstances over the past several years. Not that it’s a bad thing for him to stay aloft. None of his descensions were fortunate for the mortals who stepped into his tempestuous path.
I edge around the room until I glimpse him.
Zeus is as regal and chiseled as his statues’ likenesses depict.
White haired and bearded, he stands with a possessive arm snaked around Hera’s waist. Like her husband, she only deigns to descend from her perch in the clouds to wreak havoc on people who likely don’t deserve her ire or attention.
Usually, it is to clean up the messes her husband leaves behind.
At first glance, the king of the Greek pantheon is everything he’s supposed to be. But a second one reveals who he truly is. His eyes track the movements of a shy servant girl holding a tray of sparkling drinks, smiling as she offers refreshment.
Zeus’s wife is painfully, bitterly aware of his focus. Her lips pinch and her spine straightens as he pulls away from her for a better view of the young woman as she turns to leave.
Hera is radiant despite his inattention, donning a pale blue gown that flows off her lithe form like water. She tightens the grip on her scepter, a long, golden lotus flower, like she might use it on her husband as she makes a clever quip, laughter ringing out from her loyal subjects.
Her golden crown is comprised of twisted branches with leaves unfolding around the artful braid, the warmth a sharp contrast to her dark waves. She notices Hermes a split second before her eyes tighten on me.
“The last of our esteemed guests has arrived,” the messenger breezily delivers.
Zeus abandons the flitting servant and leaves his sycophants to greet us. “Welcome!”
Despite his pleasant tone, there’s a cruel gleam in his eyes. Somehow in my marrow, I know he is much worse than Ares, and that what he would do would pale in comparison to how Ares punishes me for simply existing.
Niall stands up straighter at my side. “Thank you,” he graciously answers when not a single word will crawl up my throat.
Zeus’s gaze dips to search for my prosthesis.
Hera is the next to speak. She orders Hermes to “Introduce them to the others.”
“Of course.” With an easy gait, the messenger gestures for us to follow him and we, thankfully, leave the King and Queen of the Greek pantheon behind.
Hermes leads us across the enormous room, through clusters of people that thicken and congeal, the cacophony of innumerable conversations overwhelmingly loud.
When he cups his hands and asks the crowd to let us pass and his words go unheard and unheeded, he waves a couple of fingers and deftly separates it, scooting those in our way, out of it.
Gasps and indignant rants abruptly fall silent. Whether they do so by his power or because they realize who’s responsible for their departures, I’m not sure.
Mouths gape as we walk by, and the path cleared by the messenger god clogs behind us.
“That’s Callalie Ryan!” someone whispers.
We are ushered beyond a thick twist of golden rope that limply holds the gathered multitude of Olympic elite back from one small section of the room. Without the mass of bodies, I feel the cool evening air and can breathe easier again. The whispers of my name stop.
Niall and I follow Hermes onto a broad, stone balcony where several people linger, holding polite conversations.
There are people from every pantheon and walk of life.
Some are plainly dressed while others wear fine garments.
Young stands next to old. I’m trying to understand why we’ve all been brought here and sequestered when Hermes speaks.
“Niall Kelly and Callalie Ryan, our two final contenders!” he announces with a flourish.
My heart gallops.
Niall’s pallor fades, all warmth bleeding from his cheeks. “Contenders of what?”
The messenger god scans those separated from the masses with a shrewd eye. “You’ve all been nominated to compete in The Mortal Trials.”
Niall mouths the words, tasting them, his upper lip finally curling. He would spit them out if he could.
Hermes doesn’t elaborate. He’s said all he intends to, apparently, because he vanishes before our eyes.
“The Mortal Trials?” Niall turns to me with wide eyes, like I might have an idea what Hermes meant.
I’m not sure who nominated us for this dubious honor, but I hate them for it. Mortals are never victorious in the games of gods. Those who win, still somehow lose. And those who lose to a god, die.