5
Have we been charged with an offense against the gods?” Niall chokes, turning a tight circle to question those who are clustered nearby. He tugs at the collar of his shirt as if it’s suddenly too constricting.
“The Mortal Trials is some sort of contest,” a masculine voice confidently answers from beside us. “Everyone here has been called a hero at some point. The divine want to see which of us truly deserve the title.”
I turn to meet the man’s eyes and see striations in every shade of blue, from pale sky to a sapphire so dark it’s almost black. Then I recognize who they belong to and my heart skips a beat. My lashes flutter as I blink away my surprise.
Though we’ve never met, the last time I saw him I was barely eighteen.
Four years have passed, and manhood has hardened his jaw and chin. His lips are the color of raspberries. The hair he used to wear long is cut shorter now.
August Aymes nods politely. “Callalie.”
A tidal wave of memory crashes through my mind, decimating everything until all I can remember is Carina. Her beautiful smile. Her giddy excitement.
Once upon a time, before the war, we were just sisters. We were just girls.
That all changed the moment my conscription was delivered. But we tried our best to solidify our bond and hold fast to girlhood in the few days Morrigan allowed for me to settle my affairs and report to her realm.
Those scant hours were the happiest of my life because Carina was determined to make them shine brighter than all the ones that came before.
Cillian couldn’t beg for time away from the apprenticeship he’d just started, but my sister took the time off work.
Her rise to stardom was fast and brilliant; it was a beautiful thing to witness. And such fame came with its perks.
For three days, we met Abuela in her kitchen where she taught us to make the sweets and delicious meals we’d grown to love. Carina and I sat beneath the stars at night, tracking them across the dark sky and reminiscing while tiptoeing around our mother’s abandonment.
No sad subjects, she insisted. We only want the happy.
She talked about what we would do when the war was over and I came home for good. She could envision so many possibilities for our lives – husbands, children, houses next door to one another, and so much joy.
I gladly became her canvas. She painted such a beautiful future.
The night before I left, we used her press (and guest) pass to realm jump to Tokyo at the open invitation of goddess Amaterasu-Omikami to watch August Aymes sing and strum his guitar.
She told security at the venue that we were covering the event for The Parthenon Press, a lie that got us in because everyone knew her face.
We wanted to stay there and never leave the amphitheater where his lyrics met his melodies and sang to our souls. We swayed to his songs under a starry sky, holding hands and hearts.
When Carina was young, she had the biggest crush on him, one that lingered even as she matured, rising in fame and social circles.
She gushed over how his dark roots peeked out of his dyed-golden hair, how it darkened when it was wet from sweat, and how the veins in his forearms looked when he plucked the strings.
She swore he made eye contact with her for three whole heartbeats as he sang and often bragged about the moment after that.
Each time I was able to visit, she would reminisce about that evening. When I was far from home, she mentioned it in the letters she wrote, doggedly reminding me of ‘the happy’.
My sister was a beacon. A light in dark and difficult moments when we were in harm’s way, far from the ones we loved. I looked for her in the stars when I was supposed to be sleeping, and I held her in my heart with every beat.
Carina volunteered to cover news of Morrigan’s wars for The Parthenon Press so she could keep tabs on me.
The deities allowed mortals to relay news, as long as the mortals didn’t disparage them. What mortal would dare, except my sister?
I didn’t know she was covering our battles until I came home injured. She searched footage every day for proof I was still alive. She also must have combed the faces of the dead for mine. Thank the gods she never brought up the people I killed in the name of the goddess who’d conscripted me.
“Are you okay?” August asks, his dark brows furrowing.
One of my last happy moments with my sister, one of the most joyful of my life, was spent with him and he doesn’t even know it.
“Lost in thought. Sorry.” I look away only to glance at him from my periphery a moment later.
During my time in the army, the fame he found in youth hadn’t ebbed. August Aymes only climbed higher up the mountain of prestige. But where has that notoriety gotten him? What is he doing here, a contender in The Mortal Trials? What have any of these people done to anger the gods?
“Callalie?” Niall says in a low, warning tone. The hair on my neck stands at attention. Niall’s chest swells and crashes as he fixes his frightened stare on the Greek god of war.
Every mortal feels Ares’s approach. He’s a storm encased in immortal, indestructible flesh, ichor, and bone. Violently electric. Only his father’s power feels slightly rawer and more potent. More deadly, but only barely.
That miniscule imbalance is the only reason Zeus has kept his seat as the king of their pantheon for so long. Power easily changes hands among mortals. Could something cause it to shift amongst the gods?
He strides toward us, reveling in the apprehension he sparks. If Athena is the calm wisdom of battle, Ares is its impatient, arcing blade.
Ares is broader and taller than any of the people scrambling out of his path. But it’s not his size that punches me in the gut – I remember it well enough – it’s the bastard’s smile.
“When you face him, don’t reward him with your fear.”
Morrigan’s words land again like a second blow. She knew this was coming. Because she knows Ares, she knew his horrible grin was what I’d see when I faced him again. She thought I’d be frightened. That I was the same broken girl who limped home to heal and hid herself away after Carina’s murder.
But I’m not the same at all. I’ve been transformed. And I am livid.
Then it hits me: Morrigan meant to ignite me. Hermes said she knew how to send subtle messages better than anyone he knew. Her advice wasn’t as simple as Keep your head up and back straight, soldier, which is what she says on the battlefield. She intended to prepare me for a greater war.
More than the ancient crow and the house she lent us, this gods-awful body suit, and the help she sent to ready me for this moment and to bolster the strength of my prosthesis, the wisdom she gave me was her biggest gift.
Without her council, I would already have lost whatever game he’s crafted. All I would’ve seen is the godly trash who put Carina’s battered body on display as a warning to anyone else who’d dare speak out against him again. Who left her there, like bait, knowing I’d come for her.
If I didn’t know the goddess, I wouldn’t know that the divine could feel pain; briefly, if it’s physical, but there’s a deeper kind. Heartache so vast, it spans mortal lifetimes, reaching into eternity. That kind of heartache is always present in Morrigan’s stormy, serious gaze.
Morrigan doesn’t smile. She never wears an arrogant smirk. She bears a bone-deep, profound sadness and a fury to rival a bolt of Zeus’s hot, forked lightning.
Even her realm reflects her grief. The heavy gray clouds carry her tears. The wind sweeps through the air like a mourning song. And then there’s the soil. Rich and plentiful, like something precious is being well-kept within its confines.
It’s nothing like the barren earth upon which Abuela’s home was built. Empty and thirsty, neglected and abandoned. I know she still prays to the gods of her blood, but all her prayers go unanswered.
Niall’s shoulders sink and cave like he’s trying to make himself smaller. He’d kneel for Ares if he thought it would save his skin.
He and I are not, and never will be, the same. Ares would have to crush my remaining knee for me to bow to him in this lifetime. Some of the contestants do just that as he erupts from the frightened throng.
The god of war’s hair lies in silken dark waves that fall to his shoulders. A crimson cape swishes behind him. Does his fine black armor still carry a trace of my blood?
On his hip rests the sword he drew on me on the battlefield.
Thirteen. I held off thirteen of his brutal blows before he cut me down. He was livid that I managed to stop so many. Oh, how he roared in victory when the blade split my mortal flesh and cleaved the bone.
I hate him. I. Hate. Him. And if I ever find a way, I’ll end him.
There are gods the realms haven’t seen in millennia. Gods who only exist now in ink scraped onto ancient scrolls. Dead gods. So there must be a way.
“Cal,” Niall whispers, his voice trembling as he steps backward, bumping into me and almost knocking me over. I stumble but grab his forearm and keep my footing. When our stares collide, he shrinks away at what he sees in me, muttering, “Sorry.”
Niall’s fear is palpable and for a moment, I wonder if my fury might also be.
Ares pauses in the hollow that’s formed within our group and slowly turns, taking in each imperfect mortal face, saving mine for last. His smile widens and cruelty glints from his honeyed stare when he finds me waiting.
There are no scars on his face despite the wars he’s waged. There are no callouses on his brutal hands. His body has never been broken. To the eye, he’s flawless.
The divine’s immortal beauty is a lovely illusion, crafted to conceal their faults.
Mortals who haven’t felt their scorn are fooled by the facade, but those who have endured it know the terrible things they are capable of. Their actions speak volumes about how they regard us.