I knew the tournament could be deadly, but it sounds far more horrifying uttered aloud. “And you enjoy this?”
A half-hearted shrug, and she turns, leveling me with those pale, yellow eyes. “Something you should know, Min from Marles. The divine grow bored quite easily. What better way to entertain ourselves—and increase the stakes for those participating—than to demand immortals fight for their lives, as mortals do?”
I shy away, if only to mask the repulsion twisting my features. The East Wind warned me of the gods. I elected not to listen. Moving forward, I must take care with who I interact with and in what capacity. Eurus was right. None can be trusted.
“I just…” My voice softens. “I didn’t think…”
“Well, what can you expect of those who live forever? We have seen all there is to see, accomplished all there is to accomplish. We are worshiped and adored, but even that loses its luster, in time.” Demi gestures toward the Council of Gods seated in the stands. “Some enjoy the tournament more than others. Take Apollo, for example.” She points to the blond man seated beside the equally blonde woman. “He does not savor the violence, but his twin sister loves it. Then again, sheisa huntress.”
“Two of the chairs are vacant,” I observe.
She offers a vague hum of assent. “One of the council members is currently investigating the mortal everyone’s been talking about: Prince Balior.”
I straighten to attention. “What about him?”
“Well,” she says, foot bouncing as it hangs, “it seems that his power is somehow linked to the beast he travels with. Some worry he might be able to cross into the City of Gods. We haven’t much information, aside from that.”
“And—” I lick my lips. “Is this of concern to you?” Has Lady Clarisse involved herself in something far more insidious than I first believed?
“At the moment, no. But change is constant. First, we must see what this Prince Balior wants. There’s no point in dwelling on it until wereceive more information. The investigation is ongoing. Thankfully,” she adds, gesturing to the field, “we have the tournament to keep ourselves occupied.”
Right. The tournament. As I scan the field for Eurus, Demi expounds on what the first trial will entail. Open battle. Its purpose? To establish hierarchy. Here, participants will divide the weak from the strong. In the end, only fifty will move on to the second trial. The rest will be disgraced, or dead.
“I don’t see Eurus,” I say.
“Far right, love.”
There—a set of scaled wings. They expand and contract a few times, as if he is stretching the muscles in his back.
“How will he fare against the others?” I ask Demi, thinking this is a good opportunity to gather information.
One corner of her mouth slants into her cheek. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about him.”
I am less worried for his wellbeing and more concerned about going home. “I’m curious. Most of the participants carry weapons, but he carries none.”
“Eurus has his rage. That will fuel him. A banished god has much to prove.”
True—but she didn’t exactly answer my question. “Who do you think will be most difficult for Eurus to beat?”
The goddess purses her lips, considering each of the contenders. “The Fates—and Arin.”
Of all the immortals, Arin is one of the slightest, and one I have admittedly overlooked. “Why Arin?” Even as I speak, I spot him below, positioned between two hulking brutes, each armed with no less than ten blades, their monstrous hands tipped with frightening claws. Arin appears downright diminutive in comparison.
“He may be a lesser god, but do not underestimate him.” Her eyes flick to mine. “Arin will do anything to win.”
I understand that desperation, though I wonder what, exactly, is at stake for him. “What powers does he hold?”
“He has an affinity for the healing arts. That staff of his? It can heal all manner of illnesses. But it also has the power to draw the strength from one’s body, or even to insert an ailment into the bloodstream, though I have not witnessed it myself.”
“That’s…”
“Thrilling?” Demi’s eyes brighten with excitement. “I do love an underdog.”
As the lightning god pushes to his feet, a hush sweeps the stadium. Demi, seemingly unconcerned, waves over a food vendor from one row behind and purchases two bags of roasted chestnuts—one for me, one for her. I accept mine without complaint, too nauseated over the impending battle to rebuff her offer.
“One hundred and ten of you have gathered to make your stand,” the lightning god bellows, his voice booming throughout the arena. “Unfortunately, only fifty will move on to the next trial.”
At this, the audience stirs, an unease slinking through the creaking of benches and crunching of food concessions.
