A cloud of flies has already descended to feed on the goddess’ eyes. I gag, a hand slapped over my mouth. Her gown has been slashed, heels broken, legs pieced at unnatural angles. Had the contestants been taken unaware, as I was?
Something snaps behind me. I whirl around, scanning the area. Whatever it is that lurks beyond sight, I do not wait around to find out.
I run.
Except I do not run far. Puffing hard, I lurch to a stop, brace a hand against an aged tree. The wood is dark here, the understory veiled in obscurity. It boasts peculiar plants and pale-winged birds. Every so often, the bell peals and dies.
It is foolish, this plan. Find the East Wind, yes, but how? He is one god amongst trees that number in the thousands. By calling out for him, I risk alerting the other contenders to my presence. Then again, even if hedidknow of my presence, why should he search for me? Why should he care?
Say nothing, Min.
Useless girl.
A waste of space.
My fingernails dig into the lined bark. My head threatens to burst its seams. All the years of my life, I internalized these words. I regarded them as truth. I was neither strong nor clever, prolific nor useful. I was stupid Min, useless Min, impudent Min, burdensome Min. And it was simply not true.
How many mortals would have survived this realm of gods, a flimsy bargain their only armor? I am not useless. I have my strengths. They may be different than those of Lady Clarisse, but that does not make them trivial, less than. She was wrong. I am capableandinnovativeandintelligent. I have the grit required to see difficult tasks through. If Eurus is out there, Iwillfind him. This I vow.
A piercing cackle snaps my attention upward. A cutout in the leaves reveals the blue sky, its edges brushed the pink of coming sundown. Something flits past—something with wings.
I climb a nearby tree, hefting myself into the highest branches until my head breaks the canopy. As I catch sight of a figure in the distance, my heart surges, then plummets in equal measure. Not Eurus. Rather, it is one of the Fates, bow and arrow clasped in hand.
She circles the wood slowly, dropping gradually lower. No sign of the other two sisters. After a time, a strong beat of wings carries her west, and she dives. Three, four, five heartbeats pass. Then, a familiar scream of pain.
My blood runs cold.
I descend the tree as swiftly as possible. Quickly, quickly now. The light wanes, and the sky loses color. Fear that I will not find Eurus before night cloaks the wood drives me faster, farther over the spongy earth. I leap over a fallen tree, crash through thorn-tangled brush. A collection of sharp stings graze my back, arms, and chest.
But I do not falter. Darting through a grove of ferns, I spot dozens of arrows buried in the trunks of adjacent trees, in addition to one lying in the dirt. No blood coats the carved head, which means it missed its mark. I gingerly untangle it from the undergrowth, grasp it tightly in hand. This singular weapon, my only defense.
I follow the river for a time, then climb a hill rising from its bank. As I round a great, gnarled tree, I halt in surprise. A pair of trouser-clad legs stick out from the brush, and draped over the thighs: the threadbare fabric of a patched cloak.
The blood drains from my face so quickly I sway. “Eurus?”
Leaves crunch as I shove through the bush to where the East Wind lies, a scarlet pool seeping into the dirt beneath him. Blood oozes from the arrow lodged in his left shoulder. He was lucky it did not pierce his heart.
But why has he fallen unconscious? The loss of blood is too minimal to warrant this state.
Pushing back his hood, I examine the face that has begun to haunt me in my waking and sleeping hours. The slightly rounded nose and square chin, between which rests his mouth, parted wide enough to reveal a glint of white, even teeth. His eyes, closed, short lashes fanned across high cheekbones. The scars marking his visage, revealing a story of horror and neglect.
Gently, I trace one such eruption, the place where healthy and healed skin meet. The East Wind is naturally pale, but there is a sickly tinge to his complexion that worries me. I press a fingertip against his lips. They are unexpectedly chilled.
“Eurus.” I shake him, hard. His head lolls.
I sit back on my heels. If he cannot wake, then something must be preventing him from doing so.
Leaning close, I inhale as he exhales, dragging the scent of his breath into my lungs. It smells of anise. I frown. Eurus despises anise. He told me once, after I brewed one of my stronger morning teas.
Carefully, I tug back one of his eyelids. In the white of his eye, the blood vessels appear engorged, like bloated worms. I study the sight with growing dismay. Many poisons utilize the plant, but only one causes this specific symptom.
Again, my attention returns to the arrow lodged in his shoulder. A murky substance coats the splintered wood. I brush my finger through it, lift it to my nose. Now I am certain.
Gray Snare: a freezing poison that lowers one’s core body temperature. Should he face a contender in his weakened, hypothermic state, it is unlikely he would survive. Because the poison entered his bloodstream through a god-touched arrow, it could prove fatal.
Something rustles behind me then. I spin around, the second arrow clenched inside my trembling fist.
The wood has changed. Its shadows have lengthened, and a tree drops its leaves.
