He shrugged. “Ifyou can break it, it will rebuild itself.”
My teeth sank into my bottom lip as I stepped toward the bed and took a seat. Even if opening it wouldn’t have been very useful, I wouldn’t have minded having an alternative exit.
Following me, the fairy drifted along on his stomach, his palm cradling his head as he moved. “Got no more smart questions to ask?”
“Believe me, I have ten of those,” I admitted, threading a hand through my hair. “Though I’m sure you’re not going to answer most of them.”
He huffed. “Try me.”
“How are the contestants chosen?”
“I’m afraid I do not hold that kind of information.”
My eyes squinted. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
“Well, you just have to believe me! Our gods do not share such important matters with us.” His smile faltered. “It might be because we only live five years and they don’t find it worthwhile to explain the same things to each new generation of fairies.”
The Greek mythology books did not lie. Gods rarely did things themselves, and instead used pawns for every move in their eternity. It was no doubt that we served nothing different for their purpose—whatever that was.
My chest constricted. Not only was his lifespan short, but he spent it under the control of the gods’ will. “How old are you?”
He smiled as if he’s been waiting for the question his entire life. “Oh, I’m newborn,” he announced, tracing an eyebrow with his finger. “It’s my first time being a human guardian, and I must say it’s as thrilling as I expected it to be.”
It was his first time living, literally and figuratively, and perhaps my initial judgment of him was unfair. No doubt, he was someone that could not be trusted, but that didn’t mean my empathy toward him was any less.
“Now”—he sailed closer—“since you know how important this is to me, can we start over?” He smiled so broadly that the corners of his lips touched his ears. I eyed him with interest. “I’m Number 226688,”226688extended his hand.
I frowned. “Your name is 226688?”
He tilted his head as if it were an odd thing to ask. “Yes. Like I said, my name is?—”
“Yes, I heard you the first time. Why don’t you have a proper name? Like the gods?”
Before he could respond, the answer was obvious to me.They weren’t worth naming when they lived so little.
The thought hit me like a physical blow. They lived their entire lives, identified not by given names but by codes. Their legacy was going to be nothing more than a cold, impersonal collection of numbers, devoid of any connection.
My loathing for the gods expanded, filling me with a venomous rage. I guessed that’s what living forever did to someone—any finite amount of time seemed insignificant compared to eternity.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“What for? I love my name. Number 226688 is mine and mine alone. As weird as it may seem to you, I like it.”
My head dropped in a nod, pushing the odd sensation in my chest away. “I’m Charisma,” I said, catching his hand in mine.
During the last two hours, 226688 explained with impressive attention to detail the schedule for the next days. Meals would be served three times a day; every morning at seven, every afternoon at two, and every evening at six. The training would begin tonight with a focus onhand-to-hand combat and wielding weapons, while tomorrow would be about common fears such as fear of water or heights—one of which I shared.
He also meticulously described each god, recounting information I had already learned. I yielded to his evident eagerness and let him have his say.
“Ready to go?” the fairy sing-songed, somersaulting through the air.
“Are you going to…” I gestured at 226688. “Teleport us to the arena again?”
He laughed—so hard, he placed a hand on his belly to hold it in. “You mortals,” he started between laughs, “make me laugh. We willveyriththere.”
“Veyrith?” I asked, tilting my head.
“Yes,” he said shortly.
