‘Charm, not force,’ murmured Metis.
Sweat trickled down Danae’s temple as she bit down harder on her lip and conjured images of Delos covered in an ocean of purple blooms. She poured the warmth of the sun into her vision, and the promise of prosperity.
A little green bump appeared on the stem where her finger made contact. Then it extended, unfurling into a tiny green branch and there at the end, a bud.
Excitement pounding in her chest, she poured more longing down the life-thread channel, and the flower began to bloom, blade-thin petals stretching out into the light.
You have forgotten your purpose. You are the reckoning, said the voice.
Danae clenched her jaw, and, as though struck by frost, the petals withered and fell to the earth. With a grunt of frustration, she paced away, roughly wiping her forehead.
‘Have you been listening to the Mother?’
A beat fell between them.
‘I’ve tried …’ Danae squatted down and pressed her knuckles into the rocky ground. She drew a breath. Despite achieving brief moments of Gaiasight, she still could not hear the Mother. It was the final hurdle, sitting alone with her thoughts, waiting for divine inspiration. A hurdle she could not yet surmount.
‘You must keep trying. It is imperative you grow your connection –’
Danae looked over her shoulder. ‘It is imperative I learn how to defeat Zeus.’
Metis regarded her with heavy eyes. ‘I ask you to listen to the Mother, because I know what else whispers in your ear. It will do you no good to heed that voice.’
Danae stiffened. ‘It’s kept me alive.’
‘Of course it has,’ Metis said sharply. ‘You are a vessel for it to fill with its desire to consume.’
Danae stood. ‘And what of the fate of Gaia’s chosen Titans? When will you tell me the truth of what happened? How did the false gods take power from them?’
Metis cut across her. ‘If you only listen to that voice, you will become …’ she stopped herself.
A chill crept down Danae’s spine. ‘Say it.’
Metis’ delicate face changed like the rippling sea, tugged by a snarl of emotions.
‘You will become just like them.’
Danae squeezed her fist until a sweet burst of pain radiated through her palms where her nails dug into their old wounds. She turned away and paced down the rock-strewn hillside. Metis made no attempt to follow her.
Danae fell to her knees by the lake, splashing water onto her face.
She flinched as an arrow buried itself in the earth beside her. Atalanta stood in the shade of the trees, bow raised.
‘You missed.’
‘I never miss.’ Atalanta stalked towards her, wrenched the arrow from the ground, loaded her bow and raised it to her cheek. The shaft sang through the air, perfectly weighted against the wind, and lodged itself in the trunk of the lonepalm tree. The outline of a stag had been notched into the bark by the warrior’s previous shots.
Atalanta lowered her bow. ‘When do we leave?’
Danae sat back on her heels and sighed. ‘When I’m ready.’
The warrior scowled. ‘When will that be?’
‘I don’t know … soon.’
Atalanta huffed out a breath, fiddling with the knot at the end of her oxhide bowstring. ‘Will Metis come with us?’
‘I … don’t know,’ Danae repeated, suddenly feeling foolish. She had all but begged her former companions to follow her into battle against the false gods, yet she had not asked the woman training her if she too would take up arms. Danae did not want to admit the truth, even to herself: that she feared what the answer may be.
