Page 185 of The Mortal Trials

I envy those fortunate enough to quickly adapt in desperate situations. I’m not one of them.

Since Carina’s death, I’ve tried not only to stay out of the limelight, but to sequester myself from it – and in doing so, I’ve isolated myself from far more. I’ve wasted so much time hiding from Ares, hoping he’d forget I existed, when I should have known he wouldn’t. I should’ve known my days were numbered and spent them more carefully.

I wish I would have lived more loudly.

Morrigan saved me from the god of war the day I faced him. But he’s spared my life every day since for this opportunity: to teach me, and everyone like me, any mortal who would dare stand up in defiance, a lesson that had been learned and forgotten through the ages a thousand times over.

When they raced, Hippomenes didn’t outrun the Greek huntress Atalanta outright. He distracted her with golden apples. He wasn’t faster than the goddess. Nor was he as nimble. He was cunning and deceptive. He thought he was sly enough to ingratiate himself to the people, to root himself amid the divine. He was a fool. Atalanta used his own tricks against him. She made him think he was becoming as great as she. She stoked his ego so she could teach him the same lesson Ares is teaching me.

No mortal – even those called heroes – will ever equal the gods.

I take a small goblet of water offered by a servant who pauses in front of me. “I promise it’s not poisoned,” he teases.

I glance at the water, disappointed. “Could you bring me a cup that is?”

A crease appears between his eyes. He turns away and hurries toward someone else, anyone else. If there’s a trial for being awkward, I’ll win it, at least.

I feel a presence at my back and turn to find Ares ducking through the fabric. “Miss Ryan,” he greets. The sharpness in his tone belies his glittering smile.

One of his hands rests in the pocket of a slim blue suit so dark it flirts with black. A dragon biting the tip of a spear is embroidered on the lapels. His midnight hair is slicked back and his light honey eyes gleam. Do the eyes of a kelpie glow as boldly when it senses prey at the water’s edge? Maybe Niall saw the god of war when he dipped his toe into the sea.

I sip my water and remember what Morrigan said: Don’t reward him with your fear.

As I glance over the room, my eyes snag on Athena, who stands near the musicians alongside a muse and the Greek god of the sea, earthquakes, and horses, fearsome Poseidon. Zeus and Hera are still swaying in the temple center. Firelight elegantly limns exposed skin with burnished gold. Demeter slips through the clusters of divine and mortals who mingle, her hair like wheat, cornflower blue robes dragging behind her.

Gesturing to the crowd, I tell Ares, “If you came to beg to be my champion, I’ll have to decline. I already have too many prospects.”

Ares chuckles darkly. “And yet you stand alone. Where are these interested parties brave enough to stake their reputation on yours?”

The way he says it makes my blood boil.

Has he interfered in my chances of championship? Is he the reason why Morrigan chose Niall?

“Discouraging other gods or pantheons from championing me would paint you as a dreadfully poor host.”

He straightens and seems to grow another foot taller. “I am a great many things, mortal. Your host is not one of them.”

I keep my voice even somehow, no longer afraid but blazing with fury. “You invited me here. Gave me a beautiful home decorated with an exquisite fresco. Thank you for honoring Carina, by the way. You’re providing fine food, wine, and entertainment.” I nod to the middle of the temple where people are dancing. “If you’re not my host, what are you?”

“Do you want to know what your sister said before she died?” he asks, turning to watch my reaction. “You were on your way to Olympus, falling all over the desert floor, but getting back up so valiantly. You missed the last words she uttered, or tried to utter, anyway. So difficult speaking without a tongue.” He tsks.

I do my best not to vomit on his shoes. “Tell me.”

His eyes glimmer wickedly. “On second thought, I think I’ll hold onto that precious memory. Keep it for myself.” Ares leans in closer like we’re chatting about strategy instead of him ruining what’s left of my life. “When you’re ready to beg me to become your champion, come find me.”

I would rather die.

He smirks. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, matters of importance warrant my attention.” Ares strides away and sits among a throng of people who lavish him with praise and adulation. A petulant child coddled. His ego safe once more amid those he finds inferior.

I can’t stand the sight of him, so I force my eyes to the unchampioned contenders scattered over the room like glass, all clothed in varying shades of white. All but Niall.

I stare from god to goddess, counting the pairs of wary eyes darting away from mine.

Seven…

Eight…

….