Page 20 of The Mortal Trials

Hera is the next to speak. She orders Hermes to “Introduce them to the others.”

“Of course.” With an easy gait, the messenger gestures for us to follow him and we, thankfully, leave the King and Queen of the Greek pantheon behind.

Hermes leads us across the enormous room, through clusters of people that thicken and congeal, the cacophony of innumerable conversations overwhelmingly loud. When he cups his hands and asks the crowd to let us pass and his words go unheard and unheeded, he waves a couple of fingers and deftly separates it, scooting those in our way, out of it.

Gasps and indignant rants abruptly fall silent. Whether they do so by his power or because they realize who’s responsible for their departures, I’m not sure.

Mouths gape as we walk by, and the path cleared by the messenger god clogs behind us.

“That’s Callalie Ryan!” someone whispers.

We are ushered beyond a thick twist of golden rope that limply holds the gathered multitude of Olympic elite back from one small section of the room. Without the mass of bodies, I feel the cool evening air and can breathe easier again. The whispers of my name stop.

Niall and I follow Hermes onto a broad, stone balcony where several people linger, holding polite conversations. There are people from every pantheon and walk of life. Some are plainly dressed while others wear fine garments. Young stands next to old. I’m trying to understand why we’ve all been brought here and sequestered when Hermes speaks.

“Niall Kelly and Callalie Ryan, our two final contenders!” he announces with a flourish.

My heart gallops.

Niall’s pallor fades, all warmth bleeding from his cheeks. “Contenders of what?”

The messenger god scans those separated from the masses with a shrewd eye. “You’ve all been nominated to compete in The Mortal Trials.”

Niall mouths the words, tasting them, his upper lip finally curling. He would spit them out if he could.

Hermes doesn’t elaborate. He’s said all he intends to, apparently, because he vanishes before our eyes.

“The Mortal Trials?” Niall turns to me with wide eyes, like I might have an idea what Hermes meant.

I’m not sure who nominated us for this dubious honor, but I hate them for it. Mortals are never victorious in the games of gods. Those who win, still somehow lose. And those who lose to a god, die.

5

Have we been charged with an offense against the gods?” Niall chokes, turning a tight circle to question those who are clustered nearby. He tugs at the collar of his shirt as if it’s suddenly too constricting.

“The Mortal Trials is some sort of contest,” a masculine voice confidently answers from beside us. “Everyone here has been called a hero at some point. The divine want to see which of us truly deserve the title.”

I turn to meet the man’s eyes and see striations in every shade of blue, from pale sky to a sapphire so dark it’s almost black. Then I recognize who they belong to and my heart skips a beat. My lashes flutter as I blink away my surprise.

Though we’ve never met, the last time I saw him I was barely eighteen.

Four years have passed, and manhood has hardened his jaw and chin. His lips are the color of raspberries. The hair he used to wear long is cut shorter now.

August Aymes nods politely. “Callalie.”

A tidal wave of memory crashes through my mind, decimating everything until all I can remember is Carina. Her beautiful smile. Her giddy excitement.

Once upon a time, before the war, we were just sisters. We were just girls.

That all changed the moment my conscription was delivered. But we tried our best to solidify our bond and hold fast to girlhood in the few days Morrigan allowed for me to settle my affairs and report to her realm.

Those scant hours were the happiest of my life because Carina was determined to make them shine brighter than all the ones that came before. Cillian couldn’t beg for time away from the apprenticeship he’d just started, but my sister took the time off work. Her rise to stardom was fast and brilliant; it was a beautiful thing to witness. And such fame came with its perks.

For three days, we met Abuela in her kitchen where she taught us to make the sweets and delicious meals we’d grown to love. Carina and I sat beneath the stars at night, tracking them across the dark sky and reminiscing while tiptoeing around our mother’s abandonment.

No sad subjects, she insisted. We only want the happy.

She talked about what we would do when the war was over and I came home for good. She could envision so many possibilities for our lives – husbands, children, houses next door to one another, and so much joy.