Page 212 of The Mortal Trials

Ares waits for everyone to vacate their seats, then shoves the table to the side. He pulls on a golden ring to lift the heavy door.

Standing there, squinting against the portal’s bright light, panting and covered in sweat, mud, and grit, is the twenty-sixth contestant. The thirty-something male who was stranded on the other side of the bridge when the troll broke it in two.

I smile. He made it.

The man ascends on weary, muscled legs. “Thanks for leaving the portal open. I wasn’t sure it would work after everyone else made it through.” His tone is cutting. He takes in the surprised divine and relieved mortals, the tables and all the food on them, then throws his head back and laughs. “Looks like I’m just in time for supper. I’m starving!”

He dumps someone’s plate onto the table, Susanoo’s, I think, and begins to fill the dirty dish with whatever he wants. It’s silent as he reaches his bare, soiled hand into platter after platter, not once bothering with the serving spoons and forks, until he can’t fit another morsel on his plate without it tumbling over the side. Then he steals a fork and takes a seat.

He starts shoveling the food into his mouth, barely stopping to swallow. I don’t know whose wine glass he grabs, but he drains it, snorting when he sets it down and Dionysus’s power fills it again.

Twigs and pine needles hang in his braided, sand-colored hair. His tunic is frayed and every inch of fabric is stained with blood, sweat, or grime. Freshly healed cuts score his forehead and cheek.

The Greek crouches at his side, grinning from ear to ear. “How in the realms did you make it back?”

“Through the gorge,” he answers between bites. And while still chewing, he regales the room with his tale.

Long story short: he unbridled the stallions from his chariot, took one and raced to the start of the bridge, leading it down the steep mountain. He followed the stone arches through the valley.

He had to abandon the warhorse to cross a raging river and almost drowned doing so, but eventually he was spit out on the opposite shore. The rest of the way was spent on foot, avoiding the troll who was angry that his feeding had come to such an abrupt end.

The portal at the finish brought him to the abandoned arena. He found the glowing door that led to the temple, where he emerged in darkness because the golden light winked out behind him. He could hear our revelry, so he climbed the steps and started pounding on the door at the top.

A tall, muscled goddess with golden hair, wearing a cloak of falcon feathers and an axe strapped to her back moves through those who have gathered to gawk. He shoves his demolished plate of food into the Greek’s hands and slides from his chair to kneel as her feet stop before him. She unclasps the silver brooch holding the garment onto her shoulders and drapes the cloak around him.

He bows deeper, placing a fist over his heart. “Mighty Freyja. Vanir mother. You honor me.”

“As you honored your blood today. Your strength allowed the weakest a chance to escape death,” she tells him. “I will champion you, Torsten, just as I nominated you. And when you are named hero, all the world will know why.” She steps away, giving him space. “Now rise. When you wear my cloak, you bow to no one.”

Holding the cloak’s ends together over his chest, he stands and gives his goddess a proud smile despite the grime and weariness coating it. She places her silver brooch in his hand.

There’s as much applause as there is jealousy hanging in the air.

Suddenly, a wave of dry heat crashes over us as the bounty on the tables is devoured by flame.

Hades strides into view in a suit made of glittering sapphires. A wicked smile graces his sensual lips. His hair and beard are the color of rich, dark soil. His olive skin revels in the shadows cast on his features. And despite the heat radiating off him, something about his aura chills to the bone.

“After long, arduous journeys, the wisest heroes take time. Precious hours with loved ones…”

My ribs tighten as I scan the room to make sure they haven’t dragged Abuela and Cillian here. I relax when I realize they aren’t in the temple.

“Time spent feasting and celebrating like we have tonight…” Hades moves like the flame he commands. No one dares get too close. Not even the other gods. He’s given a wide berth as he casually moves between those gathered. “And perhaps most importantly, heroes take days to recover. You will have four days to rest before your second trial. I suggest you indulge in them. If today taught you anything, it’s that they may be your last.”

The god of the underworld pauses, enjoying everyone’s rapt attention. “At the bottom of the eastern and western staircases are new palaestras for your use. These gymnasiums are equipped with training rings, weapons that cannot be removed from the grounds, and heated salt pools. The western palaestra is reserved for the championed. The eastern is for the rest of you. We invite you to stay in the temple as long as you’d like this evening, but you’re now free to leave.”

As he strolls toward one of the pieces of fabric swaying in the warm night air, he waves a hand and the tables and chairs that were shoved askew or toppled suddenly form neat rows again.

Some of the divine follow him, departing as breezily as he did. Others linger to size up the mortals who remain unclaimed.

Torsten, the mortal Freyja just chose, stretches and releases a loud groan before rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be in the western salt bath. Championed, I hope you’ll join me. We have things to discuss.”

“But we’re all one group,” a middle-aged woman grumbles from just behind me. I remember she’s the one who passed the troll with August. “We’ll all be championed soon.”

Torsten hears her. He takes in her softening body and the lines cut into her face, then laughs. “Perhaps, but not all of us can win. The gods and goddesses won’t want to waste their time on some of you.”

Prick.

And here I’d been hoping he would somehow make it back.