Page 22 of The Mortal Trials

The god of war’s hair lies in silken dark waves that fall to his shoulders. A crimson cape swishes behind him. Does his fine black armor still carry a trace of my blood?

On his hip rests the sword he drew on me on the battlefield.

Thirteen. I held off thirteen of his brutal blows before he cut me down. He was livid that I managed to stop so many. Oh, how he roared in victory when the blade split my mortal flesh and cleaved the bone.

I hate him. I. Hate. Him. And if I ever find a way, I’ll end him.

There are gods the realms haven’t seen in millennia. Gods who only exist now in ink scraped onto ancient scrolls. Dead gods. So there must be a way.

“Cal,” Niall whispers, his voice trembling as he steps backward, bumping into me and almost knocking me over. I stumble but grab his forearm and keep my footing. When our stares collide, he shrinks away at what he sees in me, muttering, “Sorry.”

Niall’s fear is palpable and for a moment, I wonder if my fury might also be.

Ares pauses in the hollow that’s formed within our group and slowly turns, taking in each imperfect mortal face, saving mine for last. His smile widens and cruelty glints from his honeyed stare when he finds me waiting.

There are no scars on his face despite the wars he’s waged. There are no callouses on his brutal hands. His body has never been broken. To the eye, he’s flawless.

The divine’s immortal beauty is a lovely illusion, crafted to conceal their faults.

Mortals who haven’t felt their scorn are fooled by the façade, but those who have endured it know the terrible things they are capable of. Their actions speak volumes about how they regard us.

Some gods are peaceful, encouraging gentle existences. Others war, and meddle, and scheme without caring whether we live or die from their machinations. They cajole the mortals with pretty words and petty bounties. And the mortals, being none the wiser, happily reach out their hands for the spoils they are gifted from what has been taken from people we should consider our neighbors and friends, if not siblings.

As these deities of ruin sunder us, we happily roost within the divisions they make, never thinking of why we do it or what might become of us if we refuse to be separated.

What grateful crops we make when, subject to their harsh light, we lap up the drops of water they flick in our direction, thanking them for the small respite when they have oceans they keep for themselves.

“I’m told that each of you is elevated among and revered by mortal men. That you are heroes. That your strength of heart rivals the gods’.” The god of war’s voice is disdainful. Full of dismissal. “The trials will determine if any of you are deserving of such praise.”

No one dares to speak.

Ares pivots again to scan the ones who have been called into this wretched game. When he turns his back on me, I dream of digging a dagger into his spine and fantasize about how the separation of his vertebrae might feel, to me and to him.

“The trials will test your mind and body. But listen well when I say they’ll be nothing compared to the games crafted to determine the true heroes. These are merely a warmup while the games are being designed.”

He glares at some of the other contestants.

“To qualify for the games, mortals, you’ll need to do two things: survive the trials and find a god willing to be your champion.” Ares straightens his back and as he grows taller, his muscular form broadens threateningly. He looks down and meets my eyes with a smirk. “Good luck.”

The god of war leaves the way he came, with mortals scurrying out of his path, desperate to avoid his wrath as he charges back through the crowd, a living sword.

None of the contestants speak until he’s out of earshot, even for an immortal. The first who does is an older gentleman with burnished skin and salt and pepper hair and beard. “What do we do now?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? Are we confined to this island? How should we prepare for these trials, and will any amount of preparation help? How many trials will there be before their games begin?

I follow Niall’s line of sight skyward where Morrigan’s giant crow circles overhead.

The wings of Hermes’s talaria sandals flit as they carry him to the space Ares vacated. He smiles enigmatically. “A small island and oikos has been made for each of you to live in while you participate in The Mortal Trials.”

At least that answers the question about where we’re expected to dwell while we’re here. So far, I can’t tell if Hermes is in league with Ares or if he just loves stirring the proverbial pot.

Hermes cocks his head to the side. “A word of warning: don’t try to escape the island. You’ve been nominated and brought here as an honor. Dishonoring those who raised you up onto this pedestal would be unwise. Besides, both the air and sea surrounding you are now guarded.”

My brows pinch as a horrible shriek comes from above. “No!” I scream as three harpies descend on Ceann Ársa. “That avian is sacred to Morrigan. You know what she’ll do if he doesn’t return to her!”

Power is the language of the divine. And Morrigan is rife with it.

Hermes waves a lazy hand, and the harpies release The Ancient One. It flies away with one injured wing, its cries echoing for miles. In leaving us before she dismissed him, the crow has violated Morrigan’s instructions, but what other choice does he have? Morrigan knows the monsters in this den.