Page 6 of The Mortal Trials

Cillian pushes around me to tear it from Niall’s hand.

My hands quake as I take it from my brother.

“I can read it,” he offers.

I shake my head. “This wasn’t written by an acolyte. This is from Morrigan. Her message won’t appear for you.”

He hesitates, stubbornly holding onto the parchment as I try to tug it free from his grip. “Whatever it is, I’m here,” he promises before releasing it.

“As am I,” Abuela adds, pressing a solemn hand to her chest.

I break the seal and watch as Morrigan’s sharp, handwritten command appears letter by letter on the page. I read it once. Twice, to be sure. Skim it a third time.

I’m not being dismissed.

I’m not being dismissed, so Abuela and Cillian will be okay. Even if I won’t, they will be.

Cillian’s eyes beg me to tell him what the goddess wants. Abuela’s are closed like she’s bracing for a blow she knows is coming.

“I have to go,” I croak, trying to infuse my voice with strength. I don’t want them to see me break apart any further. They both worked so hard to put my jagged pieces back together when I shattered the first time.

I give Morrigan’s orders to Cillian to hold.

The screeching of my leg as I retrace my steps down the hallway doesn’t drown out the bang of my brother’s fist on the door or dull his angry curse.

Abuela hurries to follow me to my room. “Where is she sending you?”

I make myself blink and try to recall what she just asked. My mind, body, and spirit don’t feel like they’re mine anymore. Then again, don’t we all belong to the gods? We live to serve them. To amuse them. And more often, to die on their behalf.

Dying is the only thing we can do that they can’t.

“Callalie,” she begs. “Where must you go?”

I take a deep breath. “She didn’t say. I’ve been ordered to appear before her in uniform with a single packed bag. I’ll write to you when I can and let you know.”

I’m not being discharged.

I’m not being discharged.

They’ll get my commission while I’m gone and a healthy severance if I die. They’ll be okay…

“Is he going as well?” Abuela asks of Niall.

“I’m sure he is,” I answer.

“Whatever happens, Callalie Ryan, don’t risk yourself for him again,” she tells me.

I hate hearing the bitterness in her sweet voice; a sound that’s as much a home to me as these walls and her outstretched, open arms.

“Come here, mija.”

“I need to pack,” I tell her, but my voice cracks with the fissure already spreading between us.

“And I need to hold my granddaughter.”

I limp to her, wrap my arms around her shoulders because she’s a head shorter than me, and try to memorize how this feels in case it’s the last time I hug her.

She smells like the breakfast she made for us this morning, like the herbs and flowers of her garden and the quetzals she dotes on. She smells like safety.