For all of our traveling to deliver flowers, we don’t spend much time with outsiders beyond our house, much less male descendants of dark gods, much less this sort of descendant.
Dark hair frames a face of sharp angles that would make a mortal melt. But it’s the mismatched eyes that make Haven Knightfall stand out.
There are stories, of course.
That he peeked at a gorgon with one eye.
That he fought a cyclops and won, but lost an eye in the battle.
That he seduced a sorceress with his wicked mouth and upon leaving her, she cursed him.
Whatever the real story is, Haven’s never told it.
His right eye is an uncanny, bright shade of amber.
His left eye is bleached of all color so that his iris is nearly white.
I might not attend many Olympian social functions, but even I know to steer clear of Haven Knightfall.
Help won’t be coming from this boy.
In fact, what he’s known for is his cruelty, his cunning, and his disarming good looks.
All of the Knightfalls are ridiculously gorgeous, even for descendants. And all of them are unfairly powerful.
“Excuse us,” I say, aiming for strength and inwardly cringing at the meek tone of my voice. “We don’t want to be late for the ceremony.”
Haven looks straight at me with those stunning eyes. His voice is the embodiment of brimstone and flame. “I wouldn’t worry, orphan. Hestia’s daughters have been unwanted since their birth. Do you really think that would change this day or any other?”
Anger blooms inside of me. My hands twitch at my sides, fingers tingling.
If I reached out and touched him would he wither and die?
If there’s power inside of me, it’s never been one I control.
But right now I wish it were.
“Step aside, hearthtenders,” the girl says and sweeps past us. “Our choosing ceremony awaits.”
They walk away laughing.
“I hate that he’s right,” Clea says as she brushes the last of the forest floor from her dress and then straightens her flower crown. Mine fell off in the fall and is long gone.
“Maybe so,” I say. “Or maybe not. We don’t know our true fathers, but we could be descended directly from a god, making us demi-gods, Clea. There are so many possibilities. Those assholes are confirmed descendants and are so many generations removed from their godparent, I can’t imagine they bear much more connection to their god than a monkey does to a mortal.”
Clea smiles. “I’ve always admired your ability to spin something in our favor.”
I reach out and tuck her arm through mine. “The Fates have led us this far. They won’t abandon us as we walk the path they’ve chosen.” I set my own dress to rights and we surge ahead on the path.
When the trees thin, I hear the distant hum of conversation in the giant theater ahead.
And when we finally step through one of the many arched doorways and into the amphitheater, the hundreds of attendees go silent.
But not for us.
No, their eyes are turned toward the sky. To the gods descending from Mount Olympus.
Chapter 4
Despite having grown up in Olympus surrounded by gods and their godly things, it’s still a sight to behold seeing them descend from the sky.
Zeus is first, as he is with everything. The King of the Gods waits for no one.
Though I’ve never been to the mortal realm, I know from the mortal books in Hestia’s library that humans think Zeus flies around wearing what looks like a bedsheet, long gray hair billowing around his stern face.
That can’t be further from the truth.
Zeus is in armor that inspired the armor of Roman soldiers so many centuries ago. Beneath the golden breastplate, he wears a tunic that’s made of the finest linen and trimmed in the finest gold thread spun by Arachne herself (until Athena turned her into a spider). His breastplate flashes beneath the lantern light deepening the shadows of the lion’s head artfully shaped into the metal. Lightning crackles along his gold vambraces highlighting the neatly trimmed beard on his face. His long salt and pepper hair is tied back in a bun.
In his left hand he carries the thunderbolt created for him by the Cyclops. It glows an otherworldly shade of violet and silver.
The hair lifts on the back of my neck. Clea clutches my hand tighter.
After Zeus is in his throne—the largest on the dais—Hera, his wife, joins him next. She sits on his left in a stunning dress the color of emeralds.
Athena takes the seat on his right in armor of pure Olympian gold. Her dark hair is left unbraided and it curls around the rimmed edges of her armor’s shoulder plates. Next to her sits Apollo looking just as beautiful in a tunic spun of gold.
Several other gods and goddesses take their places one after the other. Demeter, Artemis, Hermes, Hephaestus, Poseidon, Aphrodite, and my own mother goddess, Hestia.
Lastly, the two darkest gods of all—Ares and Hades.
Even from clear across the theater, I can sense the might and mastery of both gods. They don’t strut across the stage like Poseidon. In fact, they barely acknowledge the crowd of their brothers and sisters. Instead, Ares takes his seat on Hestia’s right and Hades goes to the opposite end of the stage and sits on Aphrodite’s left.
For a moment, I’m caught by the dark beauty of Hades, God of the Underworld. He is tall and broad, with cheekbones sharp as the sword at his side. His dark hair seems to roil lightly in a wind that isn’t there like he’s caught in some phantom breeze.
In some of Hestia’s mortal books, Hades is portrayed as gaunt and haunted, but in reality, he’s the personification of night itself, beautiful and depthless.
In contrast, my mother goddess is kindness and light. She is the mother-maiden of all, soft and plump, with a beauty that can soothe every fear and nightmare.
“Come on,” I whisper to Clea and drag her to the tiered stone benches carved into the mountainside. Somehow we manage to slip into our seats without drawing too much attention. Everyone is glancing at the gods and goddesses assembled in front of us and then away. It hurts to look at them in their full splendor like this for too long.
The crowd is silent and waiting.
Even the surrounding woods and the wildlife on Lake Nisa remain quiet.
Zeus is the first to speak. “Welcome to the Choosing Ceremony.” His thunderbolt crackles. “Some of you are here as witnesses. And some of you are here for a greater purpose. As you all know” —Zeus stands up and begins to walk the length of the dais— “every five years, we, your gods, submit only our most promising descendants to the Moirai Box, but it is the Fates that make the final selection. From those names, they give us ten of you to compete in the Descendant Trial.
“From each house, only one is crowned the victor. They serve as our Head of House, our army generals, our most trusted advisors.”
He pauses and I’m absolutely certain it’s for dramatic effect.
“But being chosen for the Descendant Trial isn’t for those who are weak of will or faint of heart. It is true that the Fates guide our hands in this choosing, but it is up to you to show your might.”
The crowd murmurs their approval.
“If you lose during your trials,” Zeus goes on, “you not only disgrace your god, you lose your place among us here in Olympus. You’ll be stripped of any godly power you possess and reduced to a mere mortal. You’ll be cast out of Olympus, your entire existence wiped from the memories of those around you.”