“And are you a renowned warrior?” the middle god interrupted, eyeing Zyana. He set the now empty cup down as he waited for her answer.
“I don’t know…” Fire danced in Zyana’s mahogany eyes. “Is that sword strapped to your back there just for looks?” she shot back.
Demurielle gasped, wide eyes shifting to take in Zyana’s ferocity.
The god snorted, a slow smile spreading across his face as if he relished a challenge. “Want to find out? Though I don’t think the dagger hidden in your pant leg would pair well against a real sword.” He wasn’t threatening her, just teasing, but still it made Trista freeze in place.
Zyana’s mouth parted in surprise before she stabbed a piece of meat on her plate and took a bite of it, chewing aggressively.
“And what is your name,” Ares murmured from beside her.
She had never told him her name. Not when he had saved her from The Arena, not even when they had placed their palms together in a life debt. It somehow seemed like making an irreversible move into the unknown.
It’s just my name.
“Trista,” she managed breathily. “My name is Trista. I’m a healer.”
He tasted her name silently, his lips barely moving. Running his tongue along his lip thoughtfully, he then inclined his head to the other gods. “This is Grae.” The bronzed god gave them an easy smile before returning to eating his food with unmatched gusto. “And that’s Brune,” Ares gestured to the hulking god beside Grae, who didn’t even look in their direction. “And I’m Reas.”
“Reas,” she repeated slowly, questioning it. Of course he would have to be someone different. She may have been clueless as to who he was, but just like Harlow, there were still those who knew him by his real name. And no witch would name their child after the Cursebringer.
He nodded once, daring her to say something.
“Well, it is nice to meet you,” Demurielle beamed at them as they fell into a slightly less awkward silence.
“Witch,” Ares said, his voice next to her ear, startling her with his sudden nearness. “It would be in your best interest not to mention my identity to anyone.”
She swallowed. The mark he had left on her side burned tauntingly.
“These two are my brothers. My comrades. They are gods of war. I assure you that if we are found out, it will not go well for any of you.”
Trista looked at her two friends. Zyana glared at Grae between bites of her food, and Demurielle had already started a new conversation with a witch two seats over.
“Butwhyare you here,Reas?” Rage and defiance rose within her. She felt trapped, like everything that had happened since that cursed necklace was leading up to something that she couldn’t stop.
“Are you regretting the life debt you so insisted upon?” He leaned in more, his lips almost brushing her ear. The fire within her faltered, stuttered.
“Yes.” The word left her mouth much too late.
“Hm,” was his only reply. A momentary silence fell between them, the fire roaring back to life within her. “I think I liked you better when you didn’t know who I was.”
Trista’s eyes widened, then narrowed with suspicion. “Why because I was naïve and stupid?” she whispered bitterly.
“No,” he said, his breath fanning across her neck. There was a tense pause in which she felt he planned on saying more but decided against it. The lack of his heat was jarring as he sat back and turned his attention to Brune and Grae. The latter took the cup sitting in front of Brune to chug.
A shared concentration of ingesting food fell over the group for a short time. Trista attempted to take small bites, mostly under duress, as Demurielle had taken to looking between her and Ares as if she was trying to figure out a puzzle. Having never been on the receiving end of the sun witch’s scrutiny, she found she didn’t care for it.
Trista finally widened her eyes at Demurielle when she looked at her for the fifth time. The witch flicked her gaze to Ares and back to her. In reply, she lifted a shoulder up.
“Do you know him?” Demurielle mouthed.
Trista turned her chin to the side. No.
Demurielle shifted her gaze between the three gods. “There are only four mages from The Iron Coven in attendance? No witches?”
“Just the four of us,” Ares responded to her.
“You don’t look like advisors,” the sun witch mused. “What are your professions?”