Page 17 of Crown of Olympus
But then again, grief makes people behave unpredictably.
When my mother died, my father was never the same. He rarely smiled, rarely ate, rarely did anything that required a show of emotion. He tried, for my sake, but it always felt false. Forced.
I knew I looked a little too much like her, and it showed when he looked at me with pain in his eyes and regret etched into his face.
Charon’s mother had told me stories of how disgustingly in love my parents had been. Nothing could keep them apart — not time, nor duty, not even death, they had promised. She told me how they used to dance through their palace without music; how my father would smile quietly as he watched her arrange spectacularly bright bouquets, basking in her multihued joy.
Persephone had stepped into the Underworld, and right into Hades’ heart. But when she died — when the father of the man seated across from me had murdered her — everything changed. The flowers withered, leaving only the deadliest behind. The halls grew cold. And so did my father.
Now, sitting mere feet away, amusement in his features, was the son of the god who had destroyed my entire world.
I could not let myself forget who he was, or what he, too, might be capable of.
He could joke, and laugh, and smile that radiant smile as much as he liked… but I would not be caught dead trusting it. I could not trust him. I could not trust any of them. I, alone, had to win the crown. My fate was already woven, and it demanded my ascension to save the realms.
I was determined not to fuck it up.
CHAPTER 6
Nyssa
I’d beenright to assume my adversaries had spent the previous evening forming alliances, while I remained alone, by choice.
They now clustered in small groups, exchanging glances and low whispers. Hera stood with Ares; Aros lingered near Caelus; Archimedes and Apollo flanked Artemis and Diana; Poseidon and Leander plotted with Hermes and his son; Hestia, Athena, and Aphrodite stood together in the centre.
We were all haphazardly gathered around the heart of the Parthenon, its open space once again immaculate, no trace of the banquet left behind. No drop of liquor or scrap of food to tell the tale that we had been there at all.
The familiar weight of isolation settled over me as I stood apart. Charon — being neither champion nor primal — had remained in the Underworld, overseeing the realm.
It seemed clear the Olympians had come to a shared understanding: for now, strength lay in numbers. And I was the outlier. The threat.
The differences between us had never felt starker. I was dark and dangerous. They were golden and adored. Theyfeared me as much as they feared their own demise — perhaps more so. It didn’t matter. Nothing did, except winning the crown and choosing which version of the prophecy would come to pass.
Trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
I surveyed the space as we waited for Hermes, herald of the gods, to appear. He had eagerly volunteered to chaperone the Rite, undoubtedly due to the fact that he loved the sound of his own voice.
A telltalesnapreverberated around the chamber. Hermes appeared — quite literally out of thin air. As the god of travel, he was the only other god who could transport himself in an instant; the rest relied on gateways, scattered through the realms.
“Ahem.” He cleared his throat, desperately waiting for acknowledgment. “Champions! Gather round!”
Nobody moved. We were alreadygathered.
“You’re all aware of why you’re here. The path to the throne will be fraught with danger, sacrifice, and suffering.”
I rolled my eyes.Of coursehe was turning this into a soliloquy.
“You will need to demonstrate feats of courage, keen intellect, and comradery, for the crown will not deem you worthy otherwise.”
I decided it was neither courageous nor intellectual to speak on behalf of a semi-sentient piece of headwear responsible for the fate of two realms. Three, if Zeus’ prophecy was true.
A quick glance around the room confirmed I wasn’t the only one unmoved by his speech. Several champions wore identical expressions of boredom, clearly over Hermes’ aggravatingly nasal voice.
“Thirteen of you stand before me as champions. You represent either yourselves or your primal god. In six months,only one shall bear the crown.” He scanned the room, straightening and puffing out his chest. “Today marks the first of twelve Herculean Trials. Each has been set by a different Primal, their order drawn by random lottery. Every two weeks, you will endure a new trial — or be eliminated. One, however, is an exception. It may summon you at any given point between now and the final task, with no notice or allowance to prepare.”
He paused, letting his gaze briefly touch on each of us, barely masking the distaste in his pale eyes as they slid by me.
“The first trial,” he continued, “has been set by the god of the sun. Apollo shall explain the task and its parameters. Good luck, and may the Fates bless you. And especially you,” he added to his son.
