Page 89 of Crown of Olympus
They tugged us down dank stairwells that smelled of must, through forgotten tunnels littered with rat skeletons, until we reached an empty chamber buried somewhere deep within the earth.
I sucked in a steadying breath and blew it out slowly, refusing to let anxiety get the better of me this time. I would undoubtedly need as many of my witty brain cells as I could muster.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Let the sixth trial begin.
CHAPTER 27
Nyssa
Nine champions were usheredinto a wide chamber with an earthen floor, the air thick with disuse. It pressed down on me like the weight of the earth itself. Stifling. Stagnant.
Thallo had indeed been eliminated in Hermes’ labyrinth, while I’d orchestrated Diana’s demise at Athena’s fortress. That left nine heads competing for one crown.
As the golden threads released our throbbing wrists, the room lit up like a fire roaring to life. Moments ago, it had housed only oppressive darkness, thick and absolute. Now, it glowed with the light of a golden star. Hundreds of glittering threads lit up the space above our heads, an ethereal tapestry twinkling and twirling against the stone ceiling.
Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos stood at the centre of the chamber, preternaturally still. No longer were they spinning, measuring, or cutting. They now intently assessed each of us in turn — for as long as they deemed necessary.
“All things begin, and so they must end,”Clotho began with a whisper. Her long, spindly fingers reached up to pluck a single thread, rolling it between her digits.
Lachesis spoke next, carefully extricating the cord from her sister’s grip.
“We are the weavers of fate. But for this hour only, that tribulation falls to you.”
Atropos came last, skeletal fingers wrapped around a pair of now-visible shears.
“Your task is simple. Determine which thread is your own and decide what to do with it.”
“Cut the thread to sever your destiny,”Lachesis declared.
“Rebind it to reshape what is to come,”Clotho murmured.
“Or leave it untouched. Surrender to the fate already spun,”Atropos hissed.
“You may leave once you have chosen,”they said in unison, gliding back to rest against the wall. From there they silently observed the crown’s potential bearers.
The threads of fate flared and dulled, each pulsing to its own rhythm. Fragile promises. Some of what had already come to pass; others, of what might yet be.
To my left, Aphrodite stood still — appearing visibly troubled for the first time since the trials began. I saw the indecision warring across her features: rosy lips pressed together in a thin line, fingers twitching at her sides. The goddess of love appeared to be afraid of what her own heart might choose.
I understood.
If she chose to cut her thread early enough in its length, she might rewrite Adonis’ cruel fate — might still be with the man she loved. But she could just as easily be cutting her own life short. None of us knew what cutting would cost us.
And if she chose not to act, if she surrendered to the fate already spun, she would be choosing to accept that Adonis was forever gone. That she might never see him again, not in any afterlife.
But it was Leander who moved first.
Jaw set, sea-blue eyes locked onto the threads, he reached up, fingers grazing the glowing strings, testing them. He continued walking, hand raised.
Then, a hum.
Like a lyre string gently plucked, the note reverberated throughout the chamber. The deep, haunting baritone quietened as Leander wrapped his tanned fingers tightly around his woven destiny.
We held our breath, waiting. Wondering.
Without hesitation, Leander drew a dagger from his boot and sliced his thread in two.
