Page 1 of The Cursed Chalice
“Ares, wake up.”
By the gods, my head feels like it’s about to explode. Who is calling me? I just need to sleep for ten more minutes.
“The capital of Thrace has been demolished. The streets are flowing with streams of blood.”
Is that Artemis? Why is my sister at my camp? The last thing I remember was drinking honey wine with Talia and my men.
“All of this was caused by her!” Aphrodite needs to stop shouting.
“Ares, my love, wake up.”I hear a hiccup. “Please.”
Wait, is that Talia’s voice? Where am I? If I can only open my eyelids, but they feel so heavy.
“We should place judgement before the potion runs out and he wakes up,” someone whispers.
My mind sifts through the conversation to hear,“My love, please, wake up.”
Yes, it was my Talia. I groan and roll to my side. Instead of the soft down of a goose, my hands plant onto cold marble.
“Kill her. That should be his punishment. Do it before it’s too late.” Dionysus’ nasally whining voice makes me open my eyes.
“No, we have to wait for Zeus.” That is the voice of Hermes, my half-brother. I see the winged sandals at my side.
I pull my hand and hear a rattle of chains and feel a searing heat around my wrists. The pain eliminates my last vestige of sleep. I roll up and sit on my calves. My eyesight is blurry, but it clears slowly.
“He is up,” my mother Hera’s voice cuts through the chatter. I open my eyes to see her arranging her dress as she settles onto her throne. It’s a monstrosity of silver and ivory with a lion’s head for an armrest and pillows of purple velvet. Of course, there is a gaudy display of peacock feathers, behind her head.
I close my eyes and inhale, letting the air of Olympus rush through me.
The thrones in the pantheon are now filled by the gods of Olympus. Poseidon sits on his driftwood and coral motif throne. He places his trident on the side. Each throne celebrated the gods in its design.
“I can’t believe I have to waste my time on this today.” I groan when I hear the annoying, self-righteous voice of my brother.
Apollo fixes his toga and places his lyre on his lap. Unlike the other gods, Apollo glows. It could be because the sun has been shoved up his arrogant asshole. Or because of the radiant gold plate that sits behind his head.
“Be kind, brother. I am sure Ares has a reason for all of this.” Artemis climbs the stairs and sits on her throne. Hera wanted to make her one with gold. However, Artemis refused. Her mortals made her a throne out of white wood. There are carvings of wolves, stags, and, of course, her crescent moon.
“Yes, the reason is that he is guilty. Anyone want wine?” Dionysus strides in.
I miss the days when Hestia sat on that throne. It was a time of peace. Now Dionysus has the throne, and he decided that mortals need wine and revelry to live great lives. Even his thronelooks unkempt. Wine stains the beige pillows, and grapevines land haphazardly on the frame. His presence disgusts me.
Hephaestus walks in, limping slightly, then sits on his throne. There is a soft clicking and clanking under the chair and a glow of embers as he adjusts himself. Steam rises out from the side as the chair widens for him. The chair is not made of gold; no, it’s crafted from bronze and adamantine.
He is silent, observant, the creator of our weapons, and the wielder of a mighty hammer.
A white owl flutters past my face and rests on the bronze and stone throne meant for Athena. My sister steps from the shadows dressed for combat. Her face is clad in iron resolve. She already thinks I am guilty without even hearing the case. She may be wise, but she is judgmental.
“Glad you can make it,” Aphrodite says to Athena. Aphrodite props herself up on a rose gold pillow, eating grapes casually.
“I’m always here when the family needs me,” Athena replies as she examines the point of her spear.
My heart lurches when I see Talia bound to a stake. Gold cuffs strain around her wrists, shackling them high over her head. Her eyes flicker with fear as she looks at her surroundings. The once elegant purple and gold dress is torn at her breast, covered in blood and ash. Is that blood that stains her split lip? One of her cheeks is flushed and bruised, like someone had slapped her. Someone hurt her.
“Talia?” I say, questioning my sanity as I stare at the only mortal I’ve ever loved. Why is she in Olympus?
“Let her go,” I whisper, pulling at the chains, the scent of my burning flesh permeating the air.
The chatter among the gods continues, as if I am not on my knees and she is not shackled.
