Page 92 of The Ruin of Eros

“I think so.”

His beautiful face clouds over.

“You tell me you have scaled Olympus, as no mortal has in centuries, and you look on my face without harm; now you say you carry a weapon that can kill a god? What is it you are keeping from me, Psyche?”

My throat tightens.

“Nothing! What do you accuse me of? I have done all this foryou!”

Fire dances in his eyes. “What do I accuse you of? I say that you have lied to me.”

I throw down the blade and stare at him.

“Ihave not lied.I do not know why I can look upon your face without paying the price, and as for this knife, it was my mother’s—how she came by it, I know not. As to how I made it through this cursed place, perhaps some god or other chose to aid me. Or perhaps,” I glare at him, “justperhaps,I am braver and stronger and have more fortitude than you are ready to admit!”

His eyes lock on mine, neither of us willing to look away. And then his face softens, and he shakes his head.

“You are right, Psyche. Forgive me.”

I close my eyes, savoring the sound of his voice. When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me. I take up the knife again.

“I won’t bring the blade any closer unless you trust me to,” I say.

“I trust you,” he says, his eyes still on mine.

I go to examine the shackles, but when I try to grip it I cry out in shock. The steel burns like fire.

“I cannot hold it,” I say, ignoring the pain in my hand. If I cannot hold the shackle steady as I cut, how am I to slice through it safely?

“Try and slide the knife inside the shackle,” he says. “Then pull outwards.”

It’s a good thought, but when I turn the dagger on its flat side and ease it underneath the shackle, against his skin, I hear him swallow a gasp. The very touch of the ore must cause him pain.

I get a hold, then pull the knife back toward me—but it cuts faster, slicker, than I expected, and I yelp as the blade swings back too sharply in my direction. I steady my arm just in time.

“Psyche…” Eros says, but he doesn’t need to saybe careful. I’m trembling now.

“I saw it cut through stone.” My voice shakes. “And through wood as though it were butter. And yet I did not expect…” I don’t know what to say. The more I see of it, the easier it is for me to believe a blade like this can kill a god. And the harder it is for me to believe that my mother came by it innocently. I think Eros was right to be suspicious, though not of me: there is more here, there must be, than meets the eye.

Eros stares at the blade in my hand.

“I have only heard of adamantine, never seen it,” he says quietly. “Zeus forged the blade when he killed the god Kronos,and a second when we went to war against the Titans. There was tale of a third blade, but if it existed, its whereabouts was unknown.” He looks down at the one in my hand, wondering.

“Zeus never spoke of where he got the ore; he refused to. The two blades we know of are under lock and key in the inner sanctum of the gods. The vault cannot be opened unless all twelve Olympians unite to do it. That is how dangerous this is.”

I look up at him, then away.

“Is it true that it can kill a god?” My mouth feels dry as I ask the question. “I cut a dryad’s branch with it, but the dryad did not die.”

Eros shakes his head.

“A tree will not die unless it is felled or its roots destroyed. But if you sever the limb with adamantine, it will never grow back—that is the difference between adamantine and any other blade.” He looks at me. “You have heard of Prometheus and his punishment?”

I know the story: every day an eagle plucked out his heart, and every day the heart grew back.

“Immortals regenerate, Psyche. They may be injured, they may suffer pain, but the wound will always heal. Except,” he says, “a wound inflicted by adamantine ore.”

I turn the knife over in my hands, trying to absorb all that I’m hearing.

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