Page 41 of Kissed By the Gods
I come to my feet with a certainty that tomorrow is going to be as close to impossible as anything I’ve ever done, goddess or no goddess.
“Learn anything?” Thalric asks.
I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, spitting out grit. My ribs ache from where Nyrica knocked the air from my lungs, my arms sting from little scratches from the gravel.
I glance at Nyrica, who’s still grinning, still flashing that disarming dimple, his war axe propped against his shoulder like it weighs nothing. Thalric stands beside him, arms crossed, his gaze sharp and expectant.
I roll my shoulders. “Yeah. That axe is a real pain in the ass.”
Nyrica barks a laugh. “Wait until I actually hit you with it.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. No one could survive a direct hit with it, even blunted.
“Again,” I say.
Thalric lifts a brow, but there’s approval in his eyes. The younger ones nod encouragingly, like they’ve been here before.
“Shift your stance,” Thalric says. “Roll to the balls of your feet and keep your body loose, so you can move quicker.”
“And don’t ever close your fucking eyes in a fight,” Ryot says, his voice as rough as the gravel digging into my skin. “If you’re in a sandstorm, if the heavens have opened in a deluge, if blood is running over your face so thick that everything you see is coated in red—Keep. Your. Eyes. Open. Because the second you blink, the second you flinch, someone faster, meaner, and less merciful will put you in the fucking ground.” He gestures toward the crater Nyrica’s axe left. “You close your eyes tomorrow, and you won’t be getting up again.”
I bristle, but he’s right. I force myself to meet his stare. My pulse is still pounding, my breath uneven, but I set my jaw and nod. “I won’t close them again.”
Thalric nods to Faelon. “You’re next, Faelon. Don’t go easy on her.”
Faelon flashes a beautiful smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” His sword is longer than I am tall, and he twirls it like it’s a twiginstead of a weapon that could cleave through every bone in my body. “Let’s see if you can stay on your feet this time, princess.”
I plant my feet, steadying myself, and then I jump forward, swinging first.
Because I’m not a princess.
I’m a survivor.
“The Trial of Last Blood is the gods’ final judgment. When mortal justice fails, the gods call for blood. The gods claim the victor as their will made flesh. There is no appeal.”
The Annals of the Winged, a canon text in the Synod Reckoning Hall
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A guard escortsme to the arena before dawn. He doesn’t tell me his name, doesn’t look me in the eyes, and doesn’t loosen his grip when I stumble. His grip on my arm is too tight, his fingers digging into my flesh with bruising force, dragging me, forcing me to run to keep up with his long strides.
He’s rough, but not cruel. He’s pretending I’m not a person—just a task.
That’s fine. I can pretend too.
I pretend I don’t feel the bruises forming beneath his fingers. I pretend the scythe strapped to my back isn’t a burden delivered by an angry goddess. When we make it to the arena and he opens an old wooden door that groans on its hinges, I pretend the stale air thick with sweat and old violence doesn’t make my stomach turn. I pretend that each step forward is my choice, not theirs.
And I make it truth, one lie at a time.
We enter a dimly lit antechamber where I’ll prepare for the fight. How I’m supposed to do that, exactly, I’m not sure. I expected to wait alone, but Ryot is already there when the guard drags me in. His posture is deceptively relaxed, arms crossedover his chest, but his gaze sharpens when he sees me. His eyes drop to the guard’s hand on my arm.
“Let her go.” His words are low, but they fairly boom in the small room.
The man’s fingers tighten on my arm, as if to prove a point. “I was ordered to bring her here, Ryot. Not even you can counter the archons.”
