Page 13 of Crown of Olympus
At least I didn’t have to deal with awkward small talk.
The newly constructed training arena rang with the sounds of clashing steel, huffed breaths, and feet pounding against the hard earth. Champions sparred, ran laps of the stadium, or honed their weapon skills in the open centre.
Aphrodite ran the track alongside Hestia. Athena moved through a series of slow stretches. The sons of Zeus and Poseidon sparred on the mats. Unfortunately for Leander, it appeared to be a very one-sided match. The brooding white-haired storm-wielder seemed to be holding back, yet still had the son of the sea in a headlock, and enough spare focus to glance up and grin at me while doing it.
Cocky bastard.
I noted Artemis standing next to a target in the arena’s heart, watching her daughter move with the kind of effortless grace that came from years of training. The girl loosed three arrows in quick succession, each silver projectile thudding dead-centre.
Apollo grinned and immediately followed suit — his last golden arrow splitting one of her silver ones right down the shaft.
Impressive.
Ares’ champion, apparently unimpressed, launched his spear like a javelin. It tore through the air, whistling faintly, and sank deep into the very same bullseye, knocking the arrows to the ground. The twins whirled around, their expressions as opposite as night and day. Artemis scowled while Apollo beamed at the red-haired spear-thrower.
My dark brows lifted higher.
I take it back —thatwas impressive.
The nameless god winked at me and blew a fiery kiss. It singed the air as it passed, brushing my cheek with heat. A blush bloomed across my skin, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the heated kiss or his attention. I didn’t care to analyse.
I chose to ignore both the god and my body’s reaction to him. Taking Athena’s lead, I eased through my usual series of stretches. It felt good to be moving and alleviating some of the restless energy I’d unwittingly held onto. My muscles protested at first, but I welcomed the burn, grateful for the comfort of familiarity.
As I bent to grasp my toes, I felt the prickle of lingering stares. My leather-clad ass was squarely on display for half the arena. A knowing smirk pulled at my lips.
Impressive, yet still male.
I looked up and caught the eye of a beautiful brunette trainer. Unashamed, she shot me a wink before resuming her sparring.
And female, apparently.
I grinned, fully letting that one go to my head.
Charon moved into position opposite me and tossed a wickedly sharp blade my way. I twirled it in my hand, testing the weight. It was no shadow blade, but it would do.
Gods had no use for practice blades — wood could not withstand our strength, and wounds from steel healed too fast to matter. Our gifts pulsed through our veins, stitching us back together almost as soon as we were cut.
By the age of maturity, around twenty-five, we were virtually impossible to kill. The only exceptions thus far: a Titan-forged weapon or a death-wielder’s power. Thankfully, those were extremely rare. They’d presumably all been destroyed after the war, and the Titans themselves were locked away in the deepest trench of Tartarus for millennia.
I briefly wondered which artefact — and which god — had managed to take out Zeus. It made no sense to kill the King of Gods and risk another more egomaniacal figure taking his place. Or to risk triggering the Ascension Rite — not unless they would benefit from doing so.
Unless Zeus had wronged them. In that case, the list of suspects was miles long.
A sharp sting across my forearm snapped me back to the present. Charon quirked his cocky brow, coaxing a scowl in return.
“Try to keep up,” he teased.
I feinted left, but he moved with me. My sword slashed through empty air, meeting no resistance; Charon was already whirling, blade moving with the surety of someone who knew my every manoeuvre before I made it.
Because he did.
He was my instructor and training partner, the one who had drilled every skill, every instinct, every reaction into my arsenal. Not just because the Underworld was short on subjects, and the list of those willing to spar with the daughter of Death was even shorter, but because he was one of the best the three realms had to offer. No one had bested Charon in years. Granted, he had not pitched himself against the likes of Athena or Ares, but hehadsurpassed my father.
The fact that he had honed me like any other weapon also meant I knew his habits just as intimately as he knew mine. We were hewn from the same cloth, he and I. Forged by the same upbringing, the same grief, the same steel.
I darted forward, narrowly avoiding the strike meant for my thigh, and simultaneously drove my sword upwards, aiming for his reinforced bronze chest plate. Charon parried, metal clattering against metal as we traded a flurry of quick blows. My chest heaved. Muscles burned. My arms reverberated with the shock of each clash.
We were too evenly matched. Neither could gain the upper hand. It was a well-rehearsed dance of mind just as much as body, and we flowed like water — spinning and clashing with a smooth precision that bordered on choreography.
