Blood of Hercules: Chapter 7

Alexis

“I tried to wipe away some of your blood, but I figured you wouldn’t want someone bathing you while you were unconscious,” Patro said, and Achilles crossed his arms beside him. “That’s why the sheet is still gross.”

He almost sounds . . . kind?

“Uh, thanks.” I propped myself up on the pillows as awkwardness stretched between the three of us.

Maybe he’s not so bad. Maybe they were joking about killing the doctors and I was just being dramatic⁠—

“You smell and look repulsive.” Patro pointed at a door on the far wall. “Use the shower and make yourself presentable. Being around you in this state is disgusting and a dishonor to our Houses. If you were an heiress, the leaders would pass out with horror if they saw how impure you are.”

Never mind. He’s definitely evil.

“Also, try not to slip and break your neck,” he said. “That would be inconvenient.”

Purposefully try to die in the shower. Got it.

Clutching my sheet closer to my chest, I waited for them to leave.

Patro narrowed his eyes. “Understood?” he asked softly.

“Crystal clear,” I whispered. For some reason, I couldn’t hold my tongue around him.

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Fantastic.”

“F-Fabulous.”

“Stupendous.”

“Superb.”

Achilles grabbed Patro by the elbow and pulled him out of the room before he could argue further. When the door shut, I sat back with a sigh.

The annoying part was Patro was right. My hair was matted with blood, and I felt disgusting. I needed a wash badly.

“Nyx,” I whispered into the quiet room.

The silk pillow on the far side of the bed shifted. “What?” Nyx asked.

“Do you want to shower?” I asked since she liked it when I threw well water on her during the hot summer months.

“Do I want to shower?” she scoffed. “What kind of ridiculous question is that? Of course I do.”

An hour later I stood on shaky legs under a waterfall of hot water with an invisible snake wrapped around my neck. Classical music played in my head as water blasted from the ceiling and walls.

It was heavenly.

Tears filled my eyes as years of grime washed away.

From the happy noises Nyx was making, she agreed with me. There were multiple bottles of products, which I wasn’t sure how to use, since Charlie and I had rationed a stolen bar of soap for years.

Charlie.

My heart ached.

I wanted to demand my mentors find out if he was okay, but I’d just fought to the death and watched a stadium cheer over the murder of dozens of boys, and those were their own kind. They wouldn’t care about a human.

The risk of the Spartans hurting him was not one I was willing to take.

He was eighteen and knew how to fend for himself.

But he’s all alone, missing you.

The shower spun around me. The music died. My breath became labored as I put my hands on my knees and dry-heaved.

“Kid, what’s wrong?” Nyx asked.

“Charlie,” I gasped, my chest burning with the beginning of a panic attack.

Nyx whispered a steady stream of encouragements about how capable my little brother was until I could breathe again.

Blindly, I grabbed one of the bottles off the shelf and lathered the soap all over my hair and body.

It smelled like mint.

I scrubbed with all my might.

Digging my nails into my skin after the dirt and blood were gone, I focused on the invisible fog. It still clung to me, insidious and cold. Voices whispered across my flesh. Mother’s dead because you⁠—

“You’re clean. Calm down, Alexis.” Nyx’s voice brought me back to reality.

Both of my forearms were covered in red marks.

My vision warped, and for a second, it looked like poison spreading beneath my skin.

I whimpered.

“Snap out of it, woman!” Nyx shouted.

I inhaled shakily and stood up straight, pulling myself together. “What would I do without you?”

“Struggle,” Nyx said.

I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. “Nyx—is my power the fact that I can talk to you?”

She slithered around my neck. “When we speak,” she asked slowly, “do you feel a tingling, like a euphoria in your head?”

I exhaled, and water sputtered off my lips. “No.” All I felt was crushing despair.

“Then it’s not your power.”

I opened my eyes and stared at the spray. “Then what is?”

“Kid, if I knew, I’d tell you. I’ve seen crazy things in my life, but these last two weeks take the cake.”

We both sighed.

I perked up. “Are you my protector, then? Like Nero and Poppae and the birds on the doctors’ shoulders? Are we somehow bonded, and is that why⁠—”

“No,” Nyx hissed and cut me off.

I jolted at the vehemence in her voice.

“No,” she repeated softer. “I’m already bonded to another.”

My heart sank.

“Who are they?” I whispered, jealousy burning my chest.

“I’m bonded, kid—I want to tell you but I’m physically not able to.” Nyx’s scales slid against my neck, like she was rising. “Spartan oaths are serious business. They swear fealty above all to their animals, and when we accept them, we’re tied to the same oath. But my person is . . . gone. The oath won’t let me speak of them, not directly.”

Does that mean she’s spoken about them indirectly?

“I understand,” I said, even though I didn’t.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. I’m still with you. I’ll always be with you.”

“Yep.” I wiped at my eyes, grateful for the shower. “Of course.”

“I swear I’m not trying to change the topic,” Nyx said slowly. “But do you think the jaguar could be interested in me?”

I hiccuped on a watery laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“Have you seen her fangs? Those canines are lethal. Razor-sharp. And her quads are insane.”

“You’re out of your mind.” I laughed, aware that she was distracting me, but still grateful for it. “I thought you were into men?”

Nyx hissed. “Don’t be a closed-minded prude, Alexis—it’s not cute.”

I chuckled weakly.

After my skin had pruned and I’d run up what must be a small fortune on the water bill—I tried not to feel bad about the cost but definitely did—I stepped out of the shower.

Pulling a fluffy towel off the wall rack, I marveled at how warm it was then held the luxurious item up in front of me.

Weight left my neck as Nyx flopped into it.

After we were both dried, I investigated the marble bathroom. New products were laid out across the sink, presumably for my use.

I pulled a brush through my wet hair and pretended not to notice that the handle was engraved with gold.

Then, feeling like a thief, I piled fresh hair ties on both wrists before I could talk myself out of it. I was used to picking people’s old ones off the ground, so seeing a stack of new ones was too good a chance to pass up.

I brushed my teeth until my gums bled.

Then repeated the process three more times.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, my emotional support sheet was gone, and someone had replaced the comforter with a fresh white one.

The room itself was minimalist with high ceilings and a low bed.

Everything was pristine.

It was paradise.

Charlie.

Guilt filled me, and I tried not to think about him all alone in our cardboard boxes.

A pile of clean clothes was also waiting for me on the bed, and there were sports bras in every size with the tags still on. I pulled on the smallest one—grateful neither of them had paid close enough attention to notice.

A T-shirt fit nice and oversized like I liked, but the only pair of sweatpants had to be rolled at the waist and tied off to avoid a flashing situation.

As I pulled them on, I noticed the shirt smelled like amber and fire, and the pants smelled like mint. I sniffed them a couple times—just to confirm.

After what seemed to be ages of primping, I felt reborn.

I went out onto the deck.

I’d always loved swimming in the murky pond behind the trailer park, but I couldn’t even imagine what it felt like to float in the turquoise sea.

Verdant foliage spilled over the sprawling house, which was built on the lower side of a lush hill.

It was breathtakingly tropical.

The warm sun was divine against my tender skin, so I gingerly lay down on the plush lounge chair and closed my eyes.

A smile curved my lips.

I drifted off.

“Why do you look like Zeus?” Patro barked, and I jolted upright.

The Crimson Duo loomed above me—completely blocking out the sun with their freakish size.

“What?” I asked with confusion.

“Same ridiculous golden skin and curls.” Patro glared down at my now dry hair like it morally offended him. “You even have one of his gray-white eyes. Although”—he narrowed his eyes—“he would never abandon a daughter unless there was something extremely wrong with you.”

A phantom pain spiked my left side, right where Foster Father had slammed his fist.

I didn’t correct him about my eye color.

Everyone always assumed I was born with heterochromia. Some wounds are so visible that no one can ever see them.

Patro squinted at me like he was trying to figure out what was off about me (so much—I could make a list), so I cleared my throat and tried to change the topic.

“You could do a paternity t-test to check,” I offered tentatively.

It seemed ridiculous to assume my parentage based on mere coloring. Everyone knew genetics wasn’t a zero-sum game. It wasn’t, he also has golden skin—boom—you’re related.

Achilles and Patro looked at me like I was stupid, which was still up for debate.

“No.” Patro made a duh face. “We can’t just test your blood. You’re not just a weak human anymore, Spartan blood is too acidic to test. Obviously.”

Literally nothing is obvious about Sparta.

Patro pursed his lips and sighed dramatically. “Moving on—the real question is why would Zeus pair you with us and not Theros?”

Achilles looked at him pointedly and arched his brow. “He’s weak and pathetic,” he signed. “Just like her.”

It took everything I had not to make a face. That was just uncalled for.

“I know he’s incompetent,” Patro replied aloud. “But he’s their heir, so why wouldn’t he—” His mouth dropped as he looked down at me. “—unless he actually wants you to succeed.” He wrinkled his nose. “But he abandoned you and hates us. It only makes sense if he’s trying to kill you off and screw us.”

At this point, it feels like everyone is trying to give me father issues.

Patro rubbed his temples like he was either thinking or had a tumor that was causing him pain.

I prayed for the latter.

Silence stretched, and it got awkward again.

Or maybe it’s always been awkward? I tended to have that effect on people, especially men. It was probably my giant boobs, curvy body, and bubbly, extroverted personality.

“Is th-this Crete?” I whispered, naming the first Greek island that came to mind.

Both men frowned at me. Well, I assumed Achilles was scowling; it was hard to tell because of the muzzle.

Does it ever chafe?

“No, this isn’t Crete, this is Corfu,” Patro scoffed like I’d asked the dumbest question in the world. “The House of Hades owns Crete—obviously.”

Voices, cold, black fog everywhere, a boy with horns punching his head during the massacre.

“Don’t make that disgusted face,” Patro snapped. “You’re not good enough to lick the boots of Hades or Persephone—they’re the best of us,” he said, almost wistfully.

If they were the best, I didn’t want to know the worst.

Achilles sat still like he was carved from marble, and Patro lit a cigarette that smelled like cloves and tobacco.

I scrunched my nose at the smell.

Patro blew smoke in my direction and flipped me off.

I grimaced and looked away.

After a tense moment, Patro took a long drag and said, “Moving on—so, daughter of Zeus and a random human whore who probably wanted a taste of fame but found ruin because he didn’t want you, what’s your power? Please, enlighten us. Personally, I can’t fucking wait to hear this.”

“Swearing is a sign of a weak mind,” I whispered, then clapped a hand over my mouth, horrified that I’d spoken my thoughts aloud.

I was losing it.

Patro crossed his arms and mocked, “Swearing is a sign of a weak mind.” His smile was venomous. “Grow the fuck up. What’s your motherfucking power? Tell us, fucking now.”

I took a deep, steadying breath. “I don’t have one.”

Patro’s right eye twitched, and Achilles remained motionless.

“What do you—mean?” Patro asked softly, cigarette quivering between his lips.

I stared down at my feet. “I don’t have any powers.”

An ocean breeze blew warmly and whipped our hair.

Patro crushed his cigarette, walked inside, and screamed in the other room at the top of his lungs.

I was surprised he didn’t punch the wall like a psycho.

There was a crunching sound and a bellow—there went the wall. Classic.

One mental breakdown later, about ten minutes give or take, the Crimson Duo once again sat across from me on lounge chairs.

Patro rubbed his bloody knuckles and asked, “Olympians always say their power feels pleasurable and bubbly . . . are you one-hundred-percent sure you’ve never felt this?”

If I was being completely honest, I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt “pleasure.” The closest I’d come to enjoyment was when Tim-Tom had gotten suspended from school for a week because he’d chanted “peace, love, and butt stuff” and started a mini riot in the halls. Yes, that had really happened.

High School was a bizarre place.

“Yes,” I repeated for the fourth time.

“Are you kidding me?” Patro shouted and stood up. Achilles put a hand on his thigh and pushed him back down.

“What does using your p-power feel like?” I asked because Nyx said it was important to make conversation and not stare at people in silence (I wasn’t convinced).

Patro breathed deeply. “It’s . . . intense,” he said through gritted teeth. “More painful and all-consuming, in a way that Olympians could never understand. But that’s not any of your business.”

He shook his head and narrowed his eyes cruelly.

“The only women Chthonics are heirs,” he said vehemently. “A half-human female Chthonic is literally impossible—our power would rip you to shreds from the inside out. It would tear you into pathetic pieces and boil your womb. You can’t even fathom what we feel.”

Riveting. Sounds like an average menstrual cycle.

Not that I’d had many. Because of starvation I could count on one hand the number of times I’d had my period, but each one had been highly traumatic.

“So—to be clear,” Patro paused and breathed roughly. “You have no powers, no training, no House backing, and a history of broken bones? That’s what you bring to the table?”

I also have a blind eye and deaf ear, and Tim-Tom once told me that I had the build of a sick giraffe—I was still not sure if he meant “sick” in the “cool” or “physically ill” sense.

Patro’s eyes twitched like he was having an aneurysm.

I waited with anticipation.

Sadly, he did not drop dead.

There’s no justice left in this cold, cruel world.

After long drawn-out moments of uncomfortable eye contact, I sighed and offered, “I do well in school. That could be something I use to my advantage.”

Patro sliced his hand through the air like a knife. “Spartans are known for their intelligence. Do you think anyone in the crucible is going to be dumb?” His eyes widened with horror. “Do you even know what the crucible is?”

I knew a trick question when I saw one.

My lips stayed closed.

He covered his mouth. “You don’t know—you have no clue what’s in store for you.” He turned. “She’s dead.”

Achilles nodded in agreement.

“That’s what I always say!” Nyx called from the other room.

I pressed my fingers into my forehead and prayed a meteor would fall from the asteroid belt and strike me dead.

Please, God, hit me with your best shot. I’m ready.

“You’re pathetic. Even for an Olympian, you’re an embarrassment,” Patro snarled. “And that’s saying something.”

God did not, in fact, hit me with his best shot.

“I never asked for any of this,” I said, my unused throat burning from the force of my outburst. “I thought I was fully human last week.”

“Oh yes.” Patro waved his hands in the air. “It must have been so difficult, growing up as a pampered human with no responsibilities other than going to school and living a charmed life. Cry me the River Styx.”

I fisted my hands so I wouldn’t punch him.

You should have never spoken.

Nero glared up at me from the ground and bared his teeth.

He reminded me of Fluffy, just with razor-sharp fangs, red eyes, a mammoth size, and the ability to rip out my throat with one bite.

Also, unlike Fluffy, he loathed me.

It hurt.

The quiet stretched as Patro and Achilles seemed to be having another silent conversation.

I leaned back on my lounge chair and sunned myself (dreamed of death and tried to make a bigger target for the asteroid). Fingers crossed.

Patro stood up abruptly and left the deck.

I glanced over—Achilles was glaring at me.

He didn’t look away when I held his gaze.

Not a good omen.

“Here,” Patro barked as he came back out and dropped two books onto my lap. One had a painting of a disemboweled corpse on its cover; the other had a drawing of a Spartan helmet.

Something tells me these aren’t going to be my Emmy and Carl fanfics.

“Do you have any math b-books?” I asked before I could stop myself. My stress levels were at an all-time high; I needed numbers to calm me. I also needed to stop talking to the man who was likely going to snap and kill me.

Patro made a face. “No, because believe it or not, I’m not a loser. Also, this isn’t leisure reading.” He pointed to the graphic cover. “It’s an original founder’s manual on the crucible, but it’s in Latin, so I also gave you the translated version.”

“I can read Latin,” I whispered.

“Sure you can,” he scoffed with disbelief. “We’ll reconvene once you’ve read them and are no longer an ignorant savage.”

I ran my fingers along the rough yellow pages of the original. How old is this book? I’m holding history in my hands.

I barely noticed the men leaving.

An hour later, I was nauseous and sweating.

The Latin was rough but comprehensible—unfortunately.

I wish I was illiterate.

The book had started with,

“All Sparta is divided by one mental test, one of which paranoia inhabits, sleep deprivation another, and starvation the third. What others in their own language call “pain” is, in our Spartan War Academy, the crucible. The River Styx separates the dolomites from the academy; the drowning and running separate them from the mind. Of all these, the cunning are the bravest. Because they are farthest from civilization and refinement, their minds don’t break when the rest shatter.”

It got progressively worse from there.

The book detailed ad nauseam the importance of pain, suffering, dirt, fear, and hunger. Confusingly, it referred to the crucible as a mental test, but then constantly described it as a war.

Later the book repeated, “It is the right of the crucible to break those it has conquered so they have no shelter from themselves. If you must break a man, do it to reveal power; in all other cases, kill him.”

Charming.

And the last line read, “There are no stupid gods because there are no stupid Spartans. The crucible or death; there is no third option.”

Sweat streaked down my spine. I opened the English version of the book, hoping I’d made a mistake translating.

It was exactly the same, except the English author used the terms slaughter, murderous, and revolting more frequently.

I pushed both books off my lap, unable to stomach them.

The crucible almost sounded worse than high school.

I collapsed back on the chair with Nyx wrapped around my throat. The sun set over the Ionian Sea, and a graveyard of stars made an appearance.

I barely noticed.

Time warped around me.

Crickets chirped and waves lapped as I drowned in the night sounds.

When I finally dragged myself into the bed, head fuzzy with heavy thoughts, there was a strange creaking coming from the other side of the wall.

A low masculine groan and a shout.

Heavy panting.

Someone cried out, like they were in pain.

Then the creaking resumed.

Before I could wake up enough to investigate, nightmares pulled me under.

Crimson eyes glowed from the end of my bed.

There was a weight on my ankle, fingers wrapped around in a vise. A foreign feeling of interest and curiosity filled me. The obsession burned me alive.

Skeletons growled.

The night breeze dragged across my skin like it had claws.

“You’re going to survive,” the familiar raspy voice ordered. “You’re going to do it for them—or I’ll bring you back to life and make you wish you were dead. Then I’ll make him break your mind. Obey—you don’t want to test me, carissima.”

“Wake up!” Patro shouted.

I sat up with a gasp.

Holy crud, I’ve never had dreams like those before.

Patro loomed over the bed. “I assume you read the books I left you,” he said without preamble. “Do you understand the crucible?”

Slumping back against my pillows, I nodded weakly. “Mental test, pain, suffering, starvation, paranoia, death, blah, blah, blah.”

An average day living in the forest.

Patro huffed, and for a second, it almost looked like he smiled. “That’s a pretty accurate summary.”

I grimaced at his expression—cheerful people freaked me out. What do they have to feel good about these days? Genuinely. I want to know.

Luckily, Patro’s face contorted with disgust (understandable), and he grabbed a thin textbook off the bedside table. “Read this today—it covers the four disciplines of the crucible.”

I reached for it.

“You’ve never heard of them,” he said. “The curriculum is purposefully kept a secret so no initiate can have an upper hand, which actually helps in your case. The book just outlines the names and gives a general description of each class. It’s nothing you, or anyone else your age, have studied before.”

My interest piqued.

What could possibly be taught that I’ve never even heard of? The Spartan merit test covered a dozen different subjects.

Patro must have mistaken my silence for disinterest.

“You need to know the four classes,” he said with a huff. “First, Thagorean—advanced math coupled with philosophy. Second, Lost Classical Lore—which focuses on archaic history in Latin. Third, Discipline and Power, D and P for short—the most useful class by far, since it covers powers, Spartan oaths, mental shielding, and leaping.”

“You said there were four?” I asked.

Patro smirked. “The fourth is less of a class and more of a long challenge, which starts after the summer. It’s bonding with an animal protector.”

I glanced over at the pillow I knew Nyx was sleeping under.

“Oh,” I said, spirits sinking because I didn’t want to bond with some random animal.

“Since Zeus seems to be your father,” Patro said with a frown, “as an Olympian with a strong bloodline, I’m sure birds will flock to you, and you’ll have your pick of them.”

I couldn’t find the energy to nod.

I’d never been a bird girl.

No, it wasn’t because neighbor Paul (post shovel-to-the-head incident) used to scream from his trailer porch that birds were government surveillance drones.

It was just—no one had proved birds weren’t spying on us.

Also, why were they always flying around? Where were they going? What were they doing? Why were they always singing? Suspicious.

Morning chirps echoed through the windows, and my eyes widened. They’ve got us surrounded.

Patro scowled like he was waiting for me to say something.

“Yay, b-birds,” I said tentatively. “Go pigeons? They’re definitely not watching us and sending information back to the⁠—”

Patro left the room.

That was weird, Alexis, even for you. Tone it down.

Sighing, I lay down on the deck and read my new book.

Time resumed its leisurely stroll (death march).

Over the next five days, I took copious nutrient pills, and my bones healed. My collarbone and ribs also stopped protruding so severely. I almost looked healthy.

But a new fear ate at my nerves because the crucible—a mental test akin to war—was fast approaching.

Each night, I drowned in nightmares where a raspy voice taunted me.

On the last day before I was supposed to leave, the Crimson Duo once again sat across from me on the terrace.

Green leaves rustled on the surrounding hillside.

The sea sparkled like diamonds.

“You won’t survive the Spartan War Academy without a power,” Patro said in a grave tone. “They will literally kill you if they think you’re powerless. No questions asked. So don’t tell anyone.”

I gulped.

“My brother, Augustus, is teaching D and P this year,” Patro said with a fond smile. “He’s very even mannered and honorable—but he won’t suffer fools. If you’re powerless . . . let’s just say—you don’t want to be. Although he’s usually protective of women because of our sister, Helen. Still, he’ll exploit your weaknesses ruthlessly to make you better.”

I shivered.

Augustus is the thirty-one-year-old eldest Chthonic heir.

Literally everyone in the world knew about the infamous son of Aphrodite and Ares.

There were wild stories circulating about his “sinful handsomeness, disturbed power, and divine rage,” but he was notoriously private, so none of them had ever been confirmed.

The Spartan Lifestyle Page had tried and failed for years to get photos of him, since he was part of the upper crust, the secret royal society of Spartans who cared about honor and purity.

They’re all delusional.

Neighbor Paul (pre-shovel) seemed more grounded than the Spartan heirs.

One thing was for darn sure, Augustus was not someone I ever wanted to meet. As the son of two heirs, he could have chosen to be the heir to the House of Aphrodite or Ares, but he’d been named the latter.

He’d chosen the House of War.

Enough said.

Patro continued, “The good news for you is that asking another Spartan about their power, without them offering to discuss it, is considered taboo. Your incompetence shouldn’t pose too much of a problem—at least, for now.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “So what is our overall strategy?”

The men glanced at each other.

Patro ran his hand through his hair. “You survive.” He shrugged.

“That’s it?” I gaped at him, fury filling me as I fisted my hands.

Patro rolled his eyes. “After the first two weeks, you’ll have another few mentor days with us. Once you’ve experienced a . . . taste of our culture, we can reassess. Make it until the end of July, and then we’ll talk.”

I saw red.

“You’re giving up,” I whispered. “You didn’t even bother.”

Green eyes flashed like lightning in a fog. “Don’t you fucking dare tell me what I’m doing. We have more here to fucking lose than you do.”

I crossed my arms and glared at my feet. “My l-life is at stake.”

Patro leaned forward. “Our world is at stake because if we’re named generals, then we get seats in the Spartan Federation and Chthonic power increases. In contrast, your life means nothing to anyone in Sparta.” His tone was vicious. “Grow up and figure out how to make it matter—then we’ll talk.”

I scowled. “I want a strategy. Now.”

“You want to know what my strategy was?” Patro bared his teeth. “Beat everyone in everything—separate myself as smarter, stronger, faster, tougher from day one . . . I made it so they couldn’t ignore me. I couldn’t fall behind, because everyone was chasing me.”

“What happens if you fall behind?” I asked.

Both men looked at me with pity.

“They kill you.”

There are no stupid gods because there are no stupid Spartans. The crucible or death; there is no third.

The book’s words haunted me.

Patro smiled meanly. “You want to know what Achilles’s strategy was?” he asked sarcastically. “The same fucking plan as mine. We were the best of the best—something someone like you can’t even imagine.”

He spoke like I was lesser than him.

Unimportant.

Replaceable.

Filthy.

Patro continued, “Survive—if you last fourteen measly fucking days, then we’ll talk.”

He stood up, and Achilles followed him out with the animals. None of them looked back.

I’d never felt smaller.

That night, I barely slept.

Before the sun had risen above the horizon, Patro burst in and ordered me to wake up and get dressed.

“It’s an exercise toga,” he said as he handed me a thin scrap of black fabric made of a buttery-soft elastic material like nothing I’d ever felt before.

It looked like a dress but had built-in shorts and a built-in bra, thank God. It hung across my shoulders without sleeves, bunched in layers at the waist, and fell to my knees.

“There are no shoes—you don’t get to wear them during the crucible,” Patro said, then he left so I could change.

I dressed in the strange garment, checked to make sure the hair ties covered the marks on my wrists.

“I’m r-ready,” I called out.

I wasn’t.

The Crimson Duo grabbed my arms, and we leaped away in a cloud of smoke and agony.

When I got my bearings—my toes squished into grass, and the Dolomites Coliseum gleamed gold far off in the distance—I glanced over. The men were already gone.

Booms echoed as Spartan mentors arrived and left.

Silence descended.

Nine boys stood next to me in a line, all cold-blooded murderers with death on their hands.

Only one boy in the group wore a gold laurel crown. Of the three Olympian heirs in the massacre, he was the only one who’d survived.

I turned around—my breath caught.

An architectural marvel was carved into the side of the mountain before us. It was an edifice of tall colonnades, gold foil, arched gables, and water fountains that stretched hundreds of feet above our heads.

We were standing on the lawn of the Spartan War Academy.

The crucible had begun.