Page 107 of Blood of Olympus

Minutes later, she returned with four more hooded figures, carrying two halves of a circular table between them. They planted it on the lawn outside the temple, beneath the shade of a laurel tree. Once they were satisfied with their handiwork — adamantly refusing the aid of muscular gods — I clicked my fingers and a host of midnight black chairs materialised around its circular surface.

Io blinked up at me, lips parted. They gaped further when an inky butterfly landed on the front of her robes, fluttering its smoky wings before vanishing into thin air. She smiled softly to herself, running tan fingers over her chest where the insect had sat, right where I could feel a comforting warmth lingering behind my own breastbone.

Turning, I caught the gaze of the man who owned me, body and soul. His dual-coloured irises swirled, not with power, but with something infinitely more — more ferocious, more all-consuming, just more.

Love.

And clear within that gaze was something that he had known, even before I did: that darkness could be beautiful, too.

Perhaps love will make all the difference in this war, I thought. By having something tangible and fierce, we had something worth fighting for — even more than crowns, and courts, and prophecies. He certainly makes me want to live — more than anything else.

I take offense to that, Velira grumbled in response.

I snorted a laugh. And you, of course.

How very noble of you, tacking the dragon on as an afterthought.

Velira, you live in every corner of my mind. You’re hardly an afterthought.

She harrumphed, but it lacked the intensity of actual discontent.

I don’t want the mortals to see you yet, and it is far too late for you to fly off now. That doorway, I said, indicating the shadowgate I’d conjured to her left, opens within the clouds above our heads. Go now and wait for my signal.

A serpentine smile split her face, and the taste of her excitement fizzed like bubbles on my tongue.

You’d better not eat them before I do, she drawled.

Gross.

A rolling laugh carried across the air until it disappeared when her head did.

Be safe, she said as her dagger-sharp tail vanished into the blackness.

“I’ll try,” I whispered after her.

Caelus extended an elbow, the lightning-shaped scars traversing his skin glittering under Helios’ sun. “It’s time. Shall we?”

Ignoring his chivalry, I ducked under his proffered arm and popped up in front of him. Standing on the tips of my toes, I leaned in, giving him a feather-soft kiss. “We shall,” I whispered against them, reaching for his hand instead.

But Caelus was not satisfied with one tiny meeting of our lips.

He snaked a hand around the back of my head, drew himself closer, and captured them in a way that left no room for doubt or despair or anything other than the simplicity and overwhelmingness of us.

A cleared throat dragged us both back into the present moment; to the looming meeting and war beyond. We broke apart in no great hurry — Caelus gave me one last peck, only to be chased down for another, quicker one by me — and turned, it seemed, to face our fate.

As the sun touched the distant horizon, the first ship docked at the island’s only pier. The other boats, realising this, had anchored several hundred yards out, already lowering rowboats bearing royal cargo.

This ship boasted crimson banners depicting golden swords crossed with spears, and the shape of a leaping doberman carved into its figurehead. I knew exactly where this boat came from — I just wasn’t entirely sure I was ready to meet them, but we waited for them at the midpoint of the dock, anyway.

Six hulkish figures stomped down the gangway dressed in nought but periskelis, sandals and greaves. Upon their heads were gold-plated helmets with thick, red plumage, and their shoulders were adorned with scarred leather pauldrons, whose straps criss-crossed over their obscenely muscled chests. All six approached as a unit — a well-oiled machine accustomed to moving together as one singular cohort.

These were the warriors of Strathos: the rugged desert landscape housing only the hardiest of mortals. Nothing much dwelled in their barren dunes, except for the Bloodhold — the brutalistic military academy dedicated to training soldiers who were as close as any mortal could get to the combat ability of gods.

Removing their helms did not, in fact, make them seem any more approachable — it only served to highlight the scowls and scars on each of their faces. One stood out despite this: he strode to the front with the air of someone who considered all others less than. Looking down his crooked nose, he considered us.

Though he was not taller, nor wider, nor did he possess any other physical advantage over his compatriots, something in his face commandeered attention. Demanded it.

I recognised him by his prominent scar slashing down through one brow, skirting the eye but continuing on down his cheek — their king.