CHAPTER 2: Chosen
THE MEDIATOR was the definition of 'tall, dark and handsome'. Last night, I hadn't believed the girls' blabbering, but here, with the man standing this close, my breath hitched.
Maybe he was a god.
Maybe he could crush me with one raise of his dark eyebrows.
...Or, maybe, I'd just never seen a handsome man this close.
...Or smelled one.
Like fresh pine needles and winter ice.
All the Demure that were male were just boys, the High Priest was fat and gross, and I'd been a child when I'd been plucked from my hometown and taken to the temple. I barely had a recollection of my father or any other men in the town other than the shadows that danced in my mind right before I went to sleep some nights...
But this man...
"Priscilla, do not be afraid," he whispered, directly into my face. His dark-stubbled chin was so close, his pink lips moving slowly, blurring like time itself had nearly come to a stop.
...And there was something terrifying about his eyes.
How much it seemed he meant the words—each syllable.
And why he was saying them?
My own stare darted from his to the front of his black-armored chest. Even through the stretchy mesh material and hardened metal bits, it was obvious he was muscular. Was he warrior like they said? Had he really beaten that whole army in Elothan single-handedly before he was promoted to this position? I wondered how much blood he had on his hands...and if he'd ever had to scrub it out of an altar with a soggy sponge.
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Day.
After.
Day.
Till his knuckles cracked from the water and the freezing air and his palms rubbed raw, stinging.
...Did gods know what that was like? What the Demure and Icons did on their behalf?
"I am not afraid," I said quietly to the tile floor, but it was a lie. My voice and chin only shook slightly, which was better than I could have asked for.
Truth be told, I wasn't afraid; I was petrified. I'd thrown up all my breakfast in a vase this morning, and, now, was the moment that could determine the rest of my life and I faced it completely naked and shivering. I'd mentally prepared myself for this second for months, but none of it was as I thought. This was humiliating—
And cold—
And—
"You are angry." The Mediator spoke suddenly, jolting me out of my thoughts. He seemed to relish the last word, the corner of his lips twitching upward as a fire I couldn't understand blazed in his eyes.
Angry?
Wait, no—
...Was I angry?
I bit down my emotions; they weren't allowed in the temple.
"I am Demure," I repeated swiftly—stoically—ensuring my gaze returned to glassy and that my expression showed no trace of any bit of feeling, even as I stewed inside, annoyed at myself.
Messing up in front of the Mediator? What had I been thinking?!
This was my ONE CHANCE out of here.
Now, I'd fudged it. I couldn't take it back—
I couldn't—
His touch startled me.
The Mediator.
His hand, coming down to rest on my shoulder.
And, just like that, all the hope rushed out of me like the breath I was still struggling to find.
"This one," the Mediator told me, turning briefly to gesture to the High Priest who trailed a few, respectful feet behind him. The Mediator looked down into my face, meeting my horrified eyes, "Priscilla." He said my name so crisply.
...With warmth.
Like this exchange was something pleasant.
Like he hadn't just taken all my dreams and broken them straight in two over his knee.
...Given me a death sentence.
Oh gods.
"This one is Poseidon's spawn. Take her there," he ordered, his voice rising into a demanding shout which had two temple guards charging towards his elbow in milliseconds.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he'd already stepped down the line.
I was merely an afterthought—something already dealt with.
And the guards' icy, metal-clad fingers clamped over my bare arms.
And I kicked, just for one second, out of sheer frustration—
My hair blew into my face as another blast of wind scoured us all.
And they tugged me towards the temple door.
But not towards my freedom.