The Sixth Life of Medusa

60. A Trial For Cursed Children [1]

"I wonder what master Ares is thinking?"

Medusa just stood there, half in a daze, half in a rage as Lysander helped her buckle on a pauldron. The shoulder armour flared with an aggressive energy, acting as a kind of beacon or tracker? That part was unclear. She had stopped listening closely after Lysander dropped the news.

Ares got another contender.

Wow. What... bullshit.

Was she not strong enough? Had she failed some test she wasn't aware of? Why drop the news days before Zeus' trial? And to think she had been excited with the results of Clotho's experiment, only to get slapped in the face with such splendid news first thing in the morning. The insult didn't stop there; it got worse. Now, she had to partake in some contest? Oh, the insult.

Lifting her eyes, she glared at the mountain ahead, taking in its tightly packed trees and the low-hanging cloud blanketing its bald, jagged peak.

"They said he is also cursed."

"Also cursed. I see." A hollow chuckle escaped.

Lysander cocked her head, dark eyes narrowing as she observed Medusa. "I thought you'd be relieved to escape facing Zeus."

Yes, she should be relieved; the pressure of standing before Zeus would be taken care of if she walked out from whatever this was. Having to remain hidden from his eyes was a good thing. But my insides are boiling. What's this molten rage?

A new contender all of a sudden. So what was all that brutal training for? From her time in Drys Valon to her blindfold training, all had been to represent Ares at the games. To discard her so casually and subject her to this? Even Clotho wouldn't give her a straight reply, claiming she needed rest because the surgery had drawn too much from her essence.

Scowling, Medusa touched the still tender spot at the back of her neck. "Who's this new person? What's his name?"

Lysander shrugged and stood back to take in Medusa's appearance. They had swapped the jingling uniform for a plain belted tunic, polished iron pauldron and knee-high sandals. No weapon yet, save for the ordinary daggers she was given at the start of her training.

"I haven't seen him. Don't know his name either." Lysander frowned. "But if his father is who I heard he is, then the boy's curse will be something wicked."

"Ah. I see. I see." Medusa nodded repeatedly. Even though she was smiling, it was a pinched smile. "Was this Ares' plan from the beginning? Then what was that spiel about being patient? What about his hellish training? Was he toying with me? I'm getting better at controlling my curse. I really am. If that prickly man could just—" Wait. Why am I hard-selling myself?

Lysander's usually bright expression hardened. "I understand your grievance towards Master Ares, but watch your tongue."

"Go to hell," Medusa spat in English. Why am I doing this? She glared down at herself, disgusted. Am I some dancing monkey? Making up her mind, she reached for the buckle across her chest.

Lysander sighed and smacked her hand away. "Calm down. It's just a little contest to measure your growth. Even if you fail, Ares wouldn't abandon you. Deities aren't limited to a single contender, you know? More contenders mean better odds of winning the games. Your anger is needless."

"Who says I'm angry?" Her scowl returned. And why am I relieved?

Lysander laughed and flicked her forehead. "Perhaps that temper comes with the red hair."

"No, it doesn't," she mumbled as her focus returned to the mountain.

Lysander simpered and observed the mountain too. "When I suggested to Master Ares that you face a blood-carrier to test your growth, I didn't think he would interpret that as getting another contender. Anyway, an opportunity is an opportunity."