Don’t fall, she thought.

I won’t, his gaze promised.

And as long as he wouldn’t, neither would Lore.

“Pain is the essence of life,” the instructor said. “We are born into it and, if you are to be hunters, if you are to honor your ancestors, you will die in it.”

I won’t die, Lore thought, the black crowding into her vision. She looked to Castor again, holding on to the sight of him.

“Your father and mother may have delivered you into your bloodline,” the instructor said. “But they are not your family. Those around you are your sisters and your brothers. Your archon is your guardian, your light, and your leader. He is your patér. Your true father. It is for him that you learn pain. It is for him that you bleed.”

Lore spat out blood, nearly choking on it. Her father was her archon.

“You will strive for areté, but there is no greater death than that of a warrior who has attained the immortality of kleos for himself and his bloodline,” the instructor said. “Honor. Glory.”

The others—everyone in the training hall—repeated it with him.

“Honor.”

Hit.

“Glory.”

Hit.

“Honor.”

Hit.

“Glory.”

They don’t know, Lore thought. They don’t know my destiny.

She would have honor and glory. She would attain kleos and restore her house. There was nothing more important than that. The House of Perseus would rise again, and her name would be legend.

Castor backed into her, still shaking. She caught glimpses of him between the blows, between the looks of disdain and amusement around her. Snot and blood poured down his face, and he was blinking, trying to clear his vision. She gripped his wrist, steadying him.

They would not fall. Together, they would prove themselves. They would prove that they deserved to be there.

When the next blow came, Lore knew how to claw the amusement from their faces.

“Thank you,” she said. And again, with the next crack of wood against her shoulder, her shin, her knee. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Castor repeated. “Thank you.”

Over and over, until their voices strained and the hits slowed, and, finally, stopped. The instructor held up his fist, and the other children fell back.

Lore realized she was still holding Castor’s wrist, but was too afraid to let him go.

“That’s enough. Go wash yourselves and change,” the instructor said somewhere nearby. “Everyone else, we will begin with the first stance.”

They limped toward the doorway, Lore following Castor up one flight of stairs to the changing room. Lore and Castor found the red chiton fabric folded in neat stacks by size and each claimed their own.

Long sinks ran along the edge of the room, and there were shower stalls at the back. Lore picked up one of the nearby washcloths and, after wetting it, began to clean the blood from his face. Castor did the same for her, his touch gentle.

Their eyes met, and they grinned.

NO.

The word pounded through Lore’s skull. Her back found the mirrored surface of the wall just as her knees crumpled.

Cas, Lore thought as she slid into a crouch.

Even with his powerful body, his gait had none of the rigid confidence of Athena or the steady, reserved pace of Philip and Acantha. There was only that same awkwardness she had noticed during their match, as if his muscles were strung tight as a bow, as he made his way toward the altar.

Castor—the new Apollo—seemed to be concentrating on keeping his arms relaxed at his side and his head high, but now and then he glanced down, as if afraid he might trip. His fingers curled one at a time, only to uncurl again, over and over, with each step.

Her breath caught in her throat all the same. His bloodline had adorned him in a glimmering white chiton, its silk embroidered with golden symbols of his new divinity. One shoulder and part of his smooth, muscled chest were exposed, and his arms and legs were left bare save for the gleaming gauntlets around his wrists and the straps of his sandals.

The effect was devastating, even before she noticed the crown of gold laurel leaves nestled in the dark waves of his hair.

The new god’s face was devoid of the teasing grin he’d flashed her during their fight. It was devoid of anything; if she hadn’t seen the flicker of worry in his eyes, she might not have recognized him as Castor at all.

But it’s not Cas, she reminded herself. Not anymore. Whoever he had been, whatever he might have become, he was something else now.

Lore didn’t understand how she had missed it before—how strange it was for him to tower over her in such peak physical form when the Blooded healers and Unblooded doctors, all those years ago, had been certain death could take him at any moment. She’d even excused the sparks of power in his eyes as being nothing more than his dark irises catching the restaurant basement’s lights.

She’d woven a tale she could believe. She’d seen a ghost in place of a god.

The mask caught her hot, quick breath and fanned it back across her face until she felt smothered by it. As if sensing her, the new god began to turn in her direction, but was interrupted.

“My lord,” Philip called. Castor turned to where he and Acantha still held their positions on either side of the throne. “May we begin? The sun is at its highest point in the sky, burning bright for you.”

“Of course,” the new god said, taking his seat. Then, stronger and firmer, “My apologies.”

How? Lore thought. How is any of this possible?

Castor had been a boy of twelve during the last Agon. He had barely been strong enough to lift his head, never mind kill one of the last old gods. This had to be a mistake—somehow, this was a mistake.

It’s real, a voice whispered in her mind.

Then why had he come to find her at the fights? Why had the Achillides let him out of their sight after they’d gotten him safely from the Awakening?

A feeling of dread began to gnaw at her as she watched Philip sweep a hand toward the waiting throne. There had been something strained in the man’s tone—something . . . something. Lore found herself studying the archon as the new god approached him.

Castor’s words came back to her as if he’d just whispered them into her ear. Something is happening. I don’t know who I can trust.

She still hadn’t seen his father—she hadn’t seen Evander either, for that matter.