Page 41 of On Burning Paths

It’s a joke I’m not expecting, especially from the scorned demi-god. Perhaps I’m influencing them to lighten up.

“No,” Fenric says, letting out his own surprised laugh before glancing over his shoulder. “It’s more…scientific. A hunch of what might redirect the energy from the storm. But I have to warn you…”

“What?” Nyx asks, clearly anxious as she shifts from foot to foot, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Fenric pushes his sopping hair back from his face, blinking under the sting of the still-falling rain. “My solution will help the other teams, too. Which means we need to get across the bridge as quickly as possible.”

It’s weird. I’m starting to like this kid. He might be slow, weak, and dynamite waiting to explode, but he’s clever. And I like clever.

“What are you thinking?”

13

Nyx

The other teams are huddled against the tree line, trying to take shelter from the storm. The Ashen Hounds are living up to their names, sitting completely still in their massive wolf forms, letting out slight, harrowing howls from time to time.

No doubt mourning their poor, fallen friend.

Magnus and the Vultures are huddled together beneath a sort of magical umbrella formed over their heads to keep them dry. I wonder if I could use my magic like that. Then I wonder about the energy they're expending to do it, and decide it probably isn't worth it simply to stay dry.

Nearby, Thorian and Talon are hauling old weapons up from the shallowest part of the canyon, as close to the edge as I'm comfortable with them being. Every time lightning splits the sky I tense, watching them. But Fenric needs the materials, and this is what we're doing.

We have a plan. Trust the plan.

I kneel on the ground and receive each load as they bring it up, organizing the weapons by length for Fenric, shortest to longest. Each time I wrap my hand around a mud-speckled hilt, I think of the person who last held it.

Toys in the hands of stupid gods.

The shifters let out another mournful howl for their friend, and tears spring to my eyes despite everything. My heart hurts for them, even knowing they would never mourn my teammates the same way. But I can't stop myself from imagining it anyway, one of my own—Thorian, Talon, Fenric—struck down like that. Here one moment and gone the next. The thought makes my jaw go tight.

As awful as the godfever was, I didn't have to watch my parents fall. I had the chance to say goodbye, to hear their last words, to go through the burial rites of our people. Those shifters had none of that. Just a body turning in the air, and then the bottom of a canyon.

"Here," Talon says, interrupting my thoughts.

He grunts and drops another load of weapons near my feet. They clatter noisily when they land, some of them nearly rusted through. Fenric is nearby, scanning the weapons I sort each time.

I reach for the nearest one and get back to work, my thoughts spinning to all the lives lost because of the gods. Because of the yearly Trials.

There are many who enter this competition for the greed, just wanting money and notoriety, but surely there were others like Fenric and me. People who lost something and decided competing in the Trials was the only way to regain what they lost.

I finish sorting the pile of weapons and look up to watch Fenric, breathing hard and moving tirelessly in the rain. Water blows out and away from his face, dropping off his nose and lips.

With each new pile of swords and daggers clattering to the ground, he’s looking through them, grabbing the longest ones, and wrapping vines from the nearby trees around them to secure them together.

It’s like watching a beaver build a dam, but much quicker and far more vertical. His brain works in ways so unlike mine it’s hard to figure how he even came up with an idea like this. And I’m not quite sure what it has to do with us getting across the pass.

But perhaps that’s part of what’s made us a good team thus far. All of us have different approaches and different abilities. All complementing one another.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Thorian asks, raising his voice to be heard over the roaring wind and rain as he drops another pile of weapons near us.

“No!” Fenric replies in a beat of honesty, before flashing a wide smile at the demi-god. “But I think this is our best bet! Unless you’ve got a different idea?”

Thorian shakes his head, a slight smile on his lips, and I marvel at the fact that they’re able to joke and laugh together in such a circumstance. The other groups watch us from their huddles, clearly intrigued, but not in a hurry to investigate further.

“So…what is the idea?” I ask, trying not to let my worry show through.

Fenric turns to me, eyes refocusing, as though he’s been so engrossed in his task he didn’t even think to explain it. “Oh,” he says, glancing at the other two guys, who are also waiting. “It’s… well, it’s a lightning rod. You all don’t have those?”