Damon watched, dazed, as the rebels, a motley crew of humans he barely had time to register in the stands, descended into the arena.
Their faces were grim. Their movements were purposeful as they capitalized on the confusion of Wildfoot's death. Some of them jumped into the sands towards the arena announcer's corpse, which they set on fire.
Then she was there. The blue-eyed girl. Lean, dark hair pulled back against her olive skin. A quiver of arrows slung across her back with the murder bow weapon gripped tightly in her hands.
She moved with a quiet confidence, her gaze sharp and unwavering as she stepped onto the blood-soaked sand.
A jolt of anger, sharp and sudden, coursed through Damon. He pushed himself to stand, his muscles protesting with a dull ache. His usage of negative energy was still affecting him.
Her. It had to be her.
Around them, the sounds of battle continued. A handful of demigods, confused and caught unprepared, engaged the human rebels.
The humans fought with desperate courage, but their makeshift weapons and skills were no match for the divine strength and sheer power of the demigods.
The other demigods, clad in finer robes, their faces etched with disdain immediately retreated towards the imposing walls of Olympus, the impenetrable black palace that loomed over the city, separated from it by the arena.
"You," Damon snarled, his voice hoarse from battle. "You're the one who turned me in, aren't you?"
The woman approached without fear. Her blue eyes were calculating as she surveyed the carnage of the arena.
"Save your strength, Fallenstar. You'll need it to run."
"Run?" Damon barked a mirthless laugh. "I only need my strength to rip out your fucking heart."
She glanced toward the stands where flashes of light indicated battles between demigods and rebels.
"You were exactly what we needed. A high-profile criminal whom Wildfoot couldn't resist and therefore forcing him out of the protection of Olympus."
More screams. Damon noticed her flinch.
"So you are telling me that I was bait?" Damon spat blood onto the sand. "A distraction."
"And an effective one."She hurriedly smiled. "Wildfoot rarely leaves his guard down. Your capture and scheduled execution brought him out to watch. Your survival was...well, unexpected."
Damon's eyes narrowed. "You didn't think I would live?"
"No," she replied simply.
The honesty stung more than his wounds. Damon sighed as she turned away, moving toward the fallen bodies of humans scattered across the arena floor.
The previous challengers who had failed against Tlepolemus.
"Who are you?….and what the fuck do you humans think you are doing exactly?"
The girl ignored him. She knelt beside the body of one of the fallen rebels. She closed her eyes and murmured something…a prayer.
She was praying for the souls of the dead rebels, those who had fallen to Tlepolemus before Damon had ended the champion's life.
"Didn't figure you for the religious type," Damon commented, finding her devotion both unexpected and irritating given the circumstances.
She didn't look up. "What you figure matters little to me."
At a distance, the gates of Olympus groaned open. Soldiers poured out, demigods in black armor, eyes burning with cold fire. They moved like a tide, cutting down the remaining rebels with brutal efficiency.
One of the humans charged at them, his sword raised as he yelled a battle cry. He was cleaved in two before he reached them.
"Lady X," a voice called out, urgent and low. A man with a scarred face and a wiry build, his eyes darting nervously towards the approaching soldiers, hurried towards the blue-eyed girl. "We need to go. Now!"
Lady X? Damon's eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Fine, Ismael." She nodded curtly at the man, her gaze sweeping over the dwindling number of rebels.
"Retreat!" she commanded, her voice echoing in authority.
"Everyone, fall back!"
Ismael nodded and raised a horn to his lips. He blew three sharp blasts in succession. The remaining rebels began disengaging, using ropes and grappling hooks to scale the walls as uniformed demigods began to pursue them.
Lady X and Ismael began to leave.
"Wait," Damon called as she turned to leave. He managed to raise himself from the sands, his knees shaking. "We're not finished."
"We never started," she glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes flickered with annoyance, and then she sprinted.
Damon cursed and gave chase. The world narrowed to the pounding of his boots and the flash of her blue eyes as she weaved through the stands. He was so focused on her that he barely registered what he was doing.
He grabbed onto the ropes, hanging from the wall that was left behind by the rebels. He pulled hard and began to scale the walls. The demigods stopped giving chase as Damon leapt to the other side.
He burst from the arena into the streets. Damon breathed in deeply and coughed out loudly as sulfur stung his nose. The streets roared with trade.
Yeah. He was back in the city.
His eyes caught Lady X's dark hair disappearing behind a street, and he gave chase.
She was fast. Too fast.
Her feet barely touched the ground at an unnatural speed. Her physical energy must be above 10 percent. Damon gritted his teeth as he pushed himself harder, lungs burning.
He watched her dart left, then right, slipping through alleys slick with grime.
Damon spotted a toppled cart ahead, its contents spilled, a heap of broken shields and spears. He veered, snatched a shield, and hurled it low. It clipped her ankle, sending her sprawling.
He was on her in a heartbeat, pinning her wrist. "You're not getting away that easily."
She twisted, almost feral, but he pressed his hand to her throat. "Give me one reason not to…"
The air around them suddenly grew hot, crackling with unnatural energy. Before Damon could react, a massive ball of flame from nowhere struck him full in the chest, sending him flying backward into a fruit stall.
The brittle wood splintered under his weight, and the rotten fruits cushioned his landing in a disgusting mess.
By the time he regained his senses, the woman had vanished. Standing where Damon had pinned her was a mountain of a man, shirtless despite the hot evening air.
Intricate tattoos crawled across his muscled torso, glowing faintly orange as if lit from within. His crimson eyes blinked from behind his glasses.
In his hand, a small flame danced between his fingers before he used it to light the cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Name's Viktor Grim," the man muttered slowly as he exhaled a plume of smoke.
"And where I'm from…men who hit ladies are nothing but scum."