I knelt before a small wooden statue of Demeter. She clutched her sheaves of wheat as if to keep them from me and mine. How the goddess of the harvest hated us. My wife had honored her with bowls of apricots and painted her in greens and blues in hope of rain, but she was dark in my shadow. It would have been easy to dwell on children and livestock starving, but I didn’t have the luxury. If I survived one more battle to please the gods, I’d look Demeter in the eye and ask her to lift her curse.

“Your Highness,” said the priest, “It is time.”

The evening sun broke through the opening in the canvas tent, making a halo of his grey hair and beard. His open robe exposed deep scars, but he had survived many trials. With luck, so would I. My armor and clothing rested in the dust, and my shield with them. I wore nothing and held only a sword. To please the gods, I’d fight as if I had no weakness. As if I were already one of them.

The priest led me across the stony field to the amphitheater where a throng watched from steps that rose to the cliffs. A hundred thousand men and women gathered from the countless worlds under Mighty Olympus to see who would become a god. I hungered for that honor, but that wasn’t why I fought. My people would sell themselves into slavery to feed their children if I failed. Our land would be lost forever.

Closer to the stage, the ground became wet with blood. The dry earth had closed its mouth and could drink no more. Of course, that was only right; it should wait for the gods to have their fill. We passed the pile of bodies waiting to be buried. Over three days, a thousand warriors had been slaughtered in this contest. One more would join them. I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, hoping the gods would be pleased to see me.

And they were.

Almighty Zeus with Hera at his side, Poseidon, Ares and Athena, Dionysus, Hephaestus, Eris, and Aphrodite—they stood as I crossed the threshold onto the theater’s stage. The crowd above held its breath. Only Demeter chose not to rise. Her stern face held no humor.

I met Zeus’ eyes and saw the lightning flicker inside. I’d killed two of his sons. He nodded to me in approval.

My heart drummed. Approval. That was my weakness: my desire for His approval. But it wasn’t just for me. One more fight and I would dine at His table. One more fight and I could restore the land. Without him, Demeter would never relent. Her black hair, tangled with vines and purple flowers, fell like shadows against the golden wheat of her skin. She turned from me. It mattered not. Hate me. For the blood I would spill, she would do as I asked.

I left the gods and knelt on the stage, waiting.

The priests led another unclothed man my way. He was more beautiful than any I had seen before, and I knew him at once—Philon, King of Iasus, son of the goddess Eris herself. His pale olive skin and light, curly hair weren’t so different from mighty Apollo’s. His whole body tapered like an arrowhead. Philon was too lovely to maim. Perhaps fate would allow me to slip my sword between his ribs and leave his body whole in the next world.

Philon greeted the gods, then knelt across the theater from me. Even Ares watched with rapt attention. Between us, we would know who was the greatest under Olympus. We stood, swords in hand, and he smiled a smile that could have meant anything.

A true son of Eris.

“I will see you honored and your family showered in treasure,” he said to me. “When you fall, I will make certain your lands flourish. Worry not. You fight only for yourself, for your people are already saved.” My shoulders trembled. I squeezed the grip of my sword. The coward sought to quench my fire and steal my place in His house. Philon wouldn’t take this from me.

“You are too kind.” I lifted my blade as I searched for a measured response. “We are brothers now.” And I charged him.

Our swords clashed without rhythm. There was no music in the way Philon fought, and so much the better. He feared nothing and saw everything, and I was the same. We kept at a distance, too far apart to risk anything but our hands.

Each clash of the bronze swords rang out in the silent theater. I probed his defenses with half-steps, threatening to close the gap and take a finger. Calmly, he circled and batted at my blade. He was good, and as fast as me, but my six previous battles had been much shorter than his—I expected him to tire. Our fight dragged on so long the shadows moved, but I didn’t let him rest. Each time his sword lowered, I moved in and forced him to raise his guard. While the godling showed no sign of fatigue, I knew he must feel it.

He gathered his waning strength, rushed, and drove me back to the edge of the stage with a flurry of slashes. His whole body moved in perfect arcs. The smooth turns of his blade could map the heavenly spheres above. With nowhere left to run, I leaned to make room and swung with both hands. His sword recoiled from the clash. Before I could congratulate myself, a sharp pain pierced my thigh. I looked down, expecting it gone, but Philon’s shin pressed against it. He smiled and threw his kick twice more—each time faster. The dull thump of the blows rattled me to the core. I had taken his bait and fixed my mind on his weapon, letting him land the kicks with ease. Something tore loose in my leg, and I hoped no one could see it spasm.

Despite the pain, I stayed light on my feet, sword moving, hoping to keep him at bay while I recovered. Blood trickled down my leg, underneath the skin. My foot became heavy, swollen, and dark. Already? Could I bleed to death from a kick?

Philon slapped at my sword with a huff, but I drew away and disengaged completely. The pain of his blows reminded me that I was alive. Tomorrow, if I lived, I’d let my injuries slow me down.

“Coward,” he muttered, and I knew I had him. His frustration at his fatigue was mounting, and he’d spent a lot of energy on that last flurry.

I let rage flash across my face. The truth was…I was angry—with him, with the gods, with Demeter’s petty hate. Until now, I had kept the anger inside. I pulled my sword hard across my body, and when I saw the recognition in Philon’s eyes, I leaned into him with a backhand slash. My heavy blow was easy to read, easy to counter, and Philon liked to kick. I knew what came next.

He ducked the blow and turned into another powerful kick. I took his blow willingly as I drove my fist deep into his chest.

His body curled around the hit. A knot welled up instantly where I had cracked his breastbone. My left leg could no longer bear my weight, but I stayed up on the other while he fell to his knees.

“Damn,” whispered Philon. “That was beautiful.”

I limped forward, closing the distance. Hard as he breathed, I could see the hollow beneath his lowest rib. It waited for my blade.

“Philon,” I said, “How should you be honored?”

He opened his mouth to show blood-soaked teeth. “On the flowering hill, beside my city. Let whatever grows there, grow.” Philon’s breathing slowed. Did the thought of home calm the pain in his broken chest? His fingers tightened around his blade as a look of serenity crossed his face. Flowers bloomed around him. Magic coursed through his body, healing him. My window to strike was closing.

I lunged, driving the point of my blade toward his heart.

The flowering hill. The promise he gave my people. I will make certain your lands flourish, he had said. Who was he to offer? And the flowers. I wasn’t familiar with this sort of healing magic. It didn’t belong to his mother, Eris.

I stole a glance at Demeter. Her falling tears turned to flowers at her feet. She cried for Philon. Why? If I killed him now, would her rage know any bounds? Would Zeus be able to sway her then? Had Philon kept this from me so that our fight would be fair? Had her foreknowledge of this battle influenced her hatred of my people? I couldn’t know. Couldn’t think of the answers. Damn the gods.

My arm betrayed me. It held back the killing blow. I knew it was right.

I dropped my blade and clutched Philon’s hands where they gripped his sword, now buried to the hilt beneath my ribs. It slipped into my lungs so smoothly, my breath caught before I noticed what had happened. His slick fingers pulled away, but his sword stayed with me. I slumped to the ground.

He took my hands again and held my gaze, and with my eyes I pleaded—keep your word.

Philon leaned in. His lips brushed my ears. “I will honor you.”

The world grew dark.

I stood in fields of wheat.