Sons of Zeus (The Warrior Trilogy #1)

The soldier shrugged. “People have survived the front line before. Others . . . have not. The choice is yours. Certain death, or death uncertain. Choose.”


Dak had his decision before the words even finished coming out of the guy’s mouth. His parents. If the magistrate report Aristotle had read to them was true, Dak’s parents were on the front line! This was his easiest and best route at reuniting with them. As for how they’d survive the ordeal . . . well, they’d think of something.

“You,” the soldier said, pointing at Riq. “Speak. What’s your choice?”

“The front line.” He answered so quickly that Dak didn’t know what to think of it. Riq had been brooding and distant — but Dak had figured you got that way when captured and thrown into a pit. He wished so badly they could just have a few minutes to talk.

“A wise choice,” the soldier responded, motioning for someone to come and take Riq away. A guard walked over and cut the ropes binding his wrists, then helped him to his feet. “You may take the spear or sword wound that was meant for our real soldiers, or for the hegemon himself. The gods will never forget. Go. Arm him and send him to the front.”

“Wait!” Dak yelled. “I’m going with him! That’s my choice.”

The soldier grunted. “You’re barely the size of a rat. But your flesh can capture a spear as well as any other. Fine, take him as well.” As the subordinate moved to obey, slashing at the ropes around Dak’s wrists, the soldier in charge stepped in front of Aristotle and looked down at him.

“And you, old man? The glorious philosopher who can fly? What say you?”

Aristotle glanced over at Dak with sad, haunted eyes, then at Riq. He answered in a grave, resigned voice.

“I choose death.”





SERA HAD waited a solid hour, hiding in the darkness under a canvas sheet with a bunch of crates and vegetables. It smelled of olives and mildew, and she could barely breathe, but at least it had been a while since she’d heard any sign of pursuit. Maybe she’d done it after all. Escaped the pit and its soldiers. But the hardest part still lay ahead.

Somehow, she had to find the tent of King Philip. She just hoped the man didn’t order her killed on the spot once she got there.

Sera poked her head out of the hiding spot and looked around. People walked about everywhere — soldiers, servants, even a few children, doubtless tagging along with parents working on behalf of the army. If she could find some new clothes maybe she could search for the king without drawing too much attention.

Scampering from one hiding place to another, shadow to shadow, she spent the next half an hour or so trying to do just that. She finally hit the jackpot behind a grimy old tent, where a pile of clothing and rags had been thrown out the back, perhaps for washing later. Sera quickly rummaged through it until she found a shirt and pants — ratty, torn, filthy. Luckily, the satchel containing the Infinity Ring was brown and rustic and didn’t seem out of place.

And so, the search began.

From tent to tent she went, acting as casual as possible, carrying a box she’d found with a bunch of bandages and ointments — somewhere a medic was wondering where in the world he’d misplaced it. Guards and soldiers were everywhere, but, after all, this was an army camp, so she stopped being alarmed at the sight. The entire camp was a busy beehive — supplies being packed, food being prepared, smiths working on weapons, soldiers practicing with swords and spears, servants hustling about so as not to get trampled.

On Sera went, scouring the place with her eyes to find anything that looked like —

And then she spotted it.

One tent towered over the others around it, but she hadn’t been able to see it before because of so many smaller tents obscuring her view. The one she saw now was grand and painted in many colors and had a row of soldiers guarding all four sides of it. If there’d ever been a tent fit for a king, that was it.

She made her way toward it, racking her brain for an idea of how to actually get inside. All she needed was five minutes — no, maybe even one minute — with King Philip before she could convince him. She knew it. Especially if Alexander had already arrived — he’d remember her for sure. And know that she was a friend to his mentor.

Getting more scared with each and every step she took toward the front flaps of the huge tent, she didn’t allow herself to slow. Somehow, someway, she would get inside. Sometimes, being a young person had its advantages — no one would take her as a real threat.