Okay?
Okay?!
“Do you have any family?” I ask, quickening my pace to match his long strides.
“No.”
“No?”
“We’re, technically, over four hundred years old, love,” Krystian interjects from the front of the group. “Yes, some of our family members are still alive, but a lot aren’t.”
Every supernatural has a different aging process. Some—like elves—are immortal. Others age slowly, while certain types live and die like humans.
I squint at Everett, the only shifter I personally know.
“How are you still alive?” I blurt.
I know shifters can live long lives, but they’re not immortal. At least, I don’t think they are.
“Real tactful,” Krystian says with a snort of amusement.
I shrug, unrepentant.
“Because I’m a member of Ares’s team,” Everett answers, his head on a constant swivel as he searches for threats.
“So being on his team makes you immortal?” I ask.
“We won’t die of natural causes or old age, but a bullet to the heart or a fatal stab wound? Yeah, that’ll do the trick,” Krystian says.
Huh.
“I wonder if I’ll die from a stab wound,” I muse, contemplative.
I honestly have no idea what can and can’t kill me the way I am now. For all I know, I’m immortal like the rest of them. Maybe a fatal wound will send me back to where I started, trapped in a room with only a cactus to talk to.
“Hopefully we’ll never have to find out,” Zaid replies gravely, and murmurs of affirmation ripple through the guys.
I’m saved from responding by the tunnel opening up, leading to a barren, circular room. Two statues stand in the center of the room, each guarding a separate path. One is a figure of bronze—a cloaked man with a bowed head, tarnished green by time. The other is marble—a veiled woman standing gracefully, her fingers resting on the frill of her skirt, her white surface cracked.
“What the…?” Krystian’s bow appears in his hands, and he notches back an arrow, aiming it at the statue’s chest.
“Hold on.” Zaid holds up a hand and moves forward until he’s able to read an inscription carved into the wall. “One speaks the truth. One speaks lies. But wisdom is not in asking, but in knowing how to ask.”
A soft groan echoes from within the metal of the bronze statue. A slow, deliberate shift begins—his fingers twitching, joints creaking with the sound of rust grinding against time, his bowed head lifting slightly. The patina on his cloak cracks like old bark, revealing glints of burnished copper beneath.
Next to him, the marble woman stirs. Her chest rises imperceptibly, as if drawing her first breath in ages. The delicate folds of her dress, once immobile, begin to ripple as though stirred by wind. Her hand, pale and smooth, lifts inch by inch, a faint trail of dust falling from her fingers. The veil over her face flutters, and from beneath it, faint light glimmers where her eyes should be.
“This ain’t good,” I say, pointing out the obvious.
The statues are silent, though I can feel their gazes on us. A shiver ripples down my spine.
“We need to ask them questions,” Zaid explains, a frown tugging at his lips. “It’s the only way to figure out which path to take.”
“What did the inscription mean?” Krystian waves his hand vaguely towards the words on the wall.
“Exactly what it says. One statue will tell nothing but lies; the other will only tell the truth.” Zaid scratches absently at his chin. “But usually there’s a limit to how many questions we can ask.”
“You’ve seen this before?” I stare at him in disbelief.
