The gods promised immortality to anyone who could win their contests, and Stevie wanted it for her whole family. She stood in the town square and read the herald's posted rules. Each entrant needed a trained companion. Her companion was a baby phoenix, and it obeyed nothing. The little firebird sat on her shoulder and pecked at her hair. Stevie held out a strip of dried meat. "Down," she whispered. "Please. Just fly down." The phoenix chirped and flew the wrong way, straight into a fruit cart. Apples rolled everywhere. People stared. Stevie's face went hot, and she wanted to shrink into the ground. She chased the phoenix under a bench. Tears stung her eyes. Without a trained companion, she could not enter. Without entering, she could not win. Her family would grow old and die like everyone else. "That is a stubborn one." A woman crouched beside her. She wore a green tunic and carried a hunting bow. A silver moon hung at her collar. Stevie recognized her from the temple carvings. Artemis, goddess of the wild hunt. Stevie's throat closed. She could barely speak to shopkeepers, let alone a goddess. Behind Artemis came a satyr with curling horns and a flute at his belt. Flowers ringed his neck. He grinned wide. "A phoenix," he said. "Those don't take orders. They take invitations." This was Pan, god of wild things and music. "I can't make it listen," Stevie said. Her voice shook. "The contest needs a trained companion. I've tried everything." Artemis held out one steady hand. She made no command. She simply waited, calm as still water. The phoenix crept from under the bench. It hopped closer, watching her. "Wild creatures don't follow force," Artemis said. "They follow trust. Sit. Breathe. Let it come to you." Pan raised his flute and played three soft notes. The phoenix froze, then bobbed its head to the tune. "Music first," Pan said. "Then the bird thinks the lesson is a game." Stevie sat in the dirt and copied Artemis. She stopped grabbing. She stopped begging. She breathed. When Pan played, she held out the meat and stayed quiet. The phoenix studied her. Then it hopped onto her wrist and took the food gently. They worked until the sun sank low. Stevie learned to speak with stillness instead of orders. By dusk, the phoenix landed on her arm when she raised it. It flew back when she called. It stayed when she said stay. Stevie returned to the herald. She lifted her arm, and the phoenix settled on it, calm and obedient. The herald checked her name against the list. "Trained companion confirmed," he said. "You may compete." Stevie's chest swelled. She had a place in the games. But the herald leaned close and lowered his voice. "One warning. The first trial pits your companion against a beast three times its size. A single phoenix may not be enough."

The herald posted the trial date at dawn. Stevie read it twice and her stomach dropped. Three days. She had counted on three weeks. Her phoenix still flinched at loud sounds. It landed clean on her arm, but it had never faced a beast. Three days was not enough. She wanted to beg the herald for time, but her mouth went dry when she pictured the words. She took the phoenix to the field beyond the town to practice. She meant to teach it to dodge fast strikes. She raised her arm. The phoenix flew back and forth, chirping. It thought the drill was a game. Stevie's hands shook. If she rushed this, the little bird would get hurt. Then the grass shook. A roar rolled across the field. A lion the size of a cart broke from the brush. Its fur was white and grey, and its shoulders bunched like stone. It fixed pale eyes on Stevie and charged. Stevie froze. She could not make her legs move. The lion crossed the field in three bounds. She felt its breath. She threw herself sideways as the paw swept where she had stood. The phoenix did not wait for a command. It dove. The tiny bird streaked at the lion's face, wings flaring bright. It raked its claws across the great eyes. The lion screamed and shook its head, blind and thrashing. Stevie scrambled up and ran. "Move, girl!" A huge man crashed through the brush behind her. He was all muscle, a lion's pelt slung over one shoulder, a club in his fist. Hercules. She knew the temple carvings. He planted himself between her and the beast. "That one's mine. It slipped my hunt." The blind lion swung toward the noise. Hercules met it. He caught its paw and threw it back. He roared louder than the beast. The lion staggered, half its sight gone. It could not fight what it could not see. It turned and fled into the trees. Hercules watched it go, then looked down at Stevie. She was shaking. The phoenix landed on her arm, panting, one wing scorched at the tip. "Small thing saved you," he said. "Went for the eyes without being told. That is a fighter." Stevie held the bird close. It had defended her on its own. Not from a drill. From a real killer three times its size. Trust, Artemis had said. The bird trusted her enough to protect her. "Your trial is that same beast," Hercules said. "Grown, healed, and angry. Blind won't last." He turned to leave. "Get help, girl. One bird bought you today. It won't be enough tomorrow." Stevie stood in the empty field. The trial was still coming. But now she had seen her phoenix fight, and she had heard the truth plain. She needed a second companion. She had three days to find one.

Stevie spent the next morning walking the woods with her phoenix on her arm. She needed a second companion. Every creature she found ran before she could speak. A fox, a stag, a hare. Her voice caught in her throat each time. She could not even call out. By midday she had approached nothing. Two days left, and she was still alone. She stopped at the great tree. Its trunk was wide as a house, its face carved deep into the bark. The old god tree opened one green eye and looked down at her. "You bring grief with you, child," it said. Stevie shook her head. She had no words for it. Then she heard a low sound from the roots. A dragon lay in the dirt. It was young, larger than a horse, with gold and black scales gone dull. A long gash ran down its side. Its breath came slow and wet. Stevie knelt without thinking. Fear left her. The dragon watched her with one tired eye. "He fled another of his kind," the tree said. "It cost him everything. He will pass soon. I woke to comfort him." Stevie reached out. She laid her hand on the dragon's neck. His scales were cold. She did not speak. She only stayed, so he would not die alone. Her phoenix hopped down her arm. The little bird looked at the dying dragon, then at Stevie's wet face. It made a soft cry. Fat tears rolled from its dark eyes and fell onto the wound. Where each tear touched, the torn scales knit shut. The gash sealed. The dragon's breath grew strong. His dull scales brightened to gold. The dragon lifted his head. He looked at the phoenix, then at Stevie. He pressed his warm snout into her palm. Stevie laughed, shaking. She had not run from him. She had stayed, and he knew it. "Thank you," she whispered. It was the first thing she had said all day. "He owes you both his life," the tree said. "He will not forget." Stevie rested her forehead against the dragon's brow. A name came to her, bold and bright. "Andromeda," she said. The dragon rumbled low, pleased. He stood on strong legs and folded his wings behind her, as if to guard her. Stevie stood too. Her hands were steady now. She had found her second companion, and she had not needed to chase him. She had only shown mercy, and the phoenix had shown the rest. She looked toward the town where the herald waited. The trial was one day closer. But now a full-grown dragon stood at her side, and a lion no longer seemed too large.

The next morning Stevie brought both companions to the great tree. Her phoenix rode her shoulder. Andromeda walked behind, gold scales flashing. She had two beasts now, but she had never seen them fight together. The trial was one day off. If they clashed, the lion would tear them both apart. A huge man stood at the tree's roots, head bowed as if listening. Muscle stacked on muscle. A lion's pelt hung across one shoulder. Stevie's stomach dropped. She knew him. He was the one who had warned her that a single bird could never win. Hercules had sent her looking for a second companion. Now she had one, and no idea if it would help. He turned. His eyes moved from the phoenix to the dragon, then to her face. "You found your second," he said. "A dragon. The gods will not laugh at that." He grinned. "But two beasts are not one team. Have they fought at your side yet?" Stevie shook her head. Her throat locked. She managed one word. "No." "Then that is your danger," Hercules said. "Untried, they may turn on each other." He rolled his shoulders. "I need to sweat before my own trials. Sparring a dragon suits me well. Let me play the lion." He stepped into the open ground and dropped low. Then he charged. Andromeda roared and lunged to meet him. The phoenix shrieked and dove for his eyes at the same moment. The two nearly collided. Andromeda's wing knocked the small bird sideways. The phoenix tumbled, righted itself, and screeched at the dragon. Hercules laughed and pushed the dragon back with both hands. "See it?" he called. "They both want the throat. They crowd each other. You must give each a task." Stevie's mind raced. The phoenix went for the eyes. The dragon had weight and claws. She had to split them. She stepped forward and forced her voice out. "Andromeda, low! Take his legs!" The dragon dropped and swept at Hercules's ankles. "Up!" she cried, and the phoenix shot high, then dove at his face from above. Hercules blocked the dragon's claws and threw an arm across his eyes. He staggered. "Yes," he shouted. "That is it. One high, one low. He cannot guard both." They ran it again. And again. The phoenix learned to wait for Stevie's call before diving. Andromeda learned to hold low and let the bird strike the eyes. By dusk the two moved as a pair. Hercules dropped to one knee, sweat pouring, and raised a hand in surrender. "They fight as one now," he said. "You are ready for the lion." Stevie stood between her companions, breathing hard. Her hands did not shake. She had spoken commands aloud, and both beasts had obeyed together. The clash she feared was gone. Tomorrow the lion waited. For the first time, she believed she could win.

The morning after the sparring, Stevie returned to the great tree to drill her commands alone. The trial waited at dusk. She wanted her voice steady before the gods and the crowd. Her phoenix perched on a low branch. Andromeda crouched in the grass, gold scales bright in the light. "Andromeda, low," Stevie said. The word came out thin. She tried again. "Up." Her voice cracked. The phoenix hesitated, then rose. She pictured the arena. Hundreds of faces. Gods watching from high seats. Her chest tightened. She opened her mouth and nothing came. Andromeda tilted her head, waiting. The phoenix chirped, confused. Stevie's hands shook. If she froze like this at dusk, her companions would fight blind. The lion would tear them apart while she stood mute. "Speak, child." The voice rolled from the roots. Stevie looked up. The huge trunk had a face carved in bark, with eyes like green pools. The tree gazed down at her. "Your fear is loud. Louder than your orders." Stevie swallowed. "I can't stop it. In front of everyone, I'll lock up." "Then think past yourself," the tree said. Its branches shifted, though no wind moved. "You fear the crowd. But the crowd will not bleed for your silence. Your dragon will. Your bird will. They cannot see the lion the way you can. They wait for your voice to guide them." Stevie looked at Andromeda. The dragon's red eyes held hers, steady and trusting. The phoenix had once dove at a lion's eyes to save her. They had given her everything. "If you freeze," the tree went on, "the lion finds the throat. Your fear becomes their wound. Speak for them, not for the crowd. The crowd does not matter. They do." Something shifted in Stevie's chest. The faces in her mind blurred and went quiet. She saw only her two companions, depending on her. Fear for herself was small. Fear for them was fuel. She planted her feet. She thought of Andromeda torn open because her voice failed. The picture made her sick, and it made her strong. "Andromeda, low!" The command rang out, hard and clear. The dragon dropped and swept the grass. "Up!" The phoenix shot high and dove. "Low! Hold! Now up!" Stevie called the pattern again and again. Her voice did not shake. It filled the clearing. Both beasts moved as one, matching every word. She ran the drill until her throat went dry. Not once did she freeze. The trembling was gone, buried under something stronger than her own fear. Stevie lowered her hands and breathed. The tree's green eyes watched her, quiet now. "You have found your voice," it said. She had. But finding it in an empty clearing was one thing. At dusk, the lion would be real, the crowd would be real, and the gods would be watching. Tonight she would learn if the strength held when the teeth were true.

At dusk the arena filled. Stevie stood on the sand with her small phoenix on her shoulder and Andromeda beside her. The crowd roared. Gods watched from high seats. She thought of the tree's words and looked only at her two companions. Fear for herself was small. Fear for them was fuel. The far gate lifted. The lion walked out. White and grey fur, twice the size of Andromeda, all muscle. The same beast her phoenix had once blinded to save her. Its blue eyes found the phoenix on her shoulder. Its lip pulled back. It remembered. The crowd went quiet. The lion did not circle or crouch. It charged straight at the phoenix, faster than any drill had shown, driven by hate. "Up!" Stevie shouted. The phoenix shot into the air. The lion twisted and leaped after it, ignoring the ground, ignoring the dragon. Her plan cracked. The beasts were supposed to trade high and low. But the lion wanted only the bird that had hurt it. The phoenix darted. The lion's jaws snapped shut on empty air, close enough to singe. Stevie's chest seized. Her tiny bird could not outfly that rage forever. The old pattern would not work. She had to break it. "Andromeda, up!" she called. The dragon spread her wings and rose, wrong role, wrong command. But it put the golden dragon between the lion and the phoenix. The lion landed, confused for one breath by the larger target. One breath was enough. "Low, now!" Stevie yelled. Andromeda dropped like a stone and swept the lion's front legs. The lion stumbled. "Phoenix, high!" The phoenix climbed, and the lion's eyes snapped up to follow, torn between the two. Stevie saw it then. The lion's rage was a leash. Wherever the phoenix went, the lion looked. She could pull it. "High! Hold!" The phoenix hovered out of reach. The lion crouched to spring at it, tail lashing, blind to the ground. "Andromeda, low!" The dragon came from the side and slammed the lion's flank. The huge beast rolled onto the sand. Andromeda pinned its shoulders with both forelegs. The lion thrashed, still snarling up at the phoenix it hated. "Hold him," Stevie said, quiet now. Andromeda held. The lion's chest heaved. Its blue eyes swung from the bird to Stevie. The snarl faded. The rage had nowhere left to go. It stopped fighting. The herald's staff struck the ground three times. The crowd erupted. Stevie's legs shook, but her voice had not failed. Not once. Andromeda backed off the lion and returned to her side. The phoenix landed on her shoulder, feathers warm against her neck. She had won the trial. Then the herald raised his hand for silence. "The beast is bested," he called, "but it is not slain. By the old law, a bested Nemean beast belongs to its victor." He looked at Stevie. "The lion is yours now. Tame it, or forfeit all you have won."

The crowd waited. Andromeda still held the lion pinned in the sand. Its huge legs pushed and slid, fighting the dragon's weight. Stevie's fear turned inward now. The trial was won, but the herald's words rang in her ears. Tame it, or lose everything. No one could do this for her. She had to walk to the beast herself. Her legs shook. She drew her sword. The bare metal caught the last light. Step by step she crossed the sand toward the trapped lion. Its blue eyes swung to her. She knelt beside its throat and laid the blade against the fur. She pressed until the tip just broke the skin. A thin line of blood beaded there. The lion went still. "Bend thy will to me," Stevie said, "or face death by my hand." Her voice did not break. She waited. The lion did not yield. It was proud. It twisted its neck and snapped at her, jaws wide. The teeth stopped short. Andromeda's grip held its shoulders down, and it could not reach her hand. It snarled and tried again. Stevie kept the sword steady against its throat and did not pull back. Then a small weight dropped onto the lion's nose. The baby phoenix. Its downy feathers glowed warm in the dusk. It stood right between the lion's eyes and looked straight at the beast that had once tried to kill it, the beast it had blinded to save Stevie. Neither moved. The lion stared up at the small bird. The phoenix stared down. Stevie did not understand what passed between them, but something did. The lion's breath slowed. Its ears turned. The two creatures held each other's gaze in silence, as if trading some private word she could not hear. The crowd had gone quiet again. Stevie held her breath and kept the blade where it was. The phoenix finished. It hopped off the lion's nose and crossed the sand to Stevie. It settled by her foot and looked up at her, calm. The lion let out a long breath. The fight went out of its body. Its legs stopped pushing. Its head sank against the sand. When Stevie lifted the sword away, the lion did not lunge. It lay still and watched her. "Andromeda," Stevie said softly. "Let him up." The dragon stepped back. The lion rose. It shook the sand from its white fur. Then it lowered its great head toward Stevie, close enough that she could touch it. She reached out. Her hand rested on its mane. It did not pull away. The herald's staff struck the ground three times. "Tamed," he called. "The beast is bound to her." The crowd roared. Stevie stood with three companions now. Phoenix, dragon, and lion. She had kept everything she won. But her hand trembled on the lion's mane. It obeyed her. It did not yet trust her.