The Tyrant's Tomb

O book, what’s my fate?
What is the secret of life?
See appendix F
WHY WAS EVERYBODY LOOKING at me?
I couldn’t help it if I was the only (ex-)god in the room.
Reyna leaned over the scroll, tracing her finger across the parchment.
“Frank copied these lines from Tyson’s back. As you can probably guess,
they read more like an instruction manual than a prophecy….”
I was about to crawl out of my skin. I wanted to rip the scroll away from
Reyna and read the bad news myself. Was my name mentioned? Sacrificing
me couldn’t possibly please the gods, could it? If we Olympians started
sacrificing one another, that would set a terrible precedent.
Meg eyed the jar of jelly beans, while the greyhounds eyed her. “Which
god dies?”
“Well, that particular line…” Reyna squinted, then pushed the parchment
over to Frank. “What is that word?”
Frank looked sheepish. “Shattered. Sorry, I was writing fast.”
“No, no. It’s fine. Your handwriting is better than mine.”
“Can you please just tell me what it says?” I begged.
“Right, sorry,” Reyna said. “Well, it’s not exactly poetry, like the sonnet
you got in Indianapolis—”
“Reyna!”
“Okay, okay. It says: All to be done on the day of greatest need: gather
the ingredients for a type-six burnt offering (see appendix B)—”