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The Tyrant's Tomb

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“Gotta think in new ways if you want to beat the emperors,” Meg said.

“Like me. I’m weaponizing the unicorns.”

“You’re—Wait, what?”

“Later.” Meg skipped across the field toward a large riding ring, where

the First Cohort and a herd of unicorns were staring suspiciously at one

another. I couldn’t imagine how Meg planned to weaponize the nonviolent

creatures, or who had given her permission to try, but I had a sudden horrible

image of Romans and unicorns assaulting one another with large cheese

graters. I decided to mind my own business.

With a sigh, I turned toward the firing range and went to meet my new

pupils.

The only thing scarier than being bad at archery was discovering that I was

suddenly good at it again. That may not sound like a problem, but since

becoming mortal, I’d experienced a few random bursts of godly skill. Each

time, my powers had quickly evaporated again, leaving me more bitter and

disillusioned than ever.

Sure, I may have fired a quiverful of amazing shots in Tarquin’s tomb.

That didn’t mean I could do it again. If I tried to demonstrate proper

shooting techniques in front of a whole cohort and ended up hitting one of

Meg’s unicorns in the butt, I would die of embarrassment long before the

zombie poison got me.

“Okay, everyone,” I said. “I suppose we can start.”

Dakota was rummaging through his water-stained quiver, trying to find

an arrow that wasn’t warped. Apparently, he thought it was a great idea to

store his archery supplies in the sauna. Thomas and another legionnaire

(Marcus?) were sword-fighting with their bows. The legion’s standardbearer,

Jacob, was drawing his bow with the butt of the arrow directly at eye

level, which explained why his left eye was covered in a patch from the

morning’s lessons. He now seemed eager to blind himself completely.

“C’mon, guys!” said Lavinia. She had sneaked in late without being

noticed (one of her superpowers) and took it upon herself to help me call the

troops to order. “Apollo might know stuff!”

This was how I knew I had hit rock bottom: the highest praise I could

receive from a mortal was that I “might know stuff.”

I cleared my throat. I’d faced much bigger audiences. Why was I so

nervous? Oh, right. Because I was a horribly incompetent sixteen-year-old.

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