Zeus was still leaning back in his throne when I gave a polite cough into my fist. It wasn't that loud—just enough to break the silence.
All eyes turned to me.
I suddenly understood what a mouse feels like when the hawks stop circling and start staring.
Hestia pinched the bridge of her nose beside me like she was contemplating spontaneous combustion.
"Lucas," she muttered under her breath. "Please behave."
"If I may," I said, holding up both hands. "Your… divinities?"
A ripple of amused chuckles moved through the gods like wind over tall grass. Ares snorted. Aphrodite smirked. Hermes outright grinned.
Zeus raised a brow. "You may be bold, demigod. Speak."
I nodded, clearing my throat, feeling very small and very mortal under the weight of twelve divine gazes.
"Well. Uh. I was thinking… what if we don't wait for the cult to start summoning Mister Cosmic Horror Puppetmaster?"
A few of the gods blinked.
"Go on," Athena said, eyes narrowing slightly.
"We have three years. That's time. If we know what they need to pull this ritual off—like, say, the Necronomicon or similar cursed nonsense—why not just… beat them to it? Grab the pieces first. Burn what can be burned. Lock up the rest."
A low hum of consideration passed through the room. Zeus steepled his fingers, thoughtful.
Athena nodded. "A sound proposal. However, the Necronomicon is not singular. Copies—fragments, reconstructions, translations—exist in multiple locations. Some are more complete than others."
She began to tick them off like they were items on a grocery list.
"Miskatonic University. The British Museum. The Bibliothèque nationale of France. Harvard's Restricted Collection. And, surprisingly, the National University of Buenos Aires. At least five public—or semi-public—known repositories."
There was a pause.
"...There are more, aren't there?" I asked.
Athena's smile was thin. "Always."
Hades grunted. "The French one and the Argentinian archive… I suppose we could contact the Shepherd. He owes us a favor or two, and he doesn't frighten easily."
Zeus nodded, then looked at me again. "That would leave the remaining three under our watch."
"Miskatonic," Athena murmured, her eyes darkening. "That one worries me most. Their library has a… tenure problem."
"And Harvard?" Hermes said. "Ugh. Bureaucrats."
I cleared my throat again—this time louder, and with a little theatrical flair.
"So, in the interest of saving the world again… I would like to formally volunteer myself to go on such a quest. Y'know, to bring the wrath of Olympus down on those who dare tread Greek ground and wake up something that should very much stay asleep."
Ares let out a laugh like a gunshot, clapping once with a sound that shook the columns.
"That's what I'm talking about!"
His grin could've split a battlefield in two.
"Kid's got guts," he added, thumbing toward me. "Let him off the leash."
Hermes frowned, lounging sideways in his throne. "You just want to see what kind of mess he makes."
"That's half the fun," Ares said.
Athena didn't look amused—but she wasn't disagreeing either. Just thoughtful.
Zeus leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin, beard lit faintly by divine lightning in his eyes.
"You would take this burden willingly?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm.
I nodded. "I've already met the end of the world once. Might as well stop it before it RSVP's again."
Ares gave an approving grunt. Aphrodite rolled her eyes.
And somewhere behind me, Hestia just sighed.
Hades fixed me with a look like an oncoming funeral procession—slow, inevitable, and very final.
"That's very brave of you, half-blood," he said, his tone the kind that didn't leave room for applause. "But I have a quick quest for you to complete first."
A quick quest.
Sure.
Like there's ever been a quick anything with gods involved.
The other Olympians leaned in slightly.
"A conquering hero such as yourself," Hades continued, with a flicker of what might have been sarcasm, "should have no trouble at all."
I didn't say anything. Just waited for the hammer to fall.
"Before we swore the Oath," he said, "I fathered a pair of twins. To preserve them from the dangers of prophecy, they were left in the Lotus Hotel, in Las Vegas."
I blinked.
"An… hotel?"
Hades gave a tight nod. "They've remained there, protected, unnoticed… until now."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. I mean—Vegas? Who hides kids in a hotel? Were they on the concierge registry?
Zeus chuckled lightly under his breath. Everyone turned toward him.
"What?" he said, palms up, pretending innocence. "With him alive—" he jerked his chin toward me "—the prophecy is off. What's the harm?"
Hera, without even breaking her perfectly poised expression, extended one foot and kicked him.
The thunk echoed across the throne room like a gong.
Zeus winced.
Hera didn't.
"Anyway," Hades continued smoothly, as if none of that had happened, "they are no longer safe. Not if this cult reaches them first. Their bloodline… it's potent. If they were used in a summoning, the consequences could be catastrophic."
He met my eyes, unblinking.
"I want them brought to Camp Half-Blood. Alive. Intact."
I swallowed. "Yeah. Got it."
"If you do this," Hades said, "you'll have my thanks."
Zeus leaned forward then, voice solemn. "I'll allow it."
I stood there in the silence that followed, trying not to show the hundred questions now spinning in my head. Why a hotel? Why twins? What exactly was the danger? And what the hell was so special about a place called the Lotus Hotel, are they a bunch of vegetarians or maybe Demeter kids got in with organized crime?
But I nodded anyway. Because when Hades hands you a mission… you don't argue.
Somewhere off to the side, Dionysus was hunched in his throne, sniffling into a goblet of wine that fizzed a little too much. It didn't smell like wine—at least not any wine I'd ever sniffed. More like soda? Sparkling grape something? The guy looked downright miserable sipping it, though no one seemed to notice.
I was trying to figure out whether he always looked that sad when Zeus raised one hand.
"I would like a word with the demigod."
He let the words hang for a second, then corrected himself, each syllable sharpened just enough to remind everyone who was speaking:
"With young Lucas. In private."
No one objected. No one dared. Gods shifted in their seats or simply vanished. Athena rose with a sigh like she was used to this sort of formality and gathered the others, herding them back through glowing archways and halls that shimmered like starlight.
Even Hestia gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before she stepped aside.
And then it was just me.
Standing before the King of Olympus.
Zeus cracked his back with a satisfied grunt, muttering something about "being on that throne too long" as he rolled his shoulders. Then he looked down at me, eyes bright with lightning and something else—something almost amused.
"There's a better place for this," he said casually, then added with a smirk,
Before I could ask what that meant, the world snapped sideways with a crack of static and blinding light.
When it cleared, I was standing in what could only be described as a god's man cave.
"This is my private room," Zeus said, stepping in beside me like it was the most normal thing in the world.
It wasn't what I expected. Not a grand marble chamber or a room wreathed in constant stormclouds. No, this place was weirdly… cozy. A plush, overused sofa dominated the middle of the space, cushions clearly molded to the king's favored lounging position. A matching chair sat across from it with a small table between them—just big enough for a drink or two and a pile of lightning bolt-blue poker chips. The walls were decorated with storm-themed art: Renaissance paintings of tempests, abstract modern flashes of silver on black canvas, even a framed photo of what looked like Zeus himself posing beside a thundercloud that was flipping off the camera.
A fridge in the corner glowed faintly, humming like it ran on static electricity, and the scent in the air was a mix of ozone, old leather, and just a hint of cedarwood.
Zeus leaned back in his chair, lightning still faintly crackling in his beard like it hadn't quite settled down. His eyes were calm, but sharp.
"There's something wrong with you, kid," he said casually. "But for now? It's working."
I didn't say anything., there's a lot wrong with me, I was the first to admit it.
With a flick of his fingers, a bolt of crackling light snapped down from nowhere and suddenly a heavy bottle of something full of dust and amber appeared on the table in front of him. He poured himself a drink that smelled like turpentine and ethanol, then gave me a sidelong glance.
"You want something?"
I blinked. "Dealer's choice."
He smirked.
Another snap. Another flash. And in front of me, hovering just slightly above the table, a flute of champagne appeared—bubbling softly, glowing faintly gold at the rim.
I took a sip.
Smooth. Like drinking velvet. I didn't even like champagne, and I had to admit—it was stupid good.
Zeus leaned back again, swirling his drink. "Tell me, kid. You know your mythology?"
I gave a hesitant shrug. "Ehhh," then shook my head. "More of a… learn-on-the-job kind of guy."
He chuckled. "Figures."
He took a sip, then tapped his temple. "Do you know how I became King of the Gods?"
"Uh… Kronos ate your siblings? Tried to eat you?"
"Yes," he nodded, raising his glass like I'd passed the first pop quiz. "But do you know why he did it?"
I frowned. "Because… he was a psycho?"
"Prophecy," Zeus said. "He was told one of his children would overthrow him. So he tried to stop fate before it caught up."
He let that settle.
"Didn't work."
A silence passed between us, filled with the gentle fizz of god-champagne and the static hum of lightning that never quite went away.
"I've seen more injustices than I care to count. Even caused some. I'm not proud of all my choices—but I made them. And I waited. Waited for that next prophecy to come around. The one that would mean my end."
He met my gaze, the weight behind his eyes suddenly immense.
"But now?"
He smiled.
"Now they're not prophecies anymore."
I tilted my head.
He raised his glass slightly.
"Now they're just suggestions."
I clinked mine against his, the sound sharp and ringing in the still air. Then we both drank.
He let out a satisfied sigh, eyes scanning me with something just shy of fondness. "But tell me, kid," he said, his smirk curling at the edge like thunder on the horizon, "that crown you're wearing like an armband… you're not planning to just mount it on a wall, are you?"
I scratched the back of my neck. "Well…"
His booming laugh cut me off—deep, proud, echoing off the walls like it belonged in a canyon, not a lounge. "Ha! That's my grandson. This old hand in love thinks you've got a better plan for it. Smart too. She's trouble, but the good kind."
I felt myself flush just slightly, the weight of the crown suddenly a little heavier on my arm.
Zeus leaned back, swirling his drink with a small bolt of static snapping off his fingertip. "Thanks to you, I think I got my groove back. Felt like a real king again for the first time in… hell, a while. Might need to get back in the game before my brothers fill the camp with kids again. Hades is winning that particular race, it seems."
He grunted, half-annoyed, half-amused, then turned his sharp blue gaze on me again.
"You need help finding your way back to your lady?"
I hesitated. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, my lord."
His smile widened—mischievous, like a storm plotting something. "Who am I to stand in the way of young love?"
Then he turned his head and shouted.
"HEBE!"
A soft chime echoed through the air, like a hotel bell—gentle but unmistakable. In a shimmer of golden light, Hebe appeared.
She looked no older than twenty, glowing with youthful grace, her hair tied in a loose braid and a pitcher of ambrosia tucked under one arm. Her toga was short and practical, like she'd just stepped out from tending a garden—or winning a sprint. She gave a playful bow to Zeus, then glanced at me with curious eyes.
"You called, Father?"
Zeus nodded toward me with a grin. "Take our guest here where he needs to go."
She tilted her head, smiling politely. "And where might that be?"
I cleared my throat, then adjusted the crown of autumn still wrapped around my bicep. "Despoina."
Hebe blinked. "Who?"
Zeus chuckled, sipping his lightning-aged drink. "Demeter's daughter. The quiet one. Lives somewhere on the fringes of her mother's temple, if I recall."
"Ohhh." Hebe's eyes lit with faint recognition. "The weird cottage near the orchard? She's still around?"
"Apparently," Zeus said, smirking at me. "And my friend here has business."
Hebe gave me another once-over, more curious now than confused. "Alright, mystery boy. You ready?"
I nodded, feeling the weight of the crown and the anticipation in my chest. "As I'll ever be."
The polished stones of Olympus faded beneath our feet, the gold-veined marble giving way to something older, rougher. Every vine curled like it had been hand-painted, every shaft of light warm and deliberate—but the farther we got from the grand boulevard of thrones, the more everything felt... forgotten.
We passed through a narrow archway, and suddenly the towering temples of Hera and Poseidon loomed behind us like ghosts. Ahead, the path was choked with ivy and dust. Shrines instead of sanctuaries. Statues that hadn't seen polish in centuries. Even the nameplates were cracked or scraped half-off, like Olympus itself was trying to forget them.
The greenery thickened. Moss clung to stone. Roots pushed through the marble, curling like veins under skin. The air smelled of rain-soaked earth, and something about it settled deep in my chest—green, old, alive. If I had to guess, we were in Demeter's territory now.
Hebe walked faster, sandals whispering over stone like she didn't want to touch it for too long. Her grip on the ambrosia pitcher tightened. Her jaw did, too.
"Come on," she muttered. "I already catch flak for the arcade. Don't need to be seen slumming it back here with the lesser."
I raised a brow. "The lesser? You mean minor gods?"
"Don't say it like that," she shot back, shooting me a glare. "You think Olympus is bad up front? Back here it's all passive-aggression, favor-trading, and backroom scheming. One nod to a forgotten hearth spirit and suddenly you're ghosted by the Muses. Again."
She adjusted her pitcher with a theatrical sigh. "The dryads already treat me like I've dropped off the divine food chain. One more slip-up and I'm officiating satyr weddings in swamp glades for the next millennium."
I snorted. "That happen before?"
"Cousin of mine," she said flatly. "Got caught dining with a almost faded naiad. They made her bless every river marriage for fifty years. Some of them involved eels."
We ducked beneath a curtain of vines. The path narrowed, the stone beneath our feet more root than marble now. Somewhere ahead, I caught a glimpse of something small and crooked, half-swallowed by nature—walls buried in flowers, roof sagging under a quilt of moss and leaves.
"Also," Hebe added with a sneer, "everyone keeps pretending my arcade in Times Square doesn't exist. Like I didn't bless every claw machine personally."
I blinked. "...Arcade?"
She rolled her eyes like I'd just asked if water was wet. "Yes. An arcade. Retro is in."
Arcade. In 2009. Right. I bit my tongue before the words "what are you, stuck in the '90s?" could escape.
She sniffed, clearly reading my mind anyway. "Excuse me for having taste."
I held up my hands in mock surrender, but she was already storming ahead like I'd insulted her Pinterest board.
The path curved around one last gnarled olive tree, and there it was. The cottage.
It didn't look like it had been built so much as grown. Thick roots laced through the foundation. Wildflowers spilled from the eaves. The roof sagged in a way that felt deliberate—inviting, even—draped in ivy that pulsed faintly with the sound of magic magic.
"Damn," I muttered. "She really lives like this?"
Hebe stopped short of the clearing.
"This is where I leave you," she said, adjusting the pitcher like it was her shield. "Last time I stayed too long, she called me 'sparkles.'"
I arched an eyebrow.
"She said I had preppy girl energy," Hebe hissed. "I had to do a salt cleanse for weeks."
I held back a grin. "And here I thought you were the goddess of eternal youth, not eternal drama."
"Don't push it, music boy," she muttered. "I already get enough gossip from the arcade. I'm not adding 'frolicking with the barefoot leaf witch' to the list."
She gave the clearing one last glance, then turned on her heel.
"Good luck," she called. "Try not to get rooted."
And just like that, I was alone in front of Despoina's door.
I stepped up to the door and knocked once.
The sound wasn't right. Not the dull thump of wood, or the squeak of old hinges. It groaned—deep and dry—like a dying tree splitting under frost. Reluctant. But it opened anyway, drifting inward with a creak that felt more like warning than welcome.
I stared at the gap for a second, then stepped over the threshold.
"I'll take that as an invite," I muttered.
It smelled like herbs and smoke and wet leaves—like a forest in late autumn. The light was dim but warm, filtered through stained-glass panels and thick vines clinging to the windows from the outside. The atmosphere settled on my shoulders like a blanket.
The decor didn't help. It was like a witch-themed thrift shop had crashed into a druid's dorm room and decided to share custody. Crooked tapestries hung from the rafters, dyed in oranges and purples and patterns that looked hand-spun. Bundles of lavender, sage, and something that definitely wasn't legal in New York dangled from the beams. A salt lamp pulsed on the windowsill, half-buried behind a jungle of potted succulents and tea cups with questionable stains.
A massive corduroy beanbag sat in the middle of the room like a throne made of sloth. A hammock hung near the fireplace, still swaying slightly, and a moon-shaped bookshelf leaned against the far wall under a poster of The Cure. Tarot cards were scattered on a petrified stump pretending was a table. Every surface was covered in either books, wax drips, or glittering rocks that probably had names like "moon soul" and "blessed quartz."
"She really lives like this," I murmured. "Huh."
A floorboard creaked deeper in the house.
"I brought you something," I called. Tried to keep my voice light. "A crown. Little thorny. Formerly worn by a megalomaniac autumn queen. Thought it might match the decor."
I was about to tack on a joke about cursed furniture when I heard it—soft footsteps, measured and slow, padding across the wooden floor.
Despoina pushed through a beaded curtain. She wore an oversized wool sweater that hung off one shoulder, sleeves too long, neck stretched from overuse and clearly a sundress under that. Her hair was a riot of red and brown tangles, pulled back with a tie that had clearly surrendered hours ago. She was barefoot, clutching a large ceramic mug like it was a lifeline.
Steam rose from it—sharp and herbal, something like crushed mint and pine needles left out in the rain.
She stared at me. Through me.
"Lucas," she said, voice rough and eye's red. "You brought noise."
I blinked. "Noise?"
She gestured with the mug, vaguely. "Your aura. It's buzzing. Thunder under your skin. Like a radio stuck between stations."
I shrugged. "Mercury's in retrograde."
She didn't smile, but her mouth twitched—barely. Maybe acknowledgment. Maybe fatigue. She walked past me without another word and flopped into the massive beanbag like it had claimed her soul. Somewhere above, a crow gave a lazy caw and flapped off into the rafters.
The crown was still on my arm, snug where it had rested for hours. The metal had warmed to my skin—sweaty, maybe. The thorns were dulled but not gone. Its shape hadn't changed, but the mood had. Less angry. Less loud. Like it had finally accepted where it was headed.
"Sorry for the smell," I said, peeling it free. "Travel storage wasn't exactly ceremonial."
Despoina didn't move. Didn't laugh. Just stared.
I held it out.
It just felt right.
A crown taken from an Autumn Queen. Now offered to the goddess of Autumn and Winter. Who smelled like woodsmoke and dead leaves.
Not Demeter.
Not Persephone.
Her.
Despoina didn't reach for it.
She swallowed once, jaw tight, and shook her head—slow, quiet, like the idea hurt more than the thorns ever could.
"You were doing enough," she whispered. "Just remembering me…"
Her voice turned tight. "That's a gift for my mother. Not me."
I didn't lower the crown. I just kept holding it, steady.
I shrugged. "It just feels like it should go from one Autumn to another."
She looked at the crown again. The dead leaves still clinging to the metal. The soft bronze glow under the thorns. The quiet weight of it.
Despoina reached out.
Not like a goddess claiming a relic.
Like a girl taking something she never thought she'd be allowed to touch.
Her fingers brushed the rim. Her eyes didn't flash.
They shimmered.
Tears caught the light.
She blinked them away before they could fall and gave me a small, crooked smile.
"So," she murmured, "the conquering hero comes to my little hideaway. If I'd known, I might've swept the floors."
She set her mug down on the low stump-table, fingers lingering on the rim.
"I thought," she added, quieter now, "he'd forget me too."
The words weren't angry. Just soft. Like they'd been said a thousand times before, always to silence.
"I didn't," I said.
She looked away, slow and unsure.
Then, after a long moment: "The big ones are sending you on a quest soon, right?"
"Yeah," I said. "Soon."
I smiled. "But not now."
That made her look at me.
Her expression softened. Just enough to ease the weight in her shoulders.
She opened her arms—slow, almost sheepish.
"Come on, little demi," she said. "Keep an old goddess company. I promise I'll fix your chakras."
I snorted. Couldn't help it.
Then I stepped forward and collapsed beside her, the beanbag giving with a soft, seismic whumph.
Her arms wrapped around me like the first cold breeze of October—steady, quiet, and warm where it mattered.
And I let myself rest there.
I sank deeper into the beanbag, letting the warmth and quiet settle over me like a second blanket. Despoina's arm stayed loosely draped around my shoulders, her other hand drifting lazily back to her tea.
She didn't say anything at first. Just breathed in slow through her nose.
Then she wrinkled it.
"You smell like wine."
I tilted my head against her shoulder. "Celebrating."
She raised an eyebrow without looking at me. "You saved the world again?"
I snorted. "Not this time or at least not yet. Campers don't even know I've done that once."
I paused, then let out a low chuckle. "But I did crush a the huntresses in capture the flag. Solo flag recovery. Full theatrics. The works."
"Mm," she said, like that explained everything. "And they let you near the children."
"Legally? Probably not."
She laughed—just a breath through her nose, but I felt it in her chest.
I shifted a little, letting my nose drift closer to the crook of her neck. Not too close. Just curious.
Then I leaned in and gave her a casual sniff.
Despoina stiffened for a split second, then side-eyed me .
I grinned. "Seems I'm not the only one smelling right now. Very modern for a goddess, huh?"
She didn't answer. But her lips twitched, and she picked up her tea again like she hadn't just been caught scented with something distinctly in the USA.
"Don't judge me," she muttered.
"I'd never. Not if you share that is."
With the calm timing of someone who had definitely done this before, Despoina reached behind my ear and fished out a half-used blunt like she was pulling a coin from thin air.
"Is this your card?" she asked, all mock-serious, eyes glittering.
I blinked. Then blinked again.
"…Where were you hiding that?"
She giggled. Actually giggled. "Some of us are magical, Lucas."
She twirled it between her fingers, raised her other hand, and summoned a small spark—green-gold and lazy. It danced at her fingertip before catching the blunt with a soft crack. The tip flared red.
She took the first hit. Smooth. Practiced. Exhaled through her nose like a dragon.
Then she passed it to me.
I hesitated for exactly one second.
Then took it.
The smoke was warm. Earthy. Sweet in a bitter, herbal way. It didn't burn. It just settled behind my eyes, thick and slow. My body didn't slacken, but it loosened. Like my spine had been strung too tight for days and someone finally untied the last knot.
I handed it back, eyes still half-lidded.
"So this is how minor goddesses unwind," I murmured.
"Shh," she said, tapping ash into a chipped ceramic dish shaped like a mushroom. "You'll ruin the vibe."
I snorted.
The air had gone syrup-thick. The kind of stillness where nothing existed but the pull of breath and the creak of fabric. Her hand drifted against my chest in slow, absent circles, like she was tracing a map.
Then she nudged me with a quiet grunt.
"This shirt," she muttered, tugging at the hem, "is kind of sticky."
I shrugged. "Victory's messy."
She snorted, half-annoyed, half-affectionate. "You've been marinating in wine. I heard that's… tasty." She giggled, barely.
Her fingers slipped under the hem, knuckles brushing my skin. I let her pull it up. It clung in a few places—sweat from the flag match, punch from the afterparty, maybe some weird glitter from the Aphrodite kids.
She peeled it off slow, steady, and tossed it aside.
Then she paused.
Her eyes tracked across my torso—casual at first, then with a flicker of interest.
They stopped at the tattoos.
Blue. Stark against skin. Runic and rough-edged—like they'd been carved, not inked.
She raised a brow, her fingertip tracing a symbol near my ribs. "They're blue."
"At least they look good," I said casually.
That got a smile. Small. Knowing.
Her finger drifted over the next mark, a loopy knot right below my ribs.
"You know none of these mean anything, right?"
I shrugged again. "Really? I paid the blind man some good money for those."
She laughed—quiet and warm, the sound curling in the smoke like a ribbon.
"This one might mean 'elk.' Or 'pot.' Possibly 'slightly damp day.'"
I let my head fall back with a groan. "And here I thought I was walking around with ancient warrior runes."
"You're walking around with nonsense," she said, still smiling. "But it suits you."
She planted a kiss just under one mark. Barely a brush.
Then both hands rested on my chest, her thumbs tracing light patterns across my skin like she was memorizing it.
"Still hot, though."
I smirked. "Glad I have your blessing, oh smoky goddess of sarcasm."
"Careful," she warned, her voice low and amused. "That almost sounded romantic."
"I'm high and in a beanbag," I murmured. "Everything sounds romantic."
"Fair."
End of part 1
G1gglemesh said:Sense of accountability/responsibilty and enlightenment/lack of ego?Oh, Death... Become my blade, once more 452Magus exploratorMay 12, 2025View discussionThreadmarksChapter 31 Part 2 - Your mission, should you choose to accept it.View contentMagus exploratorMay 13, 2025#2,188We were tangled in the ruins of the beanbag—what was left of it, anyway. The stuffing had surrendered mid-battle and now lay scattered across the cottage floor. The blanket was half-lost under us. Neither of us made a move to find it.
One of my arms was slung lazily over Despoina's waist, the other folded behind my head. The warmth had started to melt into something softer.
She exhaled, warm against my chest.
"Mind if I crash here?" I asked, voice rough with smoke and something slower.
She didn't even blink.
"There's a spot on the bed," she murmured, amusement curling her voice. "Although Mini-Me Number One might need to get used to sharing. You keep this pace up, camp's about to get a few half-siblings."
I blinked. Then laughed, quiet and a little dazed. "…Probably? You okay with that?"
She shrugged against me, bone-deep calm in her voice. "You don't die easy. That's already better odds than most demigods get."
Her fingers traced lazy spirals across my ribs.
"You'll be around. Maybe even full-time, once the world stops ending for a minute. So yeah… the kids might get something close to a childhood."
"Normal-ish," I muttered. "You think a kid with you for a mom and me for a dad gets normal?"
Despoina giggled.
"Not normal, that's boring," she said. "Just safer. That's enough."
We went quiet for a while. Just the creak of old wood, the occasional flicker of candlelight, and our breathing, steady and slow.
Then I heard myself say it.
"Shit… the world can't handle another me."
She snorted, already halfway to sleep.
I ran a hand through my hair. "Depending how long I live, there might be a dozen of them."
She was quiet for a beat.
Then: a breathy, leaf-light laugh against my skin.
"Well," she mumbled, "you'd make a terrifying bloodline."
"Thanks," I said, deadpan. "Really inspiring."
Despoina just hummed and tugged the edge of the blanket up with a lazy hand, nestling closer.
"At least you're not the vanishing type. Or the 'turn into a tree' type. Or the tragic-death-at-sea type."
"Those the standard divine parenting packages?"
"Mmhmm," she yawned. "You'll do fine."
I felt her breathing even out.
Felt mine match it.
And under all the half-baked jokes , joint-smoke and broken furniture, the thought took root somewhere low in my chest.
We didn't sleep that night.
The weed hit harder the second time—some enchanted forest-grown blend Despoina called "Sunset Anxiety Killer" with a totally straight face. It didn't kill anxiety. Just turned us into warm clay and stretched time out like taffy left on a radiator.
"Top shelf zaza has absolutely obliterated my circadian rhythm," I muttered at some point, lying shirtless on the rug, staring at a dreamcatcher that might've been breathing.
By the time the salt lamp faded and the incense gave its last wheeze, we were curled in a soft tangle of limbs and smoke.
She lay across my chest, her curls stuck to my skin, one leg slung over mine like she'd claimed the territory and was ready to defend it.
I didn't complain.
And then, just as dawn started to bleed gold through the trees—just as the haze softened into something tender—
Knock knock knock.
I flinched. So did she.
Despoina groaned into my collarbone. "No."
Knock knock knock.
I blinked, still horizontal. "You expecting visits?"
"Don't move, they might think there's no one home."
Knock.
"Tell them to go away," she muttered.
"I would," I said, "but my legs have fully resigned."
Knock knock knock.
Whoever it was clearly hadn't gotten the memo.
I groaned, flopping back into the crater of destroyed beanbag stuffing like a wounded soldier. My mouth was dryer then the Sahaara.
Knock. Louder this time.
I sighed. "Alright, alright. I'll get the door."
Despoina mumbled something that sounded like a tragic "Noooo..."
I peeled myself off the rug with a grunt. The air was cool against my skin, not enough to wake me, but just enough to remind me I was mortal again. My hair was wrecked. My face? I didn't want to look but it was quite sticky.
First stop: water my throat.
I cracked open the door and reached into the battered mini-fridge tucked in the corner like an afterthought.
Pulled out a Natty Light.
Stared at it.
Then at the sunrise.
Then back at the can.
Sighed. Popped it. Took a chug, the alcoholic in me cheering at the day drinking.
Regretted everything.
Second stop: pants.
I sifted through the debris, grabbed a pair of boxers from a chair and pulled them on just as another knock knock knock echoed through the grove.
"I swear to Olympus," I muttered, "if this is Hermes trying to sell me goddamn life insurance—"
I yanked the door open.
Half-naked. Beer in hand. Eyes bloodshot.
"Hi," I said. "What."
And there stood Ares.
Full leathers. Dust-caked boots. Mirrored aviators. He looked like he'd just walked off a metal album cover and maybe won the motorcycle in a fistfight. One arm cradled a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. His grin? Unholy.
"Morning, stud," he said.
I blinked. "…What."
"Zeus says your vacation's over." He clapped me on the shoulder—hard enough to realign a few vertebrae. "Time to haul your ass back to camp. I'm your ride."
Behind me, Despoina stirred beneath the blanket, her laugh sounding like it had fought its way up from a dream and lost halfway through.
I glanced over my shoulder.
She looked absurdly good in the morning light—messy hair, sunlit skin, blinking like she hadn't finished the dream yet.
I turned back to Ares.
"…Can you wait, like, twenty minutes?"
Ares tilted his head, shades flashing.
Then he leaned sideways, peering past me into the cottage.
"Hey! Despoina! Your mom still talk about me?"
From inside: "Fuck off!"
Ares grinned, wide and unrepentant. "She still loves me."
Then he slapped my back again, nearly folding me in half.
"Take your time, lover boy," he said. "I'm gonna go make some poor choices. Maybe your girlfriend's mom. Maybe her cousin. Whoever bites."
I stared.
He was already strolling off, whistling something totally off-key.
He tossed a hand in the air. "See you in thirty, golden boy. Make it count."
The forest swallowed him like it'd done this before.
I closed the door.
Turned back into the cottage.
Exhaled.
And that's when the black suns stirred at the edges of my vision—and one of them flared.
My breath hitched. The air felt electric. Every muscle in my body pulled taut like a bowstring. I heard something creak—maybe the floorboards. Maybe the bones in my back realigning.
My shoulders broadened. My posture straightened. My skin pulled tighter over something new—something stronger. I clenched a fist. The veins stood out sharp as bronze etchings.
"Holy shit," I muttered.
I rolled my neck. My bones cracked like a distant avalanche.
Despoina sat up slowly in the bed of tangled blankets and scorched incense ash, blinking like she was seeing me for the first time—again.
"Did you grow?" she asked, voice thick with sleep and disbelief.
I didn't answer. Just looked down.
My abs were sharper. Arms bulked out. Every angle of me looked like nature had decided, You know what? Let's make this one terrifying.
I tugged my waistband forward and peeked.
"…Damn," I muttered. "I love this power."
Despoina choked on a laugh.
"You good there, Tarzan?"
I looked up, grinning.
"Better than good."