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THE GOLD COLLAR SETTLES around my neck with a click.
I remind myself it’s all part of the dress. All part of the Olympian flair for dramatics.
Staring into the mirror outside our bathroom, I run a hand over the shined circle of gold. Whose job is it to polish gold within these halls? Imagining some lanky youth brings no comfort. The collar remains a collar pressing my necklace into the delicate skin near my jugular.
I’m no wayward dog or goat. I’m Agathe, daughter of sirens, and my song is a weapon.
The ivory dress attached to the collar falls into place. There are only dresses of the same design in the cabinet. My stained one vanished with the flow of servants in and out of our rooms. To light the hearth or tend to the bath forever strewn with flower petals or to deliver trays of food; there’s a person attending to every need.
I long for my old dress along with Charon’s gifted cloak, also gone. I’d wear them again if I could. But would I dare defy the court? I don’t know.
In her bed, Desma pretends to sleep. Her chest moves steadily and her breaths are even. But she’s still. Too still.
I should tell her so. Instead, I leave the room. Maybe if I ignore the problem I won’t have to deal with it at all. But I let the door slam behind me, satisfied with the resulting thud when she startles and falls.
I fiddle with the scraggly ends of my braided hair, glancing down the hall. No one in sight. There’ll be no one to guide me to the throne room this morning.
I try to visualize how I was dragged here. No images come besides the twisting, turning corners of my distorted memory.
Left or right? To the left, a window letting in rays of sunshine. To the right, rows of vases overflowing with flowers. Tap, tap, tap, my foot goes while I mull over which to choose.
There’s a statue near the window. I step closer. The barrel chest; Zeus. A beardless version, perhaps closer to his youth spent fighting the Titans, but him all the same.
I step to the left. The halls wind through one another but I follow the series of statues, each a different god or goddess. Soon I reach the wide main hall. The throne room waits at the end, two guards on each side of the open doors.
A woman strides from between the doors. Her clothes are different, colorful and elaborate, but I know her tanned skin and dark hair—Persephone.
My necklace pulses with heat.
“Follow her,” Nyx whispers into my ear.
I spin, heart leaping in my chest. A tendril of Nyx’s darkness grins at me in a parody of her face.
The guards clink their spears against the stone floor. The throne room doors close on silent hinges. I glance at the guards. Beneath their solid golden helmets, nothing of their faces shows except a sliver of skin.
“Focus!” Nyx says.
The darkness undulates, glancing to each side. Then, with a hiss, it dissolves.
With a deep breath, I follow after Persephone. Quicker and quicker still until I’m sprinting, my sandals a steady pat pat against the floor. My lungs threaten to heave out of my chest. By the time I catch her by the elbow, she’s turned twice into different halls.
Right and then left? Or the other way around? Or was it two lefts?
I shake my head to dislodge those thoughts. Then open my mouth. How does one address a queen outside of her realm?
I’m so nervous, I blurt my first thought. “What are you doing?”
Blood rushes to my cheeks.
“Agathe,” Persephone says on a sigh. “I don’t suppose you know anything about overbearing mothers?”
My shoulders hunch. All this adventure, all this excitement, and I’ve barely thought of my mother. The mother I left—no, abandoned—in Nekros. My stomach lurches. The acidic tang of bile burns at the back of my throat.
I glance up, rolling my lips between my teeth. Persephone watches each entrance to this hall, her head swiveling in constant motion. Furrowing my brows, I follow her looks. There’s nothing. Not even her mother Demeter hovering nearby.
Oh.
She’s looking for Demeter. Does her mother terrorize so much that she’s forced to look over her shoulder? But when Persephone does that exact movement, I get my answer.
“You’ll need to go through there.” Persephone points to a narrower offshoot, rendered darker than the rest by the lack of windows and a single torch. A shortcut? “Take a left at the end by the statue of Hestia.”
As she speaks, bits of life return to her face. Color fills her cheeks. Even the way her expressions shift rather than being altogether blank.
“Thank you,” I say. Then shake my head. “But no, I’m following you because—”
Persephone frowns. “Because of Nyx.”
“Yes!” It echoes. Quieter. “Yes. How did you know?”
“She visited me this morning, something about a clue for you.” She leans closer. “Look, you shouldn’t mess with the likes of Nyx. There’s better allies to be had.”
“Who? Charon and Desma are as lost as me.” Pausing, I shake my head and snarl. “There’s no one else, don’t you get it? Everyone avoids me.”
The empty halls. The servants who say nothing. Throne room gatherings with not one of us invited. And when I do chance upon some god or goddess, they won’t look at me, let alone speak to me.
She winces like I reached out and slapped her. “They’ll come around. But please, no more Nyx. Ever since Erebus went dormant, she’s been...off.”
“How so?”
The torches snuff. She opens her mouth, managing a single croak. Shadows flit across the sunlit windows, traces left behind in a veil of black to block the light. A tendril, thin with a curved end, snakes through the window closest to Persephone and creeps across the wall.
Heart frozen in my chest, I can do nothing but stare. It branches into more tendrils, prodding at her ear, then her mouth and nose, and finally her eyes.
And with her gasp, the shadows sink in. Her irises are eclipsed by pitch black. Her mouth gapes open, fathomless as Chaos itself.
“Darling,” Nyx says through Persephone’s mouth. “Do apologize to dear Persephone when I’m done inhabiting her, would you?”
I nod, stuck in place by her familiar voice and stolen abilities. She’s the goddess of night, not shadow, but while her husband Erebus sleeps...how many of his abilities does she siphon?
“Good girl,” Nyx says.
Persephone’s arm twitches at her side, then falls still.
“I haven’t got long, so listen well,” she continues. “In a hall of unmarked doors, you’ll find the leverage you need for a bargain with the likes of Zeus.”
Unmarked. Hestia explained our first day here how all the doors shift to match the person dwelling in each room. Hera’s with her fan-tailed birds and Hestia’s with an ever-burning hearth. Mine and Desma’s shifted from a simple design to the open sea, a pod of whales swimming in an ever-changing dance.
An empty door means an empty room. What use is an empty room?
“What sort of leverage?” I ask.
She hisses, gaze darting each way. “I’ve no more time.”
The shadows covering the windows fracture. Shatter into pieces. Beams of sunlight spill into the hall and across Persephone, bathing her in a warm glow.
The shadows shriek, tearing free. They run along the walls, slinking under a nearby door. Persephone gasps, eyes wide and chestnut-colored again, and her chest heaves with the force of each breath.
“Nyx.” Her voice trembles. Color returns to her face in a flash of livid pink. “How dare she—I was going to tell you on my own.”
“She said she’s sorry. Now, about the doors.” I grab her shoulders. “Do you know anything else?”
“There you are!” a voice says from further down the hallway.
Persephone’s color drains all at once. There’s something small and defeated in her expression the closer the woman gets.
She’s shorter with lush curves. Their faces are identical except for the woman’s pale green eyes. Demeter, goddess of the harvest and seasons, and Persephone’s mother.
She doesn’t touch Persephone. Instead, she herds her away one step at a time. “Come along, my dear, we’ll be late. You know better than to get sidetracked.”
“Of course, mother,” Persephone mumbles.
She speaks over her daughter. “Why, the last time you were sidetracked, you were married to that brute of a man before I could bargain for your return.”
Persephone pales. She shuffles toward her mother, head bowed low.
When she passes me, she leans close. Enough to whisper but not enough for her fretting mother to notice. “Remember: us gods rely on trickery. Nyx is no exception.”
Demeter squawks, grabbing her by each arm. She moves Persephone away with pushing-pulling shoves. They disappear around a bend before I open my mouth.
My first time meeting Demeter and she didn’t notice a presence other than her daughter’s. Her casual disrespect of Hades is troubling. Wrong.
I swallow words of Hades’ clear devotion to Persephone. His willingness to bargain with yet another nameless mortal. No one’s around to hear them, besides.
Following Persephone’s directions, I’m back in the main hall within minutes. The throne room doors are closed. The guards on each side swivel, watching my approach.
“Let me in,” I command. “Please.”
Their spear ends clack against the floors. I flinch backward. The doors swing open from their simple action.
When I pass the guards, I stare into the eyes visible through small slits in each helmet. Brown, hazel, brown, blue. Each pair emptier than the last.
With a shiver, I stop in front of the gaping doors. A deep inhale and I step through.
Marble floors flow in either direction, cascading into sleek walls and spiraling pillars. Lush couches surround tables popping free from the floor like gleaming mushrooms with flat tops.
The ceiling is not a ceiling at all. Instead, it’s a cerulean sky dotted with fluffy white clouds.
Each pillar ends with a pointed flourish, reaching toward the clouds. If not for the subtle gray veins in the marble, there’s no difference between pillar end and cloud.
Everything is polished. Precise. Now more than ever my scraggly braid and already-wrinkled dress are out of place.
A humming chatter filters in while I edge further into the room. Gods and goddesses spread themselves along couches. Some lie on top of one another. Others sit alone. None lift their heads when I pass.
I notice clothes before I notice faces. An emerald tunic threaded with gold. Flowing coral silk dusted with crystals. Decadent burgundy velvet shimmering in the bright sunlight.
Their faces are all at once beautiful and terrifying. There’s something unsettling in their perfectly formed features. No beaked noses or swollen red blemishes. Only smooth skin—burnished, dark, and pale—and perfect faces.
My skin ripples with goosebumps. I fold my hands together to hide how they shake.
A god slants a look my way. Blond hair and golden skin. The lyre settled on his hip is plated in gold. He’s the sun given physical form. Apollo, god of the sun and music.
Not one friendly face. Even Hermes ducks his head, staring at his lap when I walk by.
“But couldn’t the child prove himself later on?” Dionysus slurs from a couch. His hooded eyes are oddly sharp where they watch Zeus and Hera.
Hera scoffs with a wave of her slim hand. Silver rings flash. “Of course not. He’s mortal, after all.”
Zeus bobs his head in a nod. “True.”
Hera straightens her spine, looking down her nose. I’m the only one standing. I sink onto an empty couch. Not near the thrones but closer to the doors if Zeus is...overwhelming.
“All settled, then?” Hera asks, grinning.
Whatever they’re speaking of, whatever they’ve been hissing about back and forth from the moment I walked in and well before, has turned in her favor.
The court says nothing. Some hunch lower in their seats. Others straighten. None meet her direct stare.
Is it possible? Are these immortal, worshipped beings afraid of Hera?
To my right, Artemis lifts her hand, swiping a lock of hair behind her ear. Her hand shakes.
They are afraid.
How? They can’t die—they heal from any wound. Thanatos himself can’t claim their souls for Nekros. Only the Moirai hold any sway over their lives.
The gods are immortal but they are afraid.
“What are you speaking of?” I ask before I can second guess myself.
In the long moments after, my words echo in the grand space. My heart races. Sweat forms on my palms and neck.
Hera stares with pure contempt, leaning back in her throne. One finger taps against the marble.
Zeus grins. “I’ve sired a child with a mortal woman.”
His wife is beside him, her mouth pinched and back straight, and he speaks of being intimate with another woman as something trivial. Their hands are settled close on their respective armrests but neither twitches closer to the other.
“A child halfway formed and painfully mortal.” He waves a hand. “I suppose as a fellow mortal, you’ll have an opinion on what to do with such a child?”
Zeus sighs. “Hera wants the child killed.” He pats her hand before moving away. Her lips tighten until they’re lost in the rest of her pale skin. “And I don’t care.”
He doesn’t care. Yet there’s something sinister, something mean, in how his lips twist into a brighter grin while Hera wilts beside him. She hunches, distant and cold.
He reminds her of his infidelity. He flaunts it.
“What would you have me do?” Zeus asks.
What is it like to be discarded by someone who once loved you? Someone who made promises of marriage and devotion only to renege when it suited their needs. She’s stuck in her marriage to a man so carelessly cruel.
For all my empathy, the child they speak of is just that: a child. One who doesn’t deserve punishment for being born with none of Zeus’ abilities.
My sister Eudora’s frail, malnourished body ghosts along my clenched hands. So real I swear my hands go as cold as her corpse.
If I had any choice, I would’ve saved her. I would’ve saved each child my mother lost.
“Spare the child,” I say. My voice is solid ice.
Zeus hums, staring like I’m the entertainment. “Why?”
Because it’s a child. Is there any other reason? But I think back on Dionysus’ words and Aunt’s stories of great heroes who showed little promise once upon a time.
“He could grow into his abilities,” I say. “Not many infants, demigod or otherwise, have great talent until they’re grown into children.”
Nodding, he lifts a brow. “I suppose so.” Then he waits, expecting more.
There’s no other argument. Unless he’d like me to recount the child’s innocence or harmlessness, neither of which he’ll care about.
“Father.” Someone says. A woman, voice clear and deep, with auburn hair.
There’s a hint of Zeus in the long line of her angular nose. Her winged helmet and shrewd face—Athena, goddess of wisdom. The most intelligent being in both realms.
“The mortal girl speaks true,” she says. “Remember Heracles? Weak at birth but a mighty champion of Olympus in his adulthood.”
She stands straight and utterly still while she speaks. A mighty force joining a battle, dangerous as the god of war and thrice as intelligent. Her mind must navigate this labyrinth of a palace and its politics with ease.
But when Hera’s burning stare lands on her, Athena averts her eyes. Respect or fear? Athena is Zeus’ daughter but Hera is his queen.
Zeus props himself upright with a jaw-cracking yawn. “I suppose you’re right, but where’s the fun in that? Luckily we have another matter to deal with before we’re done.”
He leans forward, gesturing to the slab of marble at the base of the thrones. “Guards! Drag the prisoner here and hold him.”
Thick silver chains slink from the gray veins, settling against the stone with an ominous clink.
Not just chains. Shackles.
Two guards strut through the doorway, a dark-haired man dragged between them. His clothes, torn and stained, don’t cover his bruised skin. He doesn’t lift his head.
They settle him on the ground in front of the thrones, then close a shackle around each wrist and ankle.
He says nothing. He does nothing. He sits, back hunched, with his head tucked low.
Zeus clears his throat. “This mortal is accused of treason.”
“On what grounds?” Athena steps forward, stopping at the man’s side. Her hand twitches toward him. She tucks it into the folds of her dress.
“He tells false stories of us.” Hera leans forward, teeth bared in a strained smile. “I’m no sister of Zeus, nor am I infertile.”
Zeus rolls his eyes to the false sky above. “Of course not.”
She huffs. “He says you were born from Zeus’ head and nothing more, Athena.”
Athena stiffens. She glances at the man, enough for me to glimpse her face. Her mouth is a straight slash. “I see. But is he the true source of these stories? Surely they started somewhere else.”
“Nowhere we can find. I sent guards to all the towns.” Hera huffs. “And if they did start elsewhere, he’ll be a good example of what happens to those who tarnish our court.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask, heart thudding fast in my chest.
She waves a hand. “Imprisonment. Then he’ll be exiled from Athansi and our court.”
“Another exile?” Zeus laughs. “Why don’t we do something more entertaining?”
“Like what?” She leans back.
“Execution.”
Hera jolts, face draining of color
Athena looks at the man for a moment, then turns to face Zeus. “There’s no need for his death. He’ll return to his town and spread what happens to those imprisoned in this palace. No one else will dare tell false stories for a generation.”
“We don’t need to kill him, husband. Just rough him up a little.” Hera’s shrill voice stabs at my eardrums.
Zeus glances between them. Then his eyes narrow, settling on the man.
The guards step away, boots tapping against the floor when they leave the room. They close the doors behind them. Stone settles against stone with a menacing snick.
“Raise your head,” Zeus commands.
He does. There’s something familiar about the shape of his unshaven jaw. I stand, drawing closer, stopping at his other side. Then crouch for a better look. Shivers ripple down my spine.
It’s Cosmas, Kyma’s storyteller.