3. Nyssa
Nyssa
Laxatives worked quickly, and so did Hera. Same shitty end result, too.
The consequences of my actions, in the form of a rolled parchment missive, hung from the maw of Cerberus’ middle head. This one tended to do the bulk of the barking and biting.
My father’s obnoxiously large, tri-headed dog waited impatiently at the foot of the curved staircase in the darkened foyer of my home, shifting his paws — thankfully only four —from side to side, giving him the vague appearance of levitating.
Cerberus was a creature born of Tartarus.
During one of my father’s treks into that icy hellscape, the beast had taken to plastering himself to Hades’ side.
Shockingly, my father had warmed to him.
The result? A strongly forged companionship bond, and a triple-headed bodyguard for his baby daughter.
I reached forward to rub Sir Bruce’s sleek, black fur — a childhood nickname that had, regrettably, stuck — earning a contented smile from the closest head.
My home, the Palace of Hades, was a grand monstrosity of Greek architecture, rising from the heart of the Underworld.
With gleaming black columns and spires, onyx staircases, and deadly gardens, it was a home much better suited to the dead than the living.
Poppies adorned the pathways, belladonna sprouted in the northern gardens, while aconite took root in pots, and black dahlias swarmed the bases of ebonwood trees.
The exterior was the same ominous obsidian as the rest of the Underworld, but inside, my mother had been granted creative freedom. Beyond the dim, formidable receiving rooms — kept intimidating for any surprise visits from Olympians — were the living spaces.
It was as though my mother had woven parts of herself into every room.
It immediately felt like stepping foot into an eternal spring.
Plush, vibrant rugs covered every floor, and the furniture was a cacophonous mismatch of styles and colours.
Yet, somehow, every piece was either comfortable, comforting, or both.
Jasmine vines climbed every pillar and banister, and ivy featured on all the main walls. Stepping inside always felt like a ghostly embrace from the mother I’d never known.
Cerberus nudged my hand with his nearest head, gently reminding me of the scroll he was desperately trying not to chew. I grimaced and unrolled the saliva-soaked parchment, huffing a disappointed breath as I discovered the contents were even less desirable than the drool.
Hades, Lord of the Underworld,
Nyssa, Daughter of Hades,
By command of the Goddess Hera,
Queen of Olympus,
You are hereby summoned to the Parthenon immediately. Whichever of you is responsible will stand before the Primal Council and account for your actions in the sentencing of Zeus’ immortal soul.
Do not test my patience. There will be no mercy for delay. You shall present yourself at once, or face the wrath of your Queen and her council.
Clenching my teeth, I balled up the parchment and tossed it back to Sir Bruce, who promptly swallowed the summons whole.
That psychotic bitch of an ex-Queen actually believed she possessed the power to discipline me like an errant child. She thought she could summon Hades himself from his deathly domain? I laughed, low and rolling, like thunder before the lightning strikes.
Like Charon’s, my day was about to become a whole lot more entertaining.
And Hera was about to find out exactly what happens when someone dares to fuck with death.
I flicked my wrists outward, palms parallel to the floor, and called my power down.
Shadows pooled at my feet, swirling like inky tendrils of smoke caught in a soft breeze.
Another flick of my fingers, and they formed a softly rippling doorway.
I stepped into the darkness effortlessly, my cozy home fading behind me.
With each stride, the world reshaped itself, painfully bright and glaring.
The white marble of the Parthenon rose to greet me harshly — a cruel contrast to the comfort of the shadows I had left behind.
In my midnight-coloured gown, I sauntered into the atrium. It was shrouded in the harsh glare of midday light and perfect silence.
I stood in the centre of the opulent structure, exactly where I’d intended to appear. Sneaking in was far too cliché. I loved a good, dramatic entrance.
Seated in a circle of enormous golden thrones were the ten remaining Primal Olympians, each one staring down at me with cold sneers sewn into their otherwise flawless faces—except for one.
Aphrodite.
The goddess of love, beauty, and desire peered at me from under long lashes, perched delicately on the edge of her seat.
Her fair brows were knitted tightly together, rosy lips pursed in concern.
She leaned forward slightly, assessing me as her brows drew closer still.
The crease between her brows deepened, and her cerulean eyes searched mine for answers I could not yet give.
Aphrodite — the only other being besides Charon I considered a friend — parted her lips as if to speak.
She paused when I shook my head once, a warning she heeded.
Let the other Primals remain in the metaphorical dark.
Our companionship, if known, would be used against us, and I would not let her suffer for my reputation or my actions.
Seated to Aphrodite’s left was Poseidon — Zeus’ brother and god of the seas. His furious ultramarine irises pierced mine, as though he were imagining peeling the skin from my bones. Knowing him, he probably was.
Poseidon clutched his trademark trident so tightly his knuckles had blanched, the oversized fork so obviously compensating for what he lacked elsewhere . And no, I wasn’t referring to all five feet of his stature.
Next sat Ares, the fiery and brutish god of war and violence.
His vibrant red hair swayed around his shoulders like a living flame, though his amber eyes were cold as ice.
Arrogance and temper warred equally within him; if one failed to appease his ego, they could safely assume they’d soon be burned.
Then, Artemis and her twin brother, Apollo. The pair may as well have been hewn from midnight granite for how still they both sat. They cut imposing figures in their silence, long black hair and deep brown skin gleaming with the subtle glow of celestial power. The similarities ended there.
Artemis, the goddess of the hunt and the moon, had woven her ebony locks into tiny braids, accented by minute silver beads, giving the vague impression of stars in a night sky.
Apollo had twisted his own hair into waist-length dreadlocks, golden beading glinting in the midday sun — befitting the god of the sun and healing.
Her dark gaze pierced through pretence like an arrow loosed from her silver bow. His was contemplative; golden eyes locked on mine, unblinking.
To Apollo’s left sat Hephaestus, the god of craftsmanship.
He was a gargantuan god, built like a mountain, solid and immovable.
Standing at well over nine feet tall and nearly half as wide, his body was as much his creation as the weapons forged in his workshop.
His muscles boasted thickness and power, built by time and by his own hammer and anvil.
But it was his words one needed to be wary of — like the whisper of a blade drawn in silence.
When Hephaestus did speak, one would do well to listen.
Hestia was next in the circle of gods. The goddess of family and home sat back elegantly in her seat.
Astute, like a mother keeping a watchful eye over her children.
Typically, a neutral party in clashes between gods or wars affecting the three realms, she was a peacekeeper.
But even she was glaring at me now, brows lowered, judgement firmly in place.
Beside her, Demeter appraised me slowly, blonde waves concealing half her face as she dipped her chin.
Technically, she was my grandmother — though she looked only slightly older than my thirty years.
While we were not close, we shared a familiar grief.
Demeter mourned my mother so terribly that parts of the mortal realm remained forever frozen. Her icy grief mirrored my own.
Beside my mother’s mother perched Athena, her close friend and fellow Primal.
With one toned leg crossed over the other, she held an air of casual grace and poised power.
The goddess of wisdom and warfare regarded me critically, no doubt assessing the potential threat I posed.
I raised a solitary black brow in silent challenge.
Athena’s striking blue eyes narrowed for a heartbeat before one corner of her red lips tugged upwards.
Unintentional perhaps, but amusement softened her features nonetheless.
The impatient tapping of winged, sandaled toes caught my gaze next — Hermes.
The god of travel and thievery fidgeted with his gilded staff, feet thumping along to a tune only he could hear.
Oily black locks hung across his face as he rested his chin on his palm, scowling.
Agitation and boredom did not become him.
Finally, I locked eyes with Hera, seated regally on her throne, the seat beside hers notably empty. Her face was etched into a glare so foul lesser gods would have trembled.
I was no lesser god.
Tartarus would feel like a warm, summer’s day before I gave that bitch the satisfaction of eliciting anything more than apathy from me.
All of the major players in the Titan War were present, excluding the recently deceased Zeus and of course, my father. I slowly perused the circle of gods again, my cold gaze weighing each one.