5. Nyssa
Nyssa
The Parthenon had been completely transformed in our absence. Where yesterday it was a clinically pristine council chamber, tonight there was scarcely room to move.
An extravagantly decorated table now dominated the central space, laden with gilded dinnerware, heaped platters of food, and overflowing pitchers of wine. It flowed from the open balcony doors all the way down to the entryway, long enough to seat every god, goddess, champion, and esteemed guest.
All of whom were starving — not for food, but for power.
A warm breeze passed through the open space, the air suddenly heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine.
One by one, as if summoned by some unheard signal, gods and goddesses slowly made their way to the table.
Some moved without ceasing their conversations, others held back, assessing their options with quiet calculation.
I knew I was not welcome at their table. They bemoaned the idea of sharing food and drink with children of the Underworld. Every cool glare sent our way only hardened my resolve to sow as much discord as I was able to in the time I was here.
One side of my lips tugged upward as I claimed the seat at the heart of their feast — dead centre of their abundant table. The decision was met with wide eyes and gasps of disbelief.
Much to Hera’s obvious disdain, Charon slid in next to me and poured us both generous goblets of wine. We exchanged mischievous grins and waited for the chaos to unfold — an inevitability.
There was nothing these snooty Olympians hated more than the feeling of being slighted, and I’d just given them all the divine equivalent of a middle finger.
By claiming the central seat, I knew Hera would not deign to sit opposite me, effectively ousting the ex-Queen from her own event.
She clambered to find the next best alternative — the head of the table — however, with the seating arrangements fixed, there were no chairs placed at either end.
She instead settled for the chair as far to our right as she could manage.
Poseidon sat opposite her, with his son beside him.
Arm in arm, Hestia and Athena placed themselves at the other end, murmuring quietly. Apollo, Artemis, and her daughter opted to join them. Aphrodite boldly claimed the seat opposite Charon, a string of infatuated admirers trailing behind her like little ducklings.
I could see the beginnings of small alliances forming, like gravitating to like. Charon and I sat as an island between them all. Eventually, though, the seats surrounding us became the only ones available.
Just in time for Ares to stalk in, his red-headed champion close behind. It was then I noticed the similarities between them — this was undoubtedly a son. Ares wedged himself between Hera and Hermes, ironically jostling the already-disgruntled god of travel further down the table.
Ares’ son, however, broke away as soon as he spotted the empty seat to my left.
His playful grin never faltered as he dropped into it, sprawling out comfortably in that infuriating, spread-legged way only men can seem to comfortably execute.
His right leg landed dangerously close to my left, heat radiating off him in waves, even through our layers of clothing.
This god was fiery in more ways than one, it seemed.
He’s got more balls than I expected from a child of Ares, I conceded.
“Good evening, darling,” he purred, his voice a deep, rolling rumble, as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of flame and was still simmering from the inside out. “You’re looking positively delicious tonight.”
“Oh, barbecue boy,” I began dryly. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “It was no cheap joke. I’d much rather taste you than anything on this table,” he smirked, eyes dropping suggestively to my upper thighs. “In fact, I’d much rather taste you on this table.”
Inwardly I flinched, caught somewhere between shock and intrigue. Outwardly, I pursed my lips, determined to portray the contempt I knew I should be feeling. I waited a moment before replying, needing the time to compose myself.
“Hmm. You’re clearly a son of Ares, but which one exactly?” I asked, raising a dark brow.
I guess I should have been worried when his grin deepened, amber eyes flickering with wicked heat.
“Ah, yes. You’re right. Where are my manners?” He leaned, speaking in a tone a few levels above a whisper. “You really should know the name you’ll be screaming when I make you come so hard you forget your own.”
Charon choked on his wine, dark red liquid spraying across the white linen tablecloth. One of Aphrodite’s ducklings recoiled in horror. The goddess of desire merely grinned, clearly delighted.
My lips parted for an entire second before I snapped my jaw shut with an audible click .
The god leaned back, candlelight dancing within his irises. “I’m Aros,” he said smoothly, hands locking behind his head. “God of war and violence, remarkable flame-wielder, superb spearman, and possessor of very talented fingers.” He wiggled them suggestively from behind his mane of flame-red hair.
“Boy, Daddy had a hard time with letters the day you were born, huh?” I teased, unable to resist the jab — still utterly clueless how to respond to… all of that.
Aros leaned in conspiratorially, his breath caressing my bare skin. He smelled dangerously inviting — like whiskey and something sweeter.
“Between you and me, darling, I think he did it just so he could stake a second claim on Olympus. Better his odds, so to speak. At least his other children are more creatively named.” He shrugged. “Mostly.”
“I guess it could be worse,” I pondered aloud, tapping my lower lip with a solitary finger. “He could’ve written your name down a little too hastily, making that ‘r’ appear just a tiny bit longer. Then you’d be A-N-O-S.”
Aros froze, processing.
“Anos,” he whispered, trying out the word phonetically. Then he erupted with a howl of laughter, clutching his belly, as if to hold himself together. The rest of the table fell silent, conversations abruptly cutting off, sentences left half-spoken.
And if looks could kill gods, we’d have been shades already.
Aside from Aros’ roaring amusement, the hall remained quiet. Hera’s icy gaze latched onto mine, cold and calculating. I met her stare readily; our eyes locked in a battle neither of us would concede.
I let my shadows slip through the skin of my palm, coiling around the chalice in my hand.
Her gaze flicked downward, tracking the inky shadow serpent slithering between my fingers.
Her own perfectly manicured fingers tightened around her gilded fork — a rare crack in her flawless facade.
Slowly, I took a sip of wine and leaned back in my seat with the calm grace of a patient predator.
One who hunts by waiting, biding its time until that one fatal flaw revealed itself.
Hera placed her drink down with a soft clink . Tilting her head slightly, her nostrils flared as if she were inhaling something disagreeable. Her eyes flicked to Aros, expression unchanged.
“How charming,” she drawled, her honeyed voice laced with venom. “I suppose even the lowliest of creatures can learn parlour tricks with enough…” She paused, pursing her pink lips. “…motivation.”
Beside me, Aros went rigid, the heat emanating off his skin increasing tenfold. He’d been quietly, pleasantly smouldering at my side, but now — now he was a raging inferno. Before he could respond in a way befitting a god of violence, I bared my teeth, scarcely passing it off as a smile.
Hera would not bait me.
“And yet, you’re enraptured.” I let a sliver of malice slip through the grin. Sharp and dangerous, like a dagger between ribs. Raising my cup in a mocking salute, I turned back to a surprisingly amused Aros.
Hera rose, eyes narrowed.
“You—” she began.
“Now, now, Mother.”
A deep, rich voice cut through her tirade before it could begin, crackling with power and command. The tension was further punctured by thunderous footsteps crossing the marble tiles.
Footsteps belonging to the last remaining storm-wielder.
Caelus — Zeus and Hera’s son — had finally arrived.
“Is this not a banquet?” he asked, gaze sweeping over the room, daring anyone to answer. “Then let us eat. The trials will be battle enough.”
Ares grinned at the mere mention of the word ‘battle. ’
Charon and I exchanged a knowing look. Wasn’t the little princeling aware? When gods were involved, everything was a battlefield.
Caelus strode determinedly to the last remaining seat, directly opposite me.
He sat with the surety of someone who owned every ounce of the space he occupied.
His eyes met mine for a flicker, moved on, then immediately came crashing back.
They widened almost imperceptibly, white brows lifting a fraction.
As if only just realising who he’d chosen to share space with.
“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” Aros drawled. “Fashionably late tonight, are we?”
“Aros. Weren’t you aware that gods are never late?” Caelus replied. “Everyone else is simply early.”
I snorted quietly.
A pause. Then, both males smiled and clasped hands across the table.
“I wonder who taught you that,” Aros laughed.
“Probably the same god who is usually late to everything.” Caelus huffed a laugh. “Though, not late enough to snag the most… captivating seat tonight, I see.”
“Too bad you were too busy artfully messing that mop of hair and puffing your chest out in the mirror to claim the seat next to the green-eyed beauty over here,” Aros said smugly.
Charon scoffed, and I stifled a giggle.
“I hear you’re a Primal now,” Aros offered, and my brows rose. He was right.
“That happens when your father is murdered,” Caelus replied. His eyes flicked to me, then away again. “And you’re his named heir.”
Yes. I guess it did.
“So that means…”
“Yes,” Caelus answered. “If your father ever dies, you’ll become the Primal of war and violence. ”
Aros responded with nothing more than a lethal grin.
I watched their exchange, fascinated. The pair were a mirror image of Charon and myself. It warmed a tiny slice of my frozen heart, seeing them so candidly. Maybe Olympian gods weren’t all cruel, callous, murderous beings. Maybe they could tease and laugh and foster genuine friendships, too.
It helped, somewhat, to know that they weren’t all psychopaths.
I glanced at Hera, who was grasping Ares’ forearm and smiling coyly at something he’d said. Something felt off about the exchange. She wasn’t behaving like a grieving wife at all.
But then again, grief makes people behave unpredictably.
When my mother died, my father was never the same. He rarely smiled, rarely ate, rarely did anything that required a show of emotion. He tried, for my sake, but it always felt false. Forced.
I knew I looked a little too much like her, and it showed when he looked at me with pain in his eyes and regret etched into his face.
Charon’s mother had told me stories of how disgustingly in love my parents had been.
Nothing could keep them apart — not time, nor duty, not even death, they had promised.
She told me how they used to dance through their palace without music; how my father would smile quietly as he watched her arrange spectacularly bright bouquets, basking in her multihued joy.
Persephone had stepped into the Underworld, and right into Hades’ heart. But when she died — when the father of the man seated across from me had murdered her — everything changed. The flowers withered, leaving only the deadliest behind. The halls grew cold. And so did my father.
Now, sitting mere feet away, amusement in his features, was the son of the god who had destroyed my entire world .
I could not let myself forget who he was, or what he, too, might be capable of.
He could joke, and laugh, and smile that radiant smile as much as he liked… but I would not be caught dead trusting it. I could not trust him. I could not trust any of them. I, alone, had to win the crown. My fate was already woven, and it demanded my ascension to save the realms.
I was determined not to fuck it up.