The Stadium of Olympia was monumental. Crafted from marble, it was built between two steep hills, which gave the impression that it was sinking. The tiered seats of the arena were packed, brimming with mortals eager to see the gods and demigods clash. Between Theseus’s accusations that a god had kidnapped his wife and child and Aphrodite’s accusations that he and his followers were responsible for the deaths of Adonis, Tyche, and Hypnos, these games were no longer about the lives lost, though they never really had been, and Persephone mourned that, especially for Tyche, who deserved to be honored.
Aphrodite’s announcement about the games and Helios’s claims about Persephone had both drawn nonstop media attention, and the energy of the arena was palpable. Persephone was anxious to expose herself to thousands of people who now saw her as a murderer.
She inched closer to Hades. They were already pressed together, standing on the floor of his golden chariot, waiting in line with other Olympians for the signal to move and enter the arena. They were surrounded by both friends and enemies. Before her was the fiery helm of Ares, behind her the golden helm of Apollo.
She relaxed the moment Hades’s palm came to rest low on her stomach and shivered when his lips brushed her ear.
“Do you think I would let anyone harm you?” he asked.
“No,” she said, covering his hand with her own. “But I cannot help being afraid.”
There was a hostility in the air she had never felt before, and she knew part of it was directed at her.
“You did not have to come,” he said.
She turned her head to the side but didn’t look at him, keeping her eyes on their surroundings. She could feel Hades’s magic blazing around them, an invisible inferno warning away any potential threat, and while that might work on his fellow Olympians, she did not believe for a second it would scare away Theseus or his demigods.
If they were going to demonstrate the power of their weapons, they would do so today at the games, and what better way than to target her? The goddess who had murdered her mother?
“It would be worse if I didn’t,” she said.
“Worse for who exactly?”
“If I hide from the public, I look guilty,” she said.
It did not matter that she was.
“Choosing safety is not hiding,” Hades replied.
“You said I was safe,” she pointed out.
His grip on her tightened. “That is not the point.”
“I will not give Theseus the benefit of seeing me run,” she said, though she had to admit, she wasn’t sure she was ready to see the demigod again. When she thought about it, her heart felt like it was going to jump out of her chest. “That is what he wants.”
“Theseus wants everything,” said Hades. “He does not care if you run or not. He can manipulate either choice you make.”
Persephone’s stomach knotted. “Those are not comforting words, Hades.”
“I do not know that I can offer comfort where Theseus is concerned.”
“Are you all right, Seph?”
Persephone turned her head to see that Apollo had approached Hades’s chariot. He was dressed in a gold breastplate and leather ptergues. She had seen him clad similarly in the past when he trained at the palaestra with Ajax and other heroes.
“I am all right,” she said and let her gaze shift past him. “Where is Ajax?”
“He is farther back in line,” said Apollo. “He will enter with the other heroes after the demigods.”
Persephone shuddered. “I hate that he must walk in the shadow of Theseus.”
“I am not keen on the arrangement,” he said. “But it is tradition.”
Persephone wanted to roll her eyes, but she didn’t.
“Will you join the games, Hades?” Apollo asked.
“No,” Hades said. “Few wish to battle death.”
“I think Theseus and his band of jackasses would like a go,” said Apollo.
Persephone frowned. “Are you participating, Apollo?”
“I am,” he said. “Single combat.”
“As a mortal, right?”
“No,” he said. His mouth was tight, as if the suggestion insulted him. “I am a god. I will fight as one.”
“But, Apollo—”
“I will be fine, Persephone,” said Apollo. “Despite having no powers, I still have my strength. It would be unfair to fight mere mortals.”
A shrill whistle sounded, a signal for the gods to ready their chariots.
“Wish me luck?” he asked.
“You always have my luck,” said Persephone, but she would also fear for him, not knowing what, if anything, Theseus and his men had planned.
Apollo grinned and sauntered off, returning to his chariot.
“I do not like this,” Persephone said as Hades tugged on the reins, urging the chariot forward. “He has no power.”
“Apollo does not rely on magic in battle,” said Hades. “He will be fine.”
She tried to take comfort in his words, but as they entered the vaulted corridor of the stadium, her anxiety only grew worse. The crowd already sounded like a storm, thundering all around them, and they were not even on the arena floor.
She kept her gaze on Ares as he left the shade of the tunnel, the sun glimmering off his golden armor, the plume of red feathers coming out of his helm like fire, spilling down his back. He lifted his spear into the air—the same one he had used to pin Hades to the ground.
As the God of War guided his chariot, he glanced back at her, a cynical smile on his face.
And suddenly it was their turn.
It was so bright, Persephone could barely keep her eyes open as they emerged from the shadow. It seemed to her that the sun was brighter and hotter in the aftermath of her mother’s storm. Even now, she could feel its rays burning her skin. She blinked, eyes watering, as she brought her hand up to shield her face, emerging to a chorus of noise.
She could not distinguish the sounds—if they were cheers or jeers—but it did not really matter because she could feel the hostility in the air. Eventually, as her vision adjusted, she could see it in the angry, red-faced mortals shouting from the stands, their fingers curled into shaking fists, and while there were some who declared their love, the hate seemed far louder. Though as Hades followed the line of chariots to the footpath surrounding the dusty floor of the stadium, the crowd quieted.
Persephone glanced back at her husband. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Putting the fear of death within them,” he said.
“I do not want their devotion to be born out of fear,” said Persephone.
Hades said nothing, but she did not need his words. Mostly she was just expressing her own fear—that she would never regain the trust of the mortal world.
Hades brought the chariot to a stop, and Persephone let her hands relax, realizing how hard she had been gripping its edge as she stretched her fingers. Hades took a step back, allowing her the space to turn and face him. He took her hands in his and kissed them, threads of healing warmth easing the ache.
She was not sure why she blushed. She was used to Hades performing far more lascivious acts, but there was something about the quiet brush of his lips she could feel deep in her gut.
He offered a small smile, as if he could sense the fire he had lit within her, and took a step down from the chariot.
“Let me help you,” he said, looking up at her. His hands were already on her waist, his face level with her breasts, which he made sure to brush with his chin.
“You know I will not deny you,” she said.
He lifted her, and when he set her down, he let her slide down his body. She felt every hard inch of him. She flushed again, holding his gaze.
“I know what you are doing,” she said.
“And what is that?” he asked.
“You are hoping I will be aroused by your touch and ask to leave,” she said.
“And are you?” he asked. “Aroused?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I am not leaving, Hades,” she said.
“We do not have to leave,” he said. “I can fuck you anywhere.”
“You two are so gross,” said Hermes as he sauntered by, dressed in gold armor and wearing a gold circlet with wings.
“What’s wrong, Hermes?” said Hades. “Do you want me to fuck you too?”
The God of Trickery stumbled going up the steps and into the stands. Hades chuckled, but his amusement faded when his gaze returned to Persephone.
“That was unkind,” she said.
“So were his words,” said Hades.
“He was joking.”
Hades snickered. “So was I.”
She rolled her eyes and moved past him, following the gods into the stadium. Hades remained close, a physical shadow. They passed the first row of gods where Aphrodite and Hephaestus sat beside Apollo and Artemis. She had expected the goddess’s disdain, as none of their previous interactions had gone well, and according to Aphrodite, Artemis had accepted Zeus’s call to bring Persephone to him in chains, all for a title and shield, though it did not seem that she had attempted her mission. Persephone wondered if Apollo had something to do with that.
She held Artemis’s gaze as she passed, sliding into the second row. With dread, Persephone realized she was seated in front of Hera, who sat in one of two throne-like seats, obviously intended for the King and Queen of the Gods, though the God of the Sky was noticeably absent.
Persephone wondered if all the gods knew what had befallen Zeus. Did they feel like the rest of them? Conflicted?
Hera was already seated, her shrewd gaze fixed on Persephone. She stared back and offered a single nod.
“You know this area is reserved for Olympians only,” said Ares.
“How do you become an Olympian, Ares?” Persephone asked. “Is it when you defeat one in battle?”
Hermes put his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Burn!”
“She didn’t burn me, you imbecile!” Ares snapped.
“I didn’t mean literally,” said Hermes. “Who’s the imbecile now?”
Hades placed a hand on Persephone’s shoulder and slid past her to sit on her left, between her and Ares. Thankfully, Hermes sat on her right. She leaned over, whispering, “How are Olympians chosen?”
She did not know, because since the gods had won the Titanomachy, the Olympians had never changed—never died.
“Well, first, one of us would have to die,” he said. “And then I suppose Zeus would choose.”
Persephone glanced over her shoulder to where Hera loomed behind her. “And if Zeus cannot?”
“Then the responsibility would fall to Hera,” he said. “But that has never happened.”
The way Hermes spoke, it almost sounded like he believed the twelve would never die, even Zeus who apparently hung in the sky, though as she glanced up, all she could see was a thick, bright haze.
Suddenly, the crowd’s roar drew her attention back to the entrance where the demigods were now filing into the stadium. Persephone’s heart felt like it was pounding throughout her whole body. She held her breath, waiting to catch sight of Theseus, hoping she would be able to control her reaction to the demigod who had stolen her peace, but she couldn’t.
He led the group, flanked by a pair of demigods on either side. His eyes were bright, familiar even from a distance. He kept a wide smile on his face—charming, mortals would likely call it—and waved to the crowd.
Hermes leaned over. “He doesn’t look too upset about his wife and baby.”
Persephone’s stomach knotted, and a flood of emotion racked her body—hatred so visceral, her eyes stung with tears, but there was also fear. It trembled within her, shaking her to her core. She squeezed her hands into fists to hide it.
Then Hades’s hand covered hers, and slowly, the panic began to ebb.
Her gaze shifted to the others who marched besideTheseus. She only recognized Sandros.
“Who are the others?” Persephone asked.
She watched Hades’s face as he spoke, his hatred of them evident.
“The two on his left are Kai and Sandros. The two on his right are Damian and Machaon. He calls them high lords.”
“High lords. That’s the title given to leaders within the organization of Triad, right?” Persephone asked.
“Yes,” said Hades. “It means nothing save that it provides us with a list of who to target first.”
Persephone studied each one, able to identify their parentage from a distance. Kai looked like Theseus, which meant he was a descendant of Poseidon. Sandros had Zeus’s striking eyes.
“Is…Machaon…Apollo’s son?”
Hermes snorted. “Not a son but a grandson.”
“And the one you called Damian?”
“He is the son of Thetis, a water goddess.”
She continued to watch them, able to identify members of Triad by a triangle pin they wore that caught the light as they moved.
“Those are new,” said Persephone, concerned. Before, members of Triad were far more discreet, which made sense, given that their agenda was mainly against the gods. Wearing such a symbol communicated an element of pride in their rebellion.
Hades said nothing, but his frown deepened.
Persephone sat up a little straighter when the heroes were announced and Ajax walked onto the field. He was hard to miss with his dark hair and large frame. She and Apollo both stood, twisting their hands in the air at the wrists—which was the sign for applause.
Ajax grinned and waved back.
Persephone recognized other heroes from the Panhellenic Games, including Hector, Anastasia, and Cynisca—all loyal to the gods because they had been chosen by the gods.
The heroes were followed by the mortal competitors, and once they were all positioned on the field, Aphrodite rose and approached a podium located a few feet away from where the gods had assembled.
She looked beautiful, dressed in white and pearls, though the sun beat down on her, igniting her like a flame. Her gaze seemed to linger on Hephaestus. Persephone glanced at him and saw that he was gripping the arms of his stone chair. It made the veins and muscles in his arms bulge.
“For centuries, our people have honored the dead through sport. Today, we carry on that tradition by celebrating the lives of Adonis, my favored, Tyche, the Goddess of Fortune, Hypnos, the God of Sleep, and the one hundred and thirty lives lost during the attack by Triad on Talaria Stadium.”
A tense silence followed.
Aphrodite’s commentary on the Talaria Stadium attack was a painful reminder for many, including Persephone, who had not only witnessed the explosion that took so many lives but also fought to protect other innocent people. In the process, she had been shot, and while she had successfully healed herself, she would never forget the pain of the blast or the way Hades had reacted.
It was in those moments that she saw his true darkness.
But Triad could not deny the attack, because they had taken credit for it, defaulting to their usual argument: Where are your gods now? The argument was an excuse for violence and ignored the fact that the gods had been there, and they had fought—hard—but to no avail.
“Today we honor those whose lives were cut short by Triad, whose volatile actions only prove they have the freedom and free will they so often demand.”
Her words were met with guttural boos and angry shouts.
“It is evident to me that fairness has escaped you,” she continued, her voice rising above the noise. “For if such a thing existed, none who had a hand in these deaths would breathe the free air.”
Persephone shivered, and Hades’s hand squeezed hers.
Despite Aphrodite’s words pointing out the hypocrisy of Triad, Persephone knew it was not enough to win back favor from mortals because the gods were no better. She was no better, though she had started her career pointing out similar hypocrisies; except then, no one had cared, not until Theseus had established himself as a viable leader.
And while Persephone could acknowledge that the Olympians were not the best, they were the lesser of two evils.
“Let the games begin,” Aphrodite said.
A horn sounded, marking the start of the games.
Aphrodite returned to her seat, and the competitors cleared the field.
“What is the first competition?” Persephone asked.
“Wrestling,” said Hermes, rubbing his hands together.
She raised a brow. “Really?”
“What?” Hermes asked. “I like the outfits.”
“They’re naked, Hermes.”
He grinned. “Exactly.”
She was about to roll her eyes when someone shouted from the stands, “Death to all gods!”
It was not the first time Persephone had heard the chant, but it still made her blood run cold.
When no one joined, the heckler tried again.
“Death to all gods!”
Persephone’s fists clenched. Hades rubbed his thumb over hers to ease her frustration, but it didn’t work. She started to stand but was surprised when Hera rose to her feet and faced the mortal.
“Do you think you are funny, mortal?” she asked.
Her question was met with silence.
“I know you speak,” she said.
Then the mortal began to scream, and so did those around him.
“She has turned his tongue into a snake!”
The screams of the man grew louder as he ran past the gods, tripping and falling to the ground. After that, he did not move. A man dressed in a vibrant vest ran to him and dragged him off the field.
“That was not well done, Hera,” Hades commented without looking at the goddess.
“I’m not on your side, Hades,” she replied.
The tension following Hera’s words was unbearable. Persephone thought it might dissipate once the wrestling began and she could focus on naked men grappling in the dirt, but it remained heavy in the air.
She only noticed her leg bouncing when Hades reached over and squeezed her thigh.
She stopped and looked at him.
“I will keep you safe,” he reminded her.
Beside her, Hermes’s body seemed to convulse.
“What was that?” Persephone asked.
“It was a shiver, Persephone. A shiver,” he said.
“Why?”
“You mean you don’t shiver when Hades says things like that?”
As if to emphasize his point, he shuddered again.
She did, but she wasn’t interested in saying that here.
“Why don’t you date, Hermes?”
“I date,” he said. “Just not…exclusively. I like a…a smattering of flavors.”
Persephone scrunched her nose at his choice of words. “Flavors?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes I like dick. Sometimes I just want tacos.”
“Hermes,” she said, a little confused. “Do you mean actual tacos or…”
“Of course I mean actual tacos. What other kinds of tacos are there?”
Persephone opened her mouth to answer, but then closed it and shook her head. “Never mind. I’m glad you like tacos.”
She turned her attention back to the wrestling match. She was not surprised to see that Ajax and Hector were among the last on the field. The two were rivals, though Persephone was not certain if it stemmed from Apollo’s attention or something else.
Whatever the case, the God of Music had made it worse with his indecisiveness, and though he had eventually chosen Ajax, the rivalry remained, as was evident by the way the two fought—brutally.
As Persephone watched, dread pooled low in her stomach. She looked at Apollo, who sat forward in his seat, eyes following their every move.
Suddenly, Hector rammed into Ajax and flipped him onto his back, slamming into him with such force, a crack echoed throughout the stadium.
When Hector got to his feet, Ajax did not move.
“No,” Apollo said as he shot across the field, but Machaon had reached him first.
“What is he doing?” Persephone asked.
“Performing,” said Hades as the demigod placed his hands on Ajax.
After a few seconds, the hero’s eyes opened, and he was able to sit up.
The crowd roared with praise.
“A god could have done the same thing,” said Persephone.
“They could,” said Hades. “That is the point.”
Persephone looked at Hades as understanding dawned. The demigods wanted to show that their powers were no different from those of the Olympians.
“I’m beginning to think giving Theseus any kind of platform was a mistake,” said Persephone.
“I suppose we will find out.”
Once Ajax was on his feet, Hector was declared the winner. They were led off the field, but Apollo did not return to his seat. He remained at Ajax’s side, his anger apparent. She wondered if he would try to fight Hector. He had been eager for combat, and now he had a target.
The next game was announced: the footrace.
Persephone looked at Hermes. “Aren’t you fast?”
“I can be,” he said, and then he wiggled his brows. “But I can also go slow if you know what I mean.”
“Do you have to be like this?” Persephone asked.
“I ask myself that question all the time,” said Hades.
“Seriously?” said Hermes. “No one likes me for me!”
“My point is,” Persephone said, refusing to go down that road, “I thought you loved wrestling and racing. Why aren’t you competing? Are you afraid you’ll get beaten by a demigod?”
Hermes sputtered. “Excuse you! I don’t get beaten.”
“Obviously not, because you don’t compete.”
Hermes’s face flushed red. She wanted to laugh, but she also wanted him to take her seriously.
“You know what, Sephy? Fine. I’ll show you.”
He rose to his feet and cast off his robes. They landed over her head but slipped away, too silky to stay. She caught the God of Mischief running to the starting line in a pair of tiny shorts.
When she looked at Hades, she found that he was staring back, a brow raised.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just wondering what you are doing.”
“We can’t let the demigods win a second time, and Hermes is the only god who can beat them in a footrace even without magic.”
His lips twitched. “You do know the prizes for winning funeral games are boring?”
“It isn’t about the prizes,” she said. “It is about winning.”
Hades chuckled, and she was so distracted, she jumped at the sound of the horn blaring, signaling the start of the race.
Persephone whirled and cupped her hands around her mouth.
“Go, Hermes! Go!”
But the god was going.
He made running look effortless. It was like he was soaring over the track, his feet barely touching as he remained one step ahead of the rest of the competitors.
As they came to the end of the first lap, Persephone looked at Hades.
“How many times do they have to go around?”
“Four,” he said.
Four? Her chest hurt just thinking about it, but Hermes made it look easy.
It wasn’t until the final lap that he even seemed to break a sweat, and as he neared the finish line, her excitement rose.
“Yes! Come on, Hermes!” she cheered, bouncing on her feet.
She had never seen the god so focused before. His brows were pinched, and his mouth was pressed thin. It would be an easy win. Only one came close to matching his stride, and that was Machaon.
Still, he could not—would not—overtake Hermes.
But then, the god stumbled, and as he struck the ground, the other runners surged past, leaving him in a trail of their dust.
Persephone’s excitement burst, and a strange numbness spread throughout her body. She stared at Hermes and then at Hades, her mouth ajar.
Beside him, Ares laughed. “You should see your face, flower goddess. You would think they slaughtered a lamb, though I suppose Hermes is a close second.”
She clenched her teeth, anger making her eyes water. “Machaon cheated!”
“Nobody cares,” said Ares, resting his cheek on his closed fist as if he were bored. “These are funeral games. They are for no one but the dead.”
“Shut up,” she snapped.
It was a childish comeback, but she did not know what else to say. She turned her attention to Hermes, who now limped across the finish line. She started to go to him, but Hades held her firmly by the wrist.
“Do not go beyond my reach,” he said.
She considered breaking free of him, but she had learned there was a reason for Hades’s warnings, so she waited for Hermes to return to his seat. He did not look at her as he made his way up the steps, his ankle and elbow bruised and swollen. Guilt lanced through her chest.
“Hermes,” she said, reaching for his hand, but he pulled away. “I am so sorry. I—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Persephone,” he said, not meeting her gaze.
“At least…at least let me heal you.”
“I don’t need your help,” he said.
Persephone took a juddering breath. She wanted to cry. She could feel it building in the back of her throat and tingling in her nose.
“Do you want to go?” Hades asked.
She didn’t want to look at him, because she knew if she did, she would likely burst into tears, but she was saved from it when the next game was announced.
Single combat.
Apollo.
“Please,” Persephone whispered.
Artemis scoffed and glanced back at Persephone. “You do not have to worry about my brother. No one is better than him, especially at single combat.”
But this was not about the best, or Ajax and Hermes would have won.
As the competitors began, Persephone’s stomach churned, though true to Artemis’s words, Apollo shone. Despite not having his magic, his strength was evident. Each thrust of his spear landed with precision, and the power behind it had his opponents sliding back on their feet. His skill was evident, honed over thousands of years, and the only one who rivaled him was Theseus, who fought with a grace she had not seen among anyone but the Olympians.
She was not surprised when they stood opposite each other for the final fight, but she had never been so afraid. The churning in her stomach grew violent, the feeling rising into her throat. She held her breath until the first jab was thrown by Apollo, striking Theseus’s shield. The second was made lower, a stab at his legs, but again, it glanced off his shield.
Persephone glanced at Artemis, who sat rigidly in her seat, hands fisted. As much as she believed in her brother, this clearly made her anxious.
While Apollo fought fiercely, with skill and determination, Theseus fought with anger and hate. It fueled his strikes, and each one seemed to hit harder than the last until Apollo brought his shield down on Theseus’s spear.
It shattered beneath the blow.
Hope rose, and Persephone sat straighter.
Then Theseus drew a sword.
Apollo cast his spear aside and drew his own blade.
“Why would he do that?” Persephone asked, frustrated.
“The sword is a better choice for this fight,” said Hades.
She glanced at him, finding that he too had shifted forward in his seat, which did nothing to ease her worry. Nor did the ensuing battle, which was fought just as fiercely. Each clash of blade against blade, blade against shield, shield against shield, set Persephone more and more on edge.
“How can they be so equally matched?” Persephone asked.
“They aren’t,” Artemis snapped.
Persephone could not fault her for her frustration. She felt it too.
Her spirit rose when Apollo landed a blow to the front of Theseus’s leather armor but quickly fell when the demigod was able to trap Apollo’s arm, cutting him deeply.
“No,” Persephone breathed. She was almost out of her chair, held there only because she did not think she could stand, she shook so badly at the sight of Apollo’s blood spilling to the ground. He dropped his shield and tried to bring up his sword, but Theseus blocked the blow and brought his own blade down on Apollo’s helm.
His blade shattered.
But then Theseus gripped Apollo’s helm and dragged his head down, slamming his knee into his face. Apollo fell to his hands and knees, more blood dripping from his nose and mouth. Theseus shoved his foot into his side and pushed him onto his back.
Artemis rose to her feet.
“Don’t let him win, Apollo!” she shouted, but her words were lost over the roar of the crowd.
“He’s not moving,” Persephone said. “Why isn’t he moving?”
Then there was a flash of light as Theseus reached toward the sky, calling to Zeus’s lightning bolt. But something was happening. The clouds had parted, and there in the sky hung Zeus for all to see.
Silence descended, and Theseus’s gaze swept the crowd.
“Now look upon your gods,” he said. “And know they are mortal.”
Zeus’s lightning bolt flashed as Theseus brought it down on Apollo. Persephone screamed, and so did Artemis. They shot from their seats, racing to the god—their friend and brother—as his body convulsed beneath the current.
At the same time, there were several loud booms—like a hundred explosions had just gone off—and at first the ground trembled, but then it seemed to roll beneath them, shaking violently.
Persephone teleported, and Artemis followed.
By the time they reached him, Theseus was gone, and Apollo lay on the ground, burned beyond recognition. Artemis fell to her knees, hands hovering over Apollo as if she were too afraid to touch him.
“Heal!” she screamed, the word drawn out and guttural. “Heal!”
Persephone felt dizzy, and just as she thought she would collapse, Hades’s magic consumed them. Suddenly, they were in the Underworld, and someone was shouting for the Golden Fleece. It was a few moments before Persephone realized it was her.
“It’s too late, Persephone,” Hades said.
“It’s not too late,” she said, shoving him away. “Get the fleece!”
“Persephone,” Hades said again, reaching for her.
“Why isn’t anyone getting the fleece?” she screamed, whirling to find everyone—Aphrodite and Hephaestus, Hermes and Hecate, Sybil and Harmonia. Then her eyes dropped to Artemis, who had managed to lay Apollo’s head in her lap, and it was then that she understood what Hades was saying.
She went to her knees.
Apollo was dead.
