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The god looked haunted, and angry lines were etched on his face. His white shirt was covered in blood.
“Before you begin,” Hermes said, knowing what was to come, “you should know that Tyche is dead.”
Those words made Hades straighten, and Hecate took an audible breath.
It was not news he had expected, but it gave context to the massacre he had stepped into and explained why Aphrodite had been present—to seek revenge on those who had hurt her sister.
“How?” Hecate asked.
“We do not know,” Hermes said. “I…took her to Apollo.”
“You left her,” Hades said, his voice darkening. He took a step toward the god.
“Persephone ordered me,” Hermes said.
“Iordered you to protecther,” Hades said. His voice rose and black spikes shot from the tips of his fingers. “You swore anoath.”
“I know,” Hermes said, voice quiet, a shamed whisper as his eyes dropped to his feet. “I failed.”
Hades reached him and placed a hand on his face, tilting his head back so their gazes met. His thumb settled just beneath Hermes’s eye, the sharp tip of a spike drawing blood.
“Ifailed,” Hades said.
Hermes flinched, those words far more painful than any wound Hades might inflict, and yet they were not enough. This type of magic required a physical debt, a daily reminder of the oath that was broken.
Hades braced his other hand against Hermes’s head.
“I will never forget this night,” Hades said. “And neither will you.”
Then he jabbed his thumb into Hermes’s face. The god screamed and jerked away, but Hades held him steady, dragging the spike down his cheek and over his lip before shoving him away.
Hermes stumbled back, his hand shaking as he held it to his bleeding face.
A normal wound to a god would have already healed, but this one would take time, and even then, it would scar. It was the price of breaking an oath.
“Do not worry,” Hades said. “That will be the last oath you ever have to make.”
Hades would never trust him with one again.
Hermes glared, eyes glistening, but he did not say a word as he vanished from sight.
Hades sat on the balcony just outside the room where Persephone lay sleeping. He remained awake, knowinghis dreams would be no better than his reality—he would still relive what haunted him now.
There was a part of him that wanted to acknowledge the sheer terror of Persephone’s magic, but he also knew she would not see the lives she took as power, though they had made the choice to attack her, to bargain with their lives, and all for a cause that saw another goddess dead.
He certainly had not expected Tyche to become the next victim, though she was as close to one of the Fates as any goddess could be, given her control over fortune. Perhaps that was why she was targeted. Triad and their followers—official or otherwise—had an obsession with free will, and powers like Tyche’s threatened that because she could grant prosperity and abundance just as easily as she could take it away. Perhaps they blamed her for Demeter’s storm.
Though Hades also knew it was futile to assign a reason to Tyche’s death. Why she was chosen did not matter. It mattered only that she had died.
He knew when Persephone woke because he could hear the rustling of the sheets and the patter of her feet as she made her way to the balcony.
The closer she came, the more he tensed. As much as he wished to look at her, he was also afraid. Even now, all he could picture was her bloodied body. He feared never seeing her the same again.
“Hades.”
Her voice was quiet, her presence warm. He could not help letting her coax his gaze, though even he felt the hardness of it.
“Are you well?”
