Chapter 3

Aletheia's POV

The stone door to Rhea's sanctuary groaned as I pushed it open. The sound echoed through the narrow corridor, followed by silence so complete it felt like the world was holding its breath.

Inside, the air was different. Colder than the rest of the estate, but not the bone-deep freeze of Cocytus. This was the cold of something ending. Of life slowly draining away.

Weak divine light flickered from crystals embedded in the walls, casting shadows that danced like dying embers. The pavilion had once been covered in sacred vines, blooming with flowers that never wilted. Now they hung from the ceiling like corpses, brittle and grey, crackling when I brushed past them.

Grandmother sat in the center of the room on a throne woven from those vines.

I stopped breathing.

She looked so small. The ancient Titan who'd once stood tall enough to make gods bow their heads now seemed to be collapsing in on herself. Her silver hair—once thick and lustrous in my memory—now hung dull around a face carved with lines that hadn't been there before. Her eyes—once bright as moonlight—were now dim, clouded, struggling to focus.

The divine light that should have surrounded her was barely visible. Just faint wisps, like smoke from a candle that had already burned out.

"Child?" Her voice was a whisper, rough and uncertain. "Is that you?"

Something inside me broke.

All the walls I'd built over ten years, all the coldness I'd wrapped around myself like armor—it shattered in an instant.

I crossed the room in three stumbling steps and fell to my knees in front of her, my hands reaching for hers. They were so cold. So fragile. Like touching paper that might tear at any moment.

"Grandmother." My voice cracked. "I'm here. I'm here."

She gripped my hands tightly. Her clouded eyes searched my face, and when recognition finally dawned, tears spilled down her weathered cheeks.

"Oh, my poor child," she breathed. "Look what they did to you. Look what they did."

I tried to speak. Tried to say something, anything. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, a sob tore out of my throat—raw and ugly and ten years overdue.

I collapsed against her, my forehead pressing against her knees, and I cried. Not the silent, swallowed tears I'd learned in Cocytus. Real crying. The kind that shook my whole body, that made my chest hurt, that felt like it might never stop.

Grandmother's trembling hand came to rest on my head, her fingers threading through my brittle white hair.

"I know," she murmured, her own voice breaking. "I know what you suffered, child. I came back too late. Too late."

Her hand stroked my hair with the same gentleness I remembered from childhood. When I'd scraped my knees climbing the golden laurel tree. When I'd had nightmares about monsters in the dark. When the world had been simple and safe and I'd believed I was loved.

I don't know how long we stayed like that. Time felt meaningless in that cold, dying room. But eventually, my sobs quieted to shaking breaths, and Grandmother gently lifted my chin.

"Let me see you properly," she said.

I raised my head.

Her eyes traced every change. The white hair. The grey, lifeless skin. The hollows under my cheekbones where flesh had wasted away. When her gaze fell to my hands—still clutching hers—she went very still.

Slowly, carefully, she turned my hands over. Pushed back the sleeves of my prison rags.

The scars were worse in the light. Thick ridges of frostbite damage running up my forearms. Whip marks crisscrossing my wrists. Places where the skin had frozen, died, and grown back wrong, leaving patches that would never heal right.

Grandmother made a sound like something dying.

"They did this to you," she whispered. "For ten years, they did this to you."

Fresh tears rolled down her face, but these were different. Not grief. Rage. Pure, ancient fury that made the dying vines around us tremble.

"The Chalice," she said, voice shaking. "You didn't break it. You were locked in the dungeons that night. I checked the records when I returned. You couldn't have—"

"I know." My voice came out flat. Dead. "But it didn't matter. They needed someone to blame, and I was convenient."

"Helios." The name was a curse on her lips. "Selene. Orion. They all knew. They knew you were innocent, and they threw you to Hera anyway."

I pulled my hands back, tugging the sleeves down to cover the scars again. "It's done. It doesn't matter anymore."

"It matters." Grandmother's hand shot out, faster than I'd thought she could move, and gripped my wrist. "It matters because you matter. Because you are still my granddaughter, no matter what blood flows in your veins. Do you hear me?"

I looked at her. At the fierce love burning in those clouded eyes. At the woman who'd given up part of her divine essence—her life—just to get me out of hell.

"Why?" The word came out broken. "Why did you do it? Why trade your life for mine?"

"Because you're worth it." She said it like it was the simplest truth in the world. "Because I love you. Not because of blood."

Something in my chest twisted. I'd forgotten what it felt like to be loved without conditions. Without needing to prove myself worthy first.

"Grandmother, I—" My voice caught. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you had to—"

"Hush." She pulled me close again, her thin arms wrapping around me. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. The ones who should be sorry are the cowards who threw you away like trash."

I buried my face in her shoulder and let myself be held. Just for a moment. Just long enough to remember what safety felt like.

When I finally pulled back, Grandmother's expression had shifted. The rage was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but now it was mixed with something else. Worry. Fear.

"I need to tell you something," she said quietly. "About what's coming."

I nodded, bracing myself.

"The divine essence I gave to Hera..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's not going to kill me. Not exactly. But I'm going to sleep. A long sleep. It's how we Titans protect ourselves when our essence runs too low. We go dormant until we can regenerate."

My hands clenched in my lap. "How long?"

"I don't know." Her voice was soft. Apologetic. "Could be fifty years. Could be five hundred. But I will wake up eventually. I promise you that."

Fifty years. Five hundred. The latter might as well be forever for someone with a mortal lifespan.

"When?" I managed.

"Soon." She reached up and cupped my face with both hands. "Days, maybe. A week at most. I can feel it already—the pull toward sleep. That's why I had to see you. Had to make sure you were safe before I..."

She trailed off, but I understood.

I'm not safe here.

Her thumbs brushed across my cheekbones, wiping away tears I hadn't realized were still falling.

She reached into the folds of her robe and pulled out a medallion. Small, round, made of gold that seemed to hold its own light. Ancient runes were carved into its surface.

"A passage token," she said. "It will let you through the Heaven's Gate. Back to the mortal realm."

I stared at it. At the escape route she was offering me.

"Leave this place," she continued, pressing the medallion into my palm. "Go back to the mortal world. There's no blood hierarchy there. No divine politics. No one who'll punish you for what you're not." Her voice grew urgent. "That's where you belong now, child. Not here. Never here."

I closed my fingers around the medallion. It was warm against my skin, humming with power.

"I want to stay with you," I said. "Until you sleep. I want to be here for that."

Grandmother's eyes softened. "Are you sure? You could leave now. Be free of this place."

"I'm sure." I met her gaze steadily. "You gave up everything to get me out. The least I can do is stay until the end."

For a moment, she just looked at me. Then she smiled—a real smile, sad but genuine.

"You always were stubborn," she said. "Even as a little girl. Once you decided something, there was no changing your mind."

"I learned from the best."

She laughed, and the sound was like sunlight breaking through clouds. Weak, fleeting, but real.

We sat together in comfortable silence for a while. Grandmother's hand found mine again, and we just held on to each other. Two people clinging to the last bit of warmth in a cold, dying room.

Finally, I had to ask. The question that had been eating at me for ten years.

"Grandmother... if I'm mortal, how did I end up here? Why did the family think I was theirs?"