Chapter 7
Aletheia's POV
She was going to marry Ares.
I waited for something to stir inside me. Pain. Jealousy. Anger. Anything.
But there was nothing. Just the same hollow emptiness that had filled me since Cocytus.
Ares Ironblood. The war god who'd once looked at me with expectation, who'd told me my star would shine bright after the Ordeal. Who'd turned away the moment my blood ran red.
He was going to marry Aurora now. Of course he was. She had everything he'd wanted from me—pure blood, divine power, the Dawn family's legitimacy.
I should care. Some part of me knew I should care.
But I didn't.
That girl who'd loved him, who'd believed his promises, who'd stood on the Star Altar dreaming of their future together—she'd died in Cocytus. Frozen and broken and forgotten.
What was left of me felt nothing.
It doesn't matter, I told myself again. None of it matters.
Over the next few days, I visited Rhea's sanctuary every day.
The first day, Grandmother was awake for a few hours. We talked, she told stories, sometimes we just sat quietly, hand in hand.
The second day, she was only awake for two hours. Her voice was weaker, her eyes harder to focus.
The third day, one hour. She slept most of the time, occasionally waking to grip my hand, as if confirming I was still there.
The fourth day, she only opened her eyes for a few minutes. Looked at me, smiled, then sank back into sleep.
The fifth day, she didn't wake at all.
I sat beside her throne, watching her chest rise and fall slowly. The silver light barrier in the sanctuary grew brighter, like a veil covering her, sealing her off from the outside world.
This was it. Deep sleep. Could be decades. Could be centuries.
I kissed her forehead one last time. Her skin was cold, like marble.
"Grandmother," I whispered, "when you wake, I'll be doing well. I promise."
I stood up and turned to leave the sanctuary. There were no tears in my eyes. Just an empty calm.
As I walked out the door, the silver light barrier closed completely, sealing the entire sanctuary. No one could enter. No one could disturb her sleep.
I stood outside the door, gripping the golden token in my pocket.
It was time.
I returned to my small courtyard. There was almost nothing in the room worth taking. Ten years of Underworld servitude had left me with nothing, and no one had given me anything after I returned to the mountain.
Only those folded prison rags, lying quietly in the corner.
I looked at them for a long time, but finally left them there.
Let them rot with this place.
I carry with me the token my grandmother gave me and the rusted blade hidden in my sleeve. One will lead me to freedom. The other will end everything when freedom proves worse than captivity.
From the Dawn Estate to the Olympus Heaven's Gate, I'd need to pass through the central divine plaza. It was heavily guarded, but the golden token should let me through.
I just needed to choose the right moment.
I began planning my route. Avoiding main roads.
Grandmother had given me freedom.
Now I would use it.
I took one last look at the Dawn Temple.
The place that had once been my home now stood in eternal daylight, its golden radiance glaring and false. I'd run through those corridors, played in those gardens, dreamed of being loved in those rooms.
Twenty years of memories, now nothing but ashes.
I didn't hate it. Hatred requires emotion, and I had none left.
I just... didn't belong there anymore.
Maybe I never had.
Then I turned and walked toward the Heaven's Gate.
Without looking back.
Without lingering.
The gates of Olympus loomed ahead, carved from white marble that seemed to drink in the eternal daylight. I could see the boundary shimmering in the distance—that thin veil separating the divine realm from the mortal world. Three more steps. Two.
"Aletheia."
The voice stopped me cold. Not because I recognized it—I did—but because I'd hoped never to hear it again.
I didn't turn around. "That's not my name anymore."
Heavy footsteps approached from behind. The sound of armor, the weight of someone who'd spent years learning to move like a weapon. Ares.
"I heard you were released." His voice was closer now, maybe ten feet away. "Orion mentioned it when he returned from the river."
Of course he did. My so-called brother probably couldn't wait to spread the news that the family's shame had returned.
"And?" My gaze remained fixed on the gates. "Did you come to congratulate me on surviving?"
Silence. Then footsteps again, circling around to block my path.
I finally looked up.
Ten years. It had been ten years since I'd last seen the War God up close. He looked different—harder, somehow. There were new scars on his face, cutting across his bronze skin like pale lightning. His crimson cloak was battle-worn, the edges singed. He'd been fighting. Winning, probably. That's what he did.
But his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—they were the same. And right now, they were fixed on me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"You look—" He stopped, his gaze traveling down my frame. I watched his face shift as he took in the white hair, the visible scars on my arms, the way I held myself like something broken and badly mended.
"Like shit?" I supplied. "Like a corpse? Like someone who spent ten years being tortured in a frozen hell?" I tilted my head. "Pick whichever description makes you feel better about what you did."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't know it would be that bad."
"You didn't ask."
"I—" He reached for something at his waist, and I instinctively stepped back. Ares had watched and done nothing.
"I'm not going to hurt you." His voice was quieter now, almost gentle. It made my skin crawl. "I brought you something."
He held out a small crystal vial. Even from a distance, I could see the liquid inside glowing with a soft golden light. Tears of Asclepius. The healing elixir from the Medical God's temple. Rare. Precious. Powerful enough to mend almost any wound.
"I went to Asclepius's temple myself," Ares continued when I didn't move. "Demanded he give me his strongest medicine. This can heal—"
"No."
He blinked. "What?"
"I said no." I looked at the vial, then back at his face. "Ten years ago, you stood on that star altar and watched them strip my name away. You watched them shatter my constellation. You stood there while Hera sentenced me to a hundred years of torture, and you said nothing." My voice was flat, empty of everything except truth. "You gave up the right to give me anything the moment you chose your reputation over basic decency."
"Aletheia—"
"That. Is. Not. My. Name." Each word came out sharp as broken glass. "I'm the Nameless now, remember? You made sure of that when you didn't speak up. When you let them take everything because you were too worried about what it would mean for you to be engaged to a mortal."
Something flickered across his face. Guilt, maybe. Or anger at being called out. I didn't care which.
"This isn't about the past," he said, still holding out the vial. "This is about helping you now. You're hurt. You're clearly in pain. Just take it."
"Why?" The question came out harsher than I intended. "Why now? Why do you suddenly care about my pain?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Because I was wrong."
I almost laughed. Would have, if I remembered how. "You were wrong. That's it? That's your apology? 'I was wrong, here's some magic medicine, we're good now'?"
"I'm trying to make amends."
"You can't." I pushed the vial back toward him. "There is no amending this. There's no amount of divine healing that can undo ten years of—" I stopped, swallowing the words. He didn't deserve to know what I'd endured. "You want to help me? Get out of my way."
But he didn't move. Instead, he stepped closer, and I saw something new in his expression. Something that made my stomach turn.
"Are you leaving Olympus?"
I said nothing. But my silence was answer enough.
His hand shot out, gripping my wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop me from pulling away. "You can't leave."
"Watch me."
"Listen to me." His voice dropped lower, taking on that commanding tone he probably used on battlefields. "I can protect you. I can make sure no one ever hurts you again. You don't have to run."
I stared at him. "Let go."
"Be my concubine."
The words hit me like a physical blow. For a moment, I couldn't process what he'd said. Couldn't make sense of the sheer audacity of it.
