It’s hard to get used to. The starkness of the red against white marble, the slickness of it dripping down the steps of the altar.

My stomach roils and Hera wraps a hand around my neck, squeezing there like a threat and whispering how this is necessary and how this should make me happy. I try my hardest not to cry. Gods don’t cry, no matter their age.

It’s sort of sick though, no? That I am to be the...

“Watch this,” he says with a spit-fire grin as he leaps from one stained rock to another. I feel the nostalgia bubble up in my chest, like a wave of grief and I almost stumble to the ground with what flashes before my eyes. It’s her, it’s my mother with her dark flyaway hair and rainbow gilded voice. I am of the mind that I can once again feel her fingers trace across my cheek, stopping tears before they can...