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“This is the work of the Fates,” Hades said.

“So you summoned us to handle the aftermath of your actions,” Dionysus said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Typical.”

“Do not act so superior, Dionysus,” Hades said. “I know how you like monsters.”

He could have attempted to explain himself. He knew the god hated Hera, and one mention of how she’d had a hand in all this would quell Dionysus’s judgment,but in truth, he did not feel like it mattered. Either way, Dionysus wanted to be here, and he would want the ophiotaurus in his possession, which meant he would search for it, even if he chose not to help Hades directly.

“If this is the work of the Fates,” said Zofie, “can you not just ask them what they have woven?”

“The Fates are gods just as I am,” said Hades. “They are no more likely to tell me their plans than I am to admit mine.”

“But they are the Fates. Are they not already aware?”

Hades did not respond. There were times when he appreciated Zofie’s naivete. Tonight, it was frustrating.

It was difficult to pin down how the Fates operated. Much of their decision-making was based on their mood, as with most gods. It was possible they had only orchestrated the resurrection of the ophiotaurus to fuck with him, but it was also possible they wanted to see an end to the Olympians; Hades could not say which or even if they had chosen. He only knew one thing to be true—fate could not be avoided, just prolonged.

“Whatever their plan, we must have one too,” he said.

“I do not understand,” said Zofie. “The Fates have already chosen an end. For what do we plan?”

“We plan to win,” said Hades.

It was all they could do—and hope that if the Fates had not given him or the Olympians their favor, they could be swayed, but that would never happen without action. He knew better than anyone that the three sisters took joy in watching the gods play into their hands, especially under the weight of suffering.

There was a beat of silence, and then Dionysusspoke. “What is the prophecy that makes this creature so dangerous?”

He would not know, given he had been born after the Titanomachy.

“Whoever burns its entrails will obtain the power to defeat the gods,” said Hermes.

“Are you certain that’s the prophecy?” asked Dionysus, raising a dark brow.

“Maybe it’s just one god?” Hermes wondered aloud and then shrugged. “I might have gotten a word or two wrong.”

“A word or two?”

“It isn’t as if it hasn’t been four thousand years,” Hermes said defensively. “You try remembering something after that long.”

“You seem to have no issue recalling grudges from that long ago.”

“I suddenly regret helping Zeus save your life,” said Hermes.

Sometimes Hades forgot the two had a history, though it was minor. Hermes had helped save Dionysus after he was born by taking him to be raised by the Nysiads, ocean nymphs who lived on Mount Nysa.

“Perhaps it would have been better for everyone if you had not,” said Dionysus.

The God of Mischief blanched at his words, and before a strained silence could descend, Hades spoke. “It’s a prophecy, Hermes. A word or two can change the entire meaning.”

Hermes threw his arms in the air. “Well, I never claimed to be an oracle.”

“Then we will have to ask one,” Hades said.

Perhaps the prophecy had changed. Maybe there was no prophecy at all. Just as that thought rolled through his mind, he knew it was too much to hope for. The Fates would not bring the creature back if they didn’t want it to challenge the gods.

“And we must find the ophiotaurus before anyone else.”

“Who are we racing?” asked Dionysus.