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His image is entirely ethereal.

Where Hades’ God's Form is a thing of nightmares, a form I sense that he is ashamed of, that he hides—a form of torment he cages away lest someone might fear him, Zeus is a mask of wonder.

He wears his God’s Form proudly, and I thinkconstantly.

Massive white feathered wings rise high above his head, standing—goodness! The tip of his wings must stand around ten feet high. The feathered tips graze the floor at his feet.

I can only imagine the breadth they would span if he pushed them outward, stretched them far. It would be hard not to fall to my knees. To not succumb to a lifetime of biblical conditioning.To believe that I was in the presence of something truly wondrous, truly ethereal.Truly heavenly.

But I am not. Deep down in my heart of hearts, wrapped in the intuition the Moirai planted deep within my soul,I know.

I know that I am in the presence of nothing more than pretty falsity.

Zeus spreads his arms wide, as though to welcome me into the circle of a loving embrace.As if.

When I don’t move, don’t run to him, a smile I am sure he means to look genuine overcomes his handsome face. I see evil through the crack of it, and beside me, Ares stiffens.

“Daughter,” Zeus’ voice booms, echoing off the vaulted walls that surround us.

The word crawls over my skin, the title cooling my blood.

I am not his daughter.

I want to spit that fact at him. To drive the blade of it into his ego, but I force myself instead to smile softly and calmly. Placatingly. Like the little human he thinks I am.

He doesn't know that I know the truth behind their dirty lies.

He doesn't know that I know Demeter schemed with Uranus to create me. That together they abused Hyperion’s body and mind to steal the seed from which my soul was able to sprout.

That they gave the credit of all that I am to Zeus.

They don't know that the Underworld knows what they've done. They think they have the upper hand.They think they're winning.

“Come closer,” Zeus urges, that sickeningly sweet smile never wavering from his face. “Let me look at you.”

I only take one step, before I feel Leuce’s hand on my arm, staying me.

At my back, Hydra is no longer small. No longer drenched in the scent of Hecate’s magic.

She is a formidable beast, and even as Zeus pretends that he can't see her, that she is not here, that she is of no worry to him—the fact he won't look at her tells the truth of the discomfort that plagues him.

Demeter takes a single step forward at the sight of Leuce’s hand on my body. Her lip is curled, and she can't hide the disgust in her eyes. “Persephone, you are the daughter of a Goddess. You do not let a nymph touch you in such a way.”

Leuce’s hand spasms on my arm, and I lift my other hand to touch hers lovingly for all to see.

“This nymph is named Leuce. You will call her by her name. I am here as your guest, honoring an ancient deal between the Underworld and Olympus. Leuce is my friend, and my guard, andmy guest. She goes where I go, and she has every right to touch me.”

Demeter’s jaw pops as her teeth snap together.

There is a vicious glare in Zeus’ eyes as they connect with Demeter, but it is gone as quick as it came.

His laughter is boisterous and entirely out of place.

“There is no need to be tense. Demeter has unpleasant history with the nymph, is all.”

“Leuce,” I correct him.

His jaw hardens, but he nods. “Yes, yes. Leuce.” Zeus clears his throat. “As I was saying, Demeter, your mother, has history?—”