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If either of them wakes, I won’t be slipping out that’s for certain.

I hold my breath so long it burns before I dare another step, then another. At the door, I realize that not only am I aboutto slip from the protection of my room in little more than a nightdress, but I have no weapon.

My shoulders fall and I am about to turn back to the bed, my moment of foolish heroics at its end when another scream threatens to peel the flesh from my bones. It’sloudersomehow, echoing in the chambers of my mind rather than the room around me.

I don’t understand what is happening.

I grab a small marble statue that is surprisingly heavy. A quick glance tells me it’s another of Zeus claiming a victim. I don’t have to see her face to know she cries. They all cry. There are so many of these statues in this room. Versions of the God claiming women who don’t wish to be claimed. Raping.

The way I feel for Zeus is far beyond hatred. I’m not even sure how I would describe the feelings I have for him. I’m not sure what I would do to him, given the opportunity. I loathe the fact history paints him as a good, benevolent God. Mercy is not something he is capable of.

Pushing thoughts of the terrible God from my mind, I grip the statue hard and turn to the door. My hand trembles as it lifts to the lock. I slide it over slowly, holding my breath at the littleclickand the sound of Leuce rolling over in the bed we’ve shared since we arrived.

The hall flickers under the same low golden light that illuminates the darkness in my room. Burning stones, reminiscent to lava rock in the wake of freshly spilled magma, shimmer in little bowled plates that have been fastened to the white marble walls by curling arms of bronze, the plate suspended by the clawed paw of a carved lion.

I’ve seen servant girls—I hate calling them that—collecting the stones and leaving them to charge in the sun.

Now, under the burning light, images hidden under the bright light of day come alive in the polished white stone. Secretscarved into the walls of a history long since forgotten, even by Gods.

A chill whispers across my flesh, fine hairs rising. My hand connects with the wall, and I feel it. I feel the slight groove of chiselled stone, so smooth it shouldn’t be possible.

The image, a God of light and a Goddess of night, are two points that connect to one in the center, lower. A Goddess unlike all those who have come after, the first of her kind. Neither good nor evil, neither light nor dark. She was everything.

She was Chaos.

A delta triangle orupside-down triangleof Primordial Gods, blending power. Inside the triangle, a realm my ancient soul recognizes as Olympus is formed. But outside, connected by a thread of lightning that surges from Chaos’ bare feet is another realm. It is surrounded by the carved waves of the sea, surging power through Chaos into Olympus, feeding the ancient realm crafted for the Gods.

Atlantis.It is fed exclusively by Chaos. I can’t tell whether Atlantis is the beginning of everything, or if it is a product of everything. Only that it is connected to everything. For there is a thicker vein that pulses from Atlantis to a realm I recognize deep inside my soul, where darkness and wonder and eternal love live. The Underworld.

Three veins connect the Underworld to the triangle, one from Atlantis, one from Chaos, and one from Olympus. Only, the vein from Olympus is faded and thin. Perhaps even broken, I think, as I run my fingertips over the stone and momentarily lose the vein before connecting again. The carving glows in the same vein of the burning coals.

Surrounding it all, its carving in the stone not as deep, is what I recognize as earth. Dull. Not alive.

The realms are sentient, intended to thrive in sync, like the powers of the Gods to feed the life it was always intended to sustain.

The thought is not mine. It’s also not the tongueless trifecta of voices I’ve come to know as the Moirai—another three, I realize. This voice is deeper. I think, perhaps, it is the sound of my own intuition. An awakening of a part of me that has long since been asleep.

Or maybe it’s not me at all, but the Goddess whose ancient soul I harbour.

My gaze flicks down the length of hall and I fight a shiver as the engraving in stone repeats again and again as far as my eyes can see.

The hum in my ears I hadn’t realized was there suddenly abandons me with a pop, my auditory senses clearing fast as a rush ofsoundinvades me. My reprieve from the screaming is no longer and I spin in the hall, racing in the direction of the sound.

It comes from an area of the castle I’ve not yet explored, but I continue down the winding halls toward the sound of the screams. She’d been quiet after the horrors of dinner, when her father had been massacred. But now she screams for help no one bothers to hear.

I bother.

I run harder; not certain I’m going to find my way back to my room.

What am I going to do with her when I get to her?

The statue is heavy in my hand as I race from one hall to the next. Castle Olympus is a labyrinth.

Will I be successful in defeating the massive man I’d watched slay the young woman’s father with this little, but solid, statue?

I have no idea, but I’m going to give it my best shot.

At the sound of another scream, this one harrowingly loud, I know I’m close. Just a few more doors. Just beyond the lookout that spills into a night that glows with stars.