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“What is this?” he screams from the bowl as he flees the gladiator. “What the fuck is this?”

The crowd leans forward in sickening rapture. The fish I’d eaten for lunch spoils in my stomach, threatening to soil the meat on my plate now.

I push my plate away discretely, but when I lift my eyes, I find Hera is watching me. And Demeter is watching her.

My skin crawls as I tear my eyes from Demeter. I’ve avoided her mercilessly since I arrived in Olympus, not able to stomach the sight of her now that the memories of my past life are accessible in the shelf of my mind.

Zeus lifts a goblet of wine, swallowing deeply. When it is empty, he places it on the table with a deafening thud. A servant girl with downcast eyes scurries to fill it to the rim. Zeus doesn’t seem to see her, but Hera’s hot glare possesses the power to cleave the poor girl in two.

There is an undeniable beauty to the girl, even if it’s broken. I get the sickening sense that Zeus was the cause of her breaking. That she may be one of the crying statues that litter my rooms and haunt my nightmares.

The girl scampers back to her place behind Zeus. “You will honor your part in this family by bowing to the gifts of your God, Ares.”

When Ares doesn’t respond, the blue of the sky begins to darken so fast, it’s like someone pushed a button to change the screen of the sky. Angry clouds in dark shades of blue, purple, and gray crackle with white-hot light as though electrified. The taste of heat in the air submits to an ominously cool wind that whistles harrowingly between the ancient columns of the coliseum.

In the arena below, both man and gladiator pause. Heads tipped back toward the sky, unmasked fear burning bright in their eyes.

Unease grows inside me, the urge to flee tightening my muscles.

“Do not move, my Persephone.”Hydra’s words are loud in my mind. So loud, I flinch.“If you move, the lightning in the air will strike you.”

Beside me, Leuce is so still it doesn’t even appear that she breathes.

The table—the whole amphitheatre—has suddenly turned to living, breathing stone.

Slowly, my eyes tip up to see that even Hydra sits stone still on her perch high in the sky. But her eyes are locked on me.

Zeus rises, the electricity in the clouds zapping audibly with a danger that threatens to smite us all.

“You will do your duty to this realm, Ares. If I must strip the flesh from your God to invoke the bloodlust, I will.”

The threat chills me to my bone, and I fail to keep my horror hidden from Hera’s too-seeing eyes.

Inside my stomach, the soul that grows aches.

Ares slices the meat on his plate, the only one aside from Zeus willing to move beneath the crackling violence of the sky. He pops the meat into his mouth and says darkly, “Do your worst.” He spits the last word, “Father.”

Lightning spears from the sky, shattering the plate in front of Ares, leaving the meat in a pile of charred dust.

“Out of respect for your mother—” Anger curls dangerously around Zeus’ words. “You have been spared the arena.”

“It has nothing to do with respect, old man,” Ares taunts bravely. “If you respected her at all, your seed wouldn’t be spread all over Olympus. And if she respected herself, she wouldn’t be spreading her?—”

Lightning spears down from the sky to connect with Ares’ chest, cutting off his words. This time, I do scream. Inside my stomach, the soul of my daughter weeps.

But Ares shocks us all when his hand whips out to grip the bolt that surges deadly power into his violently shaking form. Teeth gritted, he pulls the blade of the bolt from his chest, and I scream again when blood pours from the wound. Sweat trickles at his temples, and the gold of his eyes is entirely gone to make room for the bloodlust.

When he tosses the bolt, it lands in the arena with a deadly blast before winking out of existence. My eyes snap back to Ares to see that there is no longer tan human flesh on his hand. Instead, the claw that sits in its place is three times the size and dark gray, like the stone of a rain-soaked mountain. Between the cracks in his flesh, thin rivers of red run.

The scent of Zeus’ storm is overpowered by the smell of blood-soaked earth and battle. It’s so strong, I can’t help but cover my mouth. Inside, the soul of my daughter is restless.

“Take him!” Zeus demands, and lesser gods with wings the color of the sandy floor of the arena swoop down to grip Ares as he looses a terrifying roar.

More skin splits to reveal the God beneath the human flesh he wears, and as he swipes a clawed hand up at the Gods who carry him, they release him over the arena, and I gasp in horror as he begins to fall.

A human likely wouldn’t survive the fall, but Ares lands on lethal feet that are no longer human at all. He looks like a demon. The personification of battle born in bloodlust.

The human man in the arena stumbles back, jaw hanging open in shock and horror. His hands lift to his temples, and he shakes his head. I can’t hear him over the screaming in my own mind, but I can see the forming of his lips. The denial.