Page 10 of Queen to the Sunless Court (Brides of Myth #2)

Her Name

Calliste

Someone was shaking her, repeating a word that faintly echoed in her mind, as if shouted across vast ravines. He must have repeated it several times before she registered it and recognized it as her name.

“Calliste. Damn it. Wake up.”

Opening her eyes felt nearly impossible, as if her head were wrapped in a heavy, suffocating blanket. “Morpheus?” she mumbled, struggling to form words, her limbs heavy. “Please let me sleep…”

Piercing coldness across her forehead jolted her awake. She reached up to find an icy, wet cloth draped across her brow.

Morpheus wiped down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but I need you to wake up.” His melodious voice had hardened to crystalline anger. “He cast a spell on you, damn it. Did you dream? Was my father in it? I can smell poppies here.”

She took the cloth from Morpehus’s hands and pressed it against her face until the water trickled down her neck.

It did little to shift the stifling heaviness of her mind.

She couldn’t even sit up, because her limbs felt unresponsive and as heavy as stone.

Her pulse raced on, her body tingling and unfulfilled.

“Cast a spell… on me?” she slurred. “How?”

“He’s the god of dreams, so he can mold them to his will. The poppies in his crown are a potent sedative. I bet you could smell them.”

She groaned. “I could… in my dream.”

“He stole in here and used his powers, that’s why.” He helped her sit up. “If I’d known he’d do this, I'd have stayed here to guard you.”

She ran the cloth down her neck. “Gods. I feel like I’ve been drinking all night.” She focused on Morpheus, who perched at the edge of the bed.

“It’s a stroke of luck that I returned earlier than I planned.” Morpheus’ voice was still edged with anger. “I can’t believe he dared—you’re Hades’ guest, and this violates the laws of hospitality...” He paused, his face tight with concern. “I hope he didn’t try to coerce you into… anything?”

“Coerce? No.” She stilled as images filtered back. “Convince, yes. He was trying to make me believe in something… that isn’t true.”

“That’s even worse.” Morpheus’ brows furrowed. “He is capable of seeding his own lies, burying them deep in someone’s mind, and waiting for them to unfurl into a truth one will live by.”

The unwavering certainty that Hypnos was her destiny and the galvanizing heat of his presence, making her crave him, still coiled in her chest. She hid her face in the cloth, trying to bring herself under control. “Could you please give me a moment? I—I need to recover.”

“Of course,” he replied softly. “As long as you promise not to fall asleep again.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll ask my uncle to come here to witness this scent. But the reason I returned earlier is that I thought of a way to find out the name you might have heard in the Roots.”

She rubbed temples. “Oh? You did?”

“Indeed. Let me fetch my uncle.”

As soon as he left, she stumbled out of her tangled, silken sheets.

Her legs shaking, she made it to the window, drawing deep lungfuls of the Underworld air to clear her mind and not dwell on Hypnos’ dream.

Recovering from the flare-up of desire was as challenging as he must have intended it to be, and the most troubling part was her body’s reaction.

Even the fake desire Hypnos had tried to instill in her mind was still… unmistakably rousing, clinging to the corners of her mind along with his honeyed promises of power and immortality.

And with her next breath, she trembled with anger, clenching her teeth so she didn’t summon him to demand an explanation… but imagining facing him had dampened that anger to helplessness, leaving her with an emotion she didn’t want to confront.

Her eyes on the stunning view of the Asphodel Fields, she tried to push it away, but to ignore her body’s cues would be unwise: Leontia had taught her that human bodies remembered everything, and that responses to certain stimuli were always worth investigating.

Carefully, as if handling a shard of broken glass with vicious edges, she allowed herself to think of her past.

As Ariston’s bride and then wife, she’d never experienced pleasure, perhaps because she’d never found him attractive, and he was too cold to care about her enjoyment or feelings—in their marital bed or beyond it.

After she fled, she’d never imagined she’d want intimacy again. .. until Theron stormed into her life.

She wasn’t sure when or how she’d begun to desire him, but it was undeniable, obvious in her fantasies: like the moment in the Petrakelis Passage when she longed to strip off his armor and let him take her right there.

Or when she confused rooms at the Hellenixian inn and saw him wearing only a towel, enchanting in his masculinity.

Or every morning when he carried her to bed and she imagined the sunlight on her skin to be the warmth of his mouth.

Ultimately, one of her fantasies had played out.

One kiss. When he’d said it, it had seemed like too much and not enough at the same time.

And it truly was both.

Because of everything that happened after their supper—Hypnos’ fit of jealousy and the unexpected turn of events in the Roots—she hadn’t had the chance to think about their kiss and the fact that Theron… was clearly already contemplating going further than that.

You. Bare underneath me, arching and coming wildly with my name on your lips.

A ribbon of heat wound through her abdomen.

What Hypnos had attempted to ignite in her had already smoldered beneath the surface for some time.

And what it spelled for her—because one night with Theron could only lead to another—was disaster.

Hypnos had already made it clear: I can forgive much—but not faithlessness.

To return to Mount Hellecon and Leontia after unleashing the wrath of every healer’s ally… she shuddered.

She was deep in thought when a quiet knock on the door jolted her back.

Morpheus walked in with Thanatos striding behind him.

Although she avoided meeting Death’s gaze, his stern expression spoke volumes.

“You were right,” he said grimly to Morpheus.

“I can smell poppies here, too.” He halted in the center of the room, arms crossed.

“I’m sorry, Calliste. I didn’t expect my brother to go this far, but the fact that he has concerns me. I will report it to Hades—”

“No, don’t. Please.” She shook her head. “This will only escalate tensions between them.”

“I don’t give a damn about the tensions. Hades told him to leave you alone.”

“Hypnos shouldn’t have done it, I agree, but I don’t want them to quarrel over it,” she insisted, hating that she couldn’t hold him responsible, but for the sake of Mount Hellecon, she had to let it go. “It’s bad enough as it is, and it will only get worse.”

Thanatos’ heavy exhalation threaded like frost through the air. “You’re right. But it doesn’t make it any less wrong.”

“Can he… repeat it next time I go to sleep?”

Morpheus tapped his finger against his lips. “From what I understand, he tried to influence your beliefs. This is a powerful, invasive spell, and he likely took advantage of the fact that you’re here, close to the source of his powers. Am I right, uncle?”

“I know this spell. Since you interrupted it, he won’t be able to re-cast it for a while now, especially with Calliste returning to her realm.

But he can still influence your dreams.” Thanatos muttered.

“Pits of Tartarus, what got into him? I’ll try to reason with him again.

If I manage to find him. He’s very elusive right now. ”

“Of course he is,” she sighed. “I hope I might be able to reason with him too. But there are more pressing matters to address.”

“Wise words.” Morpheus approached her, leaning against the window ledge. He studied her for a moment. “Do you want to try recalling the name you heard in the Roots?”

She straightened. “Yes. Is that truly possible?”

Morpheus opened his palm, revealing a dancing wisp of light. “My gift is seeing visions of the future. But I can also redirect my energy to the past. If you focus on the precise moment before she spoke her name, I might be able to find it in your mind—if you allow me to.”

She nodded. “It must be there. I’m certain I heard it, and it’s gnawing at me that I can’t remember it.”

“I’ll try to be as quick as possible to spare you the anguish,” Morpheus said quietly. “It shouldn't take more than a few moments, depending on how well you can concentrate.”

“What should I do?”

“Place your hands in mine.” Morpheus held up his open palms. “Focus on the moment just before she spoke her name. As uncomfortable as it may be, try to relive everything that happened, while I’ll dive into that fragment of the past to see if you heard her name or only thought you did. Can you do it?”

“Yes,” she said, commanding all her focus. I can , she repeated in her head. I can .

Yet unsurprisingly, her mind resisted going back to one of the most harrowing experiences of her life.

She persisted through the cold sweat that broke out as she re-entered the agonizing moments, each as long as eternity: writhing in agony amidst buttercups and daffodils, her chest torn open, with a murderous deity poised to rip out her heart.

That terrifying moment when she believed she would die.

But also, just before Epione appeared, she found a moment of furious defiance at the thought of abandoning what had been entrusted to her and a fierce determination not to die .

She remembered Epione’s energy surging to her aid, her knife sinking into Tempest’s chest, the taste of her own blood on her tongue, her trembling hands gripping the hilt, and then... then...

That expression in Tempest’s eyes: dread. A golden laurel leaf sliding down her hair. Her gaze: aware, shocked, teetering on panic as the presence who had possessed her vanished, unable to withstand Epione.

“Help me,” the words echoed back, now spoken in Morpheus’ voice. “My name is...”

Calliste jolted, her eyes snapping open to meet Morpheus’ intense turquoise gaze.

His eyes were glazed, vacant, as if he were asleep with them open. Yet his lips moved.

And so did hers. As they spoke in unison, a stunned silence settled in the room.

Calliste shuddered as she emerged from Morpheus’ spell, regaining clarity and processing the name she had uttered.

Understanding it.

Recognizing it.

Reeling from it.

“But this is impossible,” she choked out, disbelief cutting through her like Tempest’s claws.

My name is Amatheia Amyntasides.