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Chapter Three

Prometheus

M ortals are intriguing creatures. There are far more of them than Primordials, so the communities they build for themselves are much more intricate than our city on Olympus. The temples they build for us are often more extravagant than the Firstborns’ homes there, too.

Unlike every single Primordial in existence, mortals act as though they need to be near each other to survive. They even like to feel our presence in the temples they build to honor the Olympians. It’s strange since mortals and Primordials are each other’s greatest foes, with mortals certainly being each other’s second greatest threat.

Before the war began, I liked to live on the fringes of their villages. I enjoyed traveling from tribe to tribe, documenting how they lived.

My previous exposure to the mortals has prepared me for the strange way they entwine ingenuity and ignorance. However, no mortal has ever frustrated me quite as much as the maiden on the altar.

Atum waxes poetic about his absurd marriage-bonding notion— as if any Primordial knows a thing about matrimony. Such things are reserved for lesser beings, like the girl who was apparently perfectly willing to die for a people just as happy to sacrifice her.

The folly of it all boggles my mind.

“I have seen more than a few marriages between the Fae,” Atum drones. “When they wed, the power of one is transferred to the other in a way that allows them both to wield it.”

The altar girl’s face twists in confusion. Does she not know about Fae either? Granted, the Fae are more concerned with infighting than reaching out to mortal villages. But still, the primitive ignorance here is astounding.

Atum seems concerned by the confusion flashing in her dark eyes. “Don’t your people have your own type of bonding?”

The girl studies Atum cautiously like he might scold her if she gives the wrong answer— or like the mortal practically kissing Atum’s feet will, anyway. He’s the one sending her scolding looks.

“Yes,” she finally says, her voice deep for a female, yet not masculine. “We marry and give in marriage here. There is no transaction of strength, but those who are wed share possessions and position with each other.”

Atum nods almost giddily. He can be absolutely obnoxious when he thinks he’s found a way to secure peace with anything other than brute force. “Yes! I believe that a marriage between mortal and Primordial can bring the same union of power, possessions, and position as both Fae and mortal marriages within groups. And if we can prove it, then we are not so different after all, and there is no reason not to have peace.”

Except for the fact that everyone is bloodthirsty and power-hungry. Oh, and War and his son Aeres will still be running amuck. But other than those minor issues, we’ll be golden.

“You don’t just want to make her a bride . . .”

I turn to the man with a mop of dark curls clutching the shoulders of the woman on the altar. They look very similar now that they are standing next to each other. Is that what happens when mortals make so many of themselves? They start to resemble one another?

The mortal continues. “You want to make her a goddess ?”

Atum nods. “In a sense, yes.” He turns back to the mortal girl. “Do you want that?”

The damsel lifts her chin in a way I’m sure makes her feel brave. As though one needs any sort of courage when facing a bleeding heart like Atum. “Yes, for the sake of my village and all humanity, I shall be your bride.”

“Well, not my bride. My duties take up all my time, so I would have none left for you. I deplete too much of my power and do not want to risk draining your energy in the process.”

Atum doesn’t have to drain his power. He could pace himself like Dionysus does, but he chooses to do these things to himself.

The damsel wrinkles her brows. “Then who am I to wed?”

Dionysus looks up from where he’s wandered toward a passel of mortal maidens. “Don’t look at me; I’m not looking to be bound to just one woman.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Atum assures. “You’re only neutral in this war, anyway. I need someone who is loyal to both myself and to the mortals, a servant who has proven himself time and again.”

Oh, no, I do not like where this is going. Because even though “loyal” doesn’t describe me at all, I’ve done an excellent job of disguising that fact.

I am still disguising it, because Atum beams as he continues his speech. “Let me present my fellow Primordial, my second-in-command, the Entity of Ingenuity.”

No. Nonononono —

Atum turns and gestures toward me. “Prometheus shall be your future bridegroom.”

I should have betrayed him yesterday.