Prologue
“I don’t work at Delphi. My name is Delphi. Fucking A, people. Get your shit together.”
—Delphine, All-Knowing and All Drunk
Queen Demeter, ruler of the House of Life, goddess of the Earth and current victim of bad decisions, glared up at the mystical Mount Helicon and considered committing a small act of geological violence.
“Fuck’s sake,” she muttered, eyeing the endless, twisty climb to Delphi’s Spire. “She needs a fucking elevator.”
The glyph at the back of her neck lit up, arms ready to summon a slab from the very earth that would give her and Hestia a ride to the top like a preternatural elevator.
“Demi, no,” her sister interrupted, all softness and calm. “You know you can’t. Delphi will lose her shit if she senses our magic around the Spire.”
Hestia was right and Demeter knew it. Still, she didn’t move an inch, mulishly staring at the winding Helicon Spire, its twisted spirals jutting through the center of the mountain like a divine middle finger.
She was a goddess. A fucking queen. She ruled the House of Life, everything that grew, bloomed, crawled, or decayed belonged to her. Every speck of dirt, demigod, nymph, and mystical being bound to the earth answered to her.
And yet, here she was, about to climb a mountain like a tourist without a glyphlink signal.
Demeter portaled when she felt like it, commanded her vine powered chariot when she didn’t. Occasionally, she even slummed it through Olympia’s leylines on the Hermes Express, a glowing transit loop fueled by aether crystals and divine rage. But she did not climb.
Sensing her resistance to climbing like a mortal hiker, Hestia sighed. “The oracle’s wards will block us anyway,” she reminded Demeter with a little shoulder bump. “C’mon, you know we have to climb.”
Demeter looked up again and considered turning right back around. In the blink of a glyph, she could be back in her palace, soaking in a bathtub of wet soil with her sandals off and her dignity intact.
Fuck.
She was barely three months pregnant, and this kid was already kicking her divine ass. At that moment, Demeter would’ve traded half the aether crystal reserves in the Eleusian vaults for a mystical elevator.
Hestia, saint of timing and snacks, popped open her runebag and pulled out a golden vial.
Demeter’s eyes lit up.
“Ambrosia latte,” Hestia said sweetly.
Demeter snatched it like a grumpy gremlin. “Give it here.”
Hestia wisely said nothing about the fact that one of the most powerful beings in Olympia was currently pouting like a toddler denied her nap.
“The fucking Spire of Spite,” Demeter grumbled. “Every fucking century.”
Demeter started climbing.
Despite the bitching, this little pilgrimage to Delphi was nonnegotiable. Every major faction in Olympia—Life, Sky, Ocean, and dozens of others forever squabbling over borders, power, and pride— made their ritual pilgrimage to Delphi’s spire to “consult destiny.” Translation: drag their divine asses up a mountain for cryptic riddles that would tank their peace of mind for the next hundred years.
Still, Delphi’s foresight—twisted and opaque as it may be—kept Olympia’s power players busy. Her riddles were the closest thing the gods had to market forecasts. One response from the Oracle, and entire factions rewrote their alliances, marriage contracts, and battle plans for the next century.
This century, Demeter only had one concern. Her unborn child.
As they climbed, the air hummed with power, the pulse of the Aetherion thick in the Spire. That vast, luminous veil between the mortal realm and Olympia, where mortal emotion, belief, and life-force streamed upward like data through divine fiber.
Every faction and being of Olympia depended on it, drawing power and energy from Gaia like a syphon.
Pulsing aether mists clung to the Helicon’s peak like a needy lover, swirling and shifting in colors no mortal tongue could name. As they ascended, the magical energy that breathed through every leyline, temple, and aether crystal across the realm was practically tangible here. Every being could feel it in their veins. The Aetherion was the very heartbeat of creation itself, feeding gods, spirits, nymphs, and every divine parasite in Olympia.
Sure, those at the top of the totem pole—the most powerful and ancient— were called gods. Hermes’ millennia of propaganda hard at work. But Olympia was littered with mystical beings. From gods to nymphs to centaurs to minor deities and spirits, all dependent on this ethereal, mystical barrier for their magic, their power, and their very immortal existence.
That’s why Olympians couldn’t keep their hands off the mortal world. Mortals fed the current. Every prayer, heartbreak, and trending tragedy juiced the Aetherion, keeping the system humming.
Of course, some gods coasted. Ares teemed with power without barely having to set foot on Gaia. The mortals loved their wars with hardly any mystical interference. They kept him well fed with their constant wars and bad decisions. Meanwhile, his twin sister Eirene hustled like a single mother working two jobs.
Ever heard of her? Doubt it.
Eirene, the goddess of peace, kept penthouses in three continents, and still looked one nectar-laced cocktail away from a breakdown. Her power surged and crashed like a glitchy mainframe. Demeter had never seen a being more in need of a spa day. Or a millennia long nap.
By the time the sisters reached the terraces carved into the mountain, Demeter was sweating and seriously regretting her shoe choices. Statues of the nine Muses lined the path, side-eyeing her like a chorus of judgmental librarians.
The temple itself sat like a crown at the mountain’s peak, a monument to bad ideas and divine ego. Centuries ago, it had been a pure white, but Delphi redecorated with extreme prejudice when she moved in. Now, the temple glowed with black marble veined with gold, surrounded by a mystical spring of liquid light. Aether pooled there, shimmering with impossible colors. The Lythara Spring seethed with magic, enhancing visions and mystical connections. And of course, the only way across was a pair of winged horses tethered to a floating bridge that didn’t look up to code. Because Delphi was a crazy bitch.
“Fantastic,” Demeter muttered. “Nothing says sacred wisdom like potential death by livestock.”
Hestia chuckled and inhaled deeply.
The magic was intoxicating. All that filtered mortal energy refined into power for the mystical beings of Olympia. Demeter also took a deep breath. Technically, it was odorless, but to the gods, it was the scent of currency, sustenance, and sin all at once.
Inside, the temple was dim, humming with power and questionable life choices. Delphi lounged at her altar. If a jagged, crooked stone etched with runes could be called an altar.
The oracle straddled the stone, one elbow perched precariously on a cracked pedestal, and a flask dangling from her fingers. Her pet python curled around the base of the pedestal and greeted them with a casual hiss.
Delphi’s eyes, twin galaxies spinning with constellations, blinked vacantly at two of the most powerful deities in Olympia. Recognition came slow. The Oracle was impossibly young, impossibly beautiful, and bat shit crazy a good ninety percent of the time.
Hestia’s nose wrinkled. “Chaos above, it reeks of booze in here.” The goddess of home and hearth did not approve of day drinking.
“Yeah, I think I’m running low,” Delphi hiccupped, swishing her flask. “You guys bring a refill?”
Demeter forced a deep breath.
Delphi was young for her role and not every being accepted the destiny thrust upon them by Fate with grace. But still… every damn time.
Every century, same ritual: climb this mountain, schlep up enough stairs to get her cardio in for the rest of the decade, sacrifice her ankles and foolishly expect divine wisdom and gravitas from the most powerful—and accurate— Oracle to ever grace Olympia. Instead, they got vacant stares, drunken ramblings and a snake that grew at an alarming rate.
But fuck it, they all still came like aether moths to a flame. Because despite the rambling and the tequila breath, Delphi gave answers.
Actually answered questions. Sometimes.
She was semi responsive and accessible. Unlike the Fates, who constantly hid their location as if they were guarding the Hope diamond. The Moirai were the divine equivalent of off-grid doomsday preppers, more often than not hiding in the Dark One’s realm. And they spouted nonsense like they were speaking in Klingon.
Demeter shot her sister a look with a tiny smile. Hestia would love that reference. Like all of Olympia, she was addicted to mortal television. The Muses had pivoted from theater to streaming ages ago. Thalia and Mellie ran the most-watched drama network in existence and mortals’ endless hunger for entertainment fueled them like a nuclear reactor.
“Ah, the Queen of Soil,” Delphi chirped cheerfully, finally recognizing her. Sort of. “Wait, no, the goddess of food.” She squinted, drunk and pleased with herself. “No, that’s not right either. The Queen of Dirt? Queen of Trees?” Her smile blossomed as if a lightbulb had gone off. “Queen Latifah?”
Hestia groaned quietly but gave Delphi her best smile. The one she wielded like a weapon as the House of Life’s most skilled diplomat.
“Queen Demeter, ruler of the House of Life,” Hestia intoned with the smooth patience of a woman who had mediated divine wars over table settings and a cozy fire. “Goddess of the Cycles, of Bounty, and warden of all that binds the Earth.”
“Yes, Princess Hestia, I know who she is.” Delphi waved her off, produced a lollipop from her robe and began to lick away like a cat. “It’s that time of the century. Climbing for a peek at your precious futures.”
“Delphi—”
“How’s your daughter?” the young oracle interrupted, fixing Demeter with eyes that looked like entire galaxies spinning out of sync.
Automatically, Demeter’s hand went to her still flat stomach. Her pulse thudded. It was still a closely guarded secret. A powerful goddess was about to be born to the House of Life.
Only three months along, but Demeter could sense her child’s power in her very veins.
Births were not unheard of in Olympia, the nymphs alone reproduced like caffeinated bunnies. But the birth of a powerful being caused ripples, shifted spheres of influence and affected the flow of mortal energy.
The birth of a goddess would send ripples through the Aetherion itself. Energy currents would pulse, leylines would quiver, and entire factions would begin their favorite sport: mystical scheming.
Demeter had played this game long enough to know that gods reacted to power shifts like savages. Every faction, large and small, would scramble to forge allegiances, consolidate power, and scheme like they were getting ready to audition for the latest season of Survivor: Immortal Edition. The air itself would buzz with quiet panic—the kind that only happened when the balance of magic was about to change forever.
“Um… unborn,” Demeter managed.
“Sure, sure.” Delphi nodded, one hand smoothing along the jagged stone she straddled, the runes suddenly pulsing with power. “Sit, sit, sit. Or stand. Stand if you like, it makes no difference to me. I see all. I know all. And, oh, the things I remember…” Her laugh was musical yet edged with danger. “What questions do you have, Earthmother?”
“Will my daughter be safe?” Demeter rasped out. “Will she be happy? What do I need to do to protect her?”
Delphi’s head tilted, genuinely curious. “Protect her from what?”
“I don’t know, Delphine,” she spat and earth magic teemed around her, making Delphi’s eyes narrow. “You’re the damn oracle, you tell me. Anything. Everything. This realm is ruthless. We are all savages, entitled and arrogant. I want my daughter protected from everyone and everything.”
“Oh, everything…” Delphi drawled, tossing her lollipop in one careless gesture to her waiting python. “Is that all?”
“Do not toy with me, Oracle.” Demeter’s voice was no longer raspy but dark and demanding, soaked with power. A lone vine cracked the marble flooring despite the ancient wards guarding against glyph magic.
Delphi barely even blinked. She smiled down at the snake like it was a baby holding a rattler, instead of a monster licking a piece of candy. “Who’s a good little noddle?” she cooed, reaching down to let the forked tongue affectionately brush her fingers. “Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
Hestia placed a calming hand on her sister’s shoulder. Delphi, perhaps sensing Demeter was one wrong move away from bringing her temple to the ground in a pile of rubble and tacky black marble, straightened on the altar and flashed a bright, disarming smile.
“Shall I tell you about Sephie?”
“Persephone,” Demeter whispered, hand curled protectively over her stomach. She’d only decided on the name that morning. Not even Hestia knew.
Her heart stuttered. “Yes. Yes, please.”
“She’s going to be beautiful,” Delphi said softly, her tone slipping into something not entirely her own. “Sweet as a spring breeze. Wild as a summer storm.” Her voice went rhythmic, hypnotic but conversational, like she was both gossiping and channeling eternity. “Persephone will be full of life. Full of power. Teeming with power.”
As if tuned to the runes, Delphi herself began to glow. At the base of the pedestal, her python flicked its tongue as if tasting the magic that stirred the air.
“A true princess of the House of Life,” Delphi murmured, eyes unfocused. “A goddess of Life. Of Growth and Spring. A weaver of life itself. Her connection to the Aetherion will be stronger than any—will be—darkness bound—life needs—oh no. Oh shit.”
The flask in Delphi’s hand hit the floor, shattering against the marble. The sound cracked through the chamber like a gunshot.
Delphi’s smooth voice splintered, as if she was hitting bumps in the river of time. “That—what the—no, that’s not—fuck, that can’t be good—”
“Oh fuck,” Delphi repeated again, the black of her irises spilling out to turn her eyes fully obsidian. Black mirrors of the Fates. She looked at Demeter almost apologetically before her head snapped back, runes glowing bright enough to blind. “I’m so sorry.”
“No. Fuck no,” Demeter breathed, reaching out and clutching her sister’s hand. “No, no, no.”
Hestia too let out a soft, uncharacteristic curse, watching Delphi levitate from the altar, her spine arching in an impossible angle as the runes blazed. They both knew what this meant. They were about to witness a gruesome sight, but the words would be worse. So much worse.
A prophecy.
A fucking prophecy.
The kind of divine disaster that destroyed empires, haunted bloodlines and sucker punched your mental health.
On Gaia, prophecies were no longer feared. The mortals no longer believed. To them, prophecies were simply fodder for some good television and possibly, a banging Harry Potter fanfic.
But in Olympia, like in most mystical realms, a prophecy was the end of your sanity, your peace, and very possibly, your reign of power. The denizens of one particular realm were obsessed with one about the end of their world. Really, it was their whole personality.
Not that Demeter could blame them. Every faction of Olympia had been devasted by a prophecy at some point or another. Hestia had never married because of a prophecy and the last prophecy to hit the House of Life had nearly wiped out the centaurs. Centuries of wisdom lost, vast amounts of earth magic drained, and the kind of trauma that could only come from a bloodbath at a wedding. Really. The Red Wedding had nothing on the shit that went down at that sleepy little river where the bride insisted on swearing her vows. Three centuries later and the waters of Peneus still ran red.
Delphi’s scream rent the air, the sound horrific enough to make two powerful deities cringe. Her limbs spread like Prometheus on the stone. Runes flared to life along her arms and legs, one after another, each one burning like fire from Hephaestus’ forge.
The Aetherion rippled violently, filtering energy into visible threads that shimmered around Delphi like ribbons before viciously wrapping around her ankles, wrists, and throat.
Another soul crushing scream and then Delphi’s voice boomed, somehow broken and echoing at the same time. The wretched sound bounced around the temple like a trapped bird. The very walls vibrated and the ribbons cut across Delphi’s skin like blades, blood dripping to the floor like gruesome rubies.
A shattered moan and then the voice again. Broken. Echoing. Ancient.
Life shall not grow without the roots of Fate. A century hence, her light shall falter, her breath shall fade.
Golden gates, hearts ablaze, Don’t fear your Fate, Or Life will wither, the bond will break. Seek the flame that burns through night. Where mortals dwell, darkness consumes and destiny waits.
Two glyphs entwined with destined thread. The sky will blaze, a pact of age, and pull life’s essence from death’s embrace.
Follow the thread, spun by Fate. Trust the balance and the bonded claim.
As the lines reverberated, a scroll ripped itself from the wall, hovering in midair as words seared across the parchment in glowing red. Delphi’s blood. Oracles always bled red. A truly disturbing sight to the gods whose blood ran a pearly gold.
As soon as the last word was gasped out, both Delphi and the scroll landed on the floor with a sickening thud. The oracle moaned, wisps of smoke wafting from her battered body.
Demeter picked up the scroll grimly while Hestia knelt besides Delphi, brushing back her damp hair.
“Delphi,” she whispered, her gentle heart aching for the bloodied oracle. “Can I get you anything?”
“Wine? Weed?” Delphi slurred, cracking open one bloodshot eye and coughing weakly. “A do-over on the last season of Ted Lasso?”
The oracle’s head thunked back to the floor, as if those few words had exhausted every ounce of strength in her delicate frame. Delphi’s python curled around her legs, attempting to comfort its mistress. She groaned, barely conscious.
“We should move her—”
A flash of heat cut Hestia off. Her brown eyes widened as Apollo walked through a glyph portal, eyes grim, looking both hot and casual in sneakers, faded jeans, and a t-shirt with some mortal logo that even Hestia didn’t recognize.
“What are you doing here?”
He ignored her completely. His gaze locked on Delphi, and his jaw clenched. “A godsdamn prophecy.”
Demeter tensed. “Breathe a word of this to anyone, Bright One, and I will extinguish that golden glow forever.”
His sky-blue eyes flared molten gold. “Like I give a fuck about whatever calamity is about to befall your House.”
Unlike most beings in Olympia, Apollo wasn’t bound to any faction. He and his sister had long since opted out of divine politics, spending most of their time on Gaia—not for power, but out of disgust. The twins had reasons, and plenty of them.
Turning his back on Demeter, he crouched and scooped up Delphi into his arms. The python hissed in outrage but didn’t attack. The oracle’s eyes slitted open and she jerked at finding herself in Apollo’s arms.
“Shut up,” Apollo warned before she could say a word. His golden glow enveloped Delphi, a sign he was sharing healing magic with her. “You two can go now.”
“My fucking temple,” Delphi groaned, but she was clearly in too much pain to put up much of a fight. Even her snake looked incapable of putting up a fuss.
Hestia hesitated, worried eyes on Delphi’s wounds. She waved a hand, warmth coating the temple like a balm. Delphi hissed weakly at all the glyph magic in her precious temple.
“She’s messed up,” Demeter said starkly. “Her runes have gone dark.” The only reason why Apollo had been able to portal in.
“I know,” Apollo replied, voice flat, eyes still that molten gold that for a god could only mean one thing. He was vomiting magic, fury, or emotional distress. Maybe all three and none of which he’d ever admit to. “I’ll take care of her.”
Demeter had no more fucks left to give. “Let’s go, Hestia.”
“It’s bad,” Hestia whispered as they stepped outside the temple.
In the courtyard, Demeter’s magic began to stir. The air shimmered, heavy with static from burnt runes. Normally, the rune wards around the temple prevented any magic that wasn’t fueled by Delphi’s runes. But Delphi was drained by the prophecy and so were her wards.
Stone faced, Demeter gathered the earth, the glyph at the back of her neck burning as she portaled herself and Hestia straight to the throne room of the Elusian Palace, her seat of power. Living roots pulsed under amber-glass floors, glowing faintly with aether light, their hum syncing to Demeter’s heartbeat.
“Gather the Meliae,” Demeter ordered.
“They sleep till Spring,” Hestia reminded gently.
“I don’t give a fuck,” Demeter snarled. “We have one century to figure this shit out.”
The roots shuddered, the entire chamber trembling in response to her power. Her anger laced with terror.
One century. Less than a mortal’s lifespan. It might as well have been the blink of an eye.
“Demi,” Hestia whispered, voice bleak, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“Don’t,” Demeter ordered, pressing a trembling hand to her stomach. “Don’t you dare act like she’s already doomed.”
But despite the words, her voice shook. They both knew what this meant. Prophecies weren’t puzzles to be solved. They were traps laid by Fate, and even gods rarely escaped them.
It took centuries, sometimes millennia, to unravel powerful prophecies. The more powerful, the more difficult. Most of the time, it couldn’t be done. Fate claimed mortals and immortals alike in their twisted web.
The House of Life had power—immense, grounded, ancient—but it wasn’t the kind of power that dealt in prophecy. Their magic was vast and powerful, strong in the aether that flowed straight from the concentrated life-force of Gaia.
Their vaults were rich in aether crystals. Their territories impenetrable, guarded by mystical mountain ranges, ashstone citadels, and the Thallos Legion, colossal earthbound warriors commanded by Demeter herself. But their strength came from the earth, from elemental magic, from the pulse of Gaia’s core and the mortal cycle of renewal.
Mystical knowledge wasn’t their domain. That precious resource belonged to the Sky Throne, with their sprawling floating libraries, their scroll-hoarding sages, and Athena’s army of archivists who treated foresight like currency.
As far as Demeter could recall, only the Sky Throne had been able to successfully unravel a prophecy in the last two millennia. Not that she could seek their help with this. A prophecy dooming the very future of her House was the type of calamity that made other factions scent blood in the water.
“Wake them, Hestia,” Demeter repeated, voice grim.
The Meliae were their best chance of getting answers. Ancient ash nymphs dwelling in the Dreadroot Hallows, a vast underground sanctum directly below the Palace. A great, pulsing cavern of roots and molten gold where the oldest life-magic pulsed.
In the Hallows, where roots and gold threads entwined like veins beneath the skin, the Meliae communed with the Aetherion, sensing ripples in mortal energy and interpreting omens. They were more historians and counselors than oracles though, their ash-bark scrolls chronicled centuries of emotions, wars, and rebirth.
Still, they were wise and eternal through their ashbinding, each death birthing new roots of memory. The Meliae were the veins beneath the throne, their most revered repository of knowledge. Her best chance. They were strongest in spring when new roots were grown. But Demeter didn’t have the luxury of waiting.
Hestia nodded grimly, palms blazing hot. She didn’t argue, but Demeter could see it on her sister’s face. The dread, the helplessness, the quiet sorrow as if Persephone was already beyond their reach.
Demeter placed both palms over her stomach.
I will protect you.
The thought burned like a vow through her glyph. No matter what, she would do anything to protect her child.
Anything.
