The Dog Who Walked Olympus

Zeus had ruled the heavens for longer than any human civilization had possessed a name.

He had watched cities become kingdoms and kingdoms become ruins. He had watched men learn to write, then learn to print, then learn to speak across oceans without ships. He had watched them put wheels beneath their machines, engines beneath their wheels, wings beneath their engines.

He had watched them reach the moon.

He had watched them put a little flag there.

A little flag.

On the moon.

And somehow, after all of that, humanity’s greatest achievement appeared to be inventing a machine that could tell them whether they needed an umbrella.

Zeus found this profoundly insulting.

He stood at the eastern balcony of Olympus, one hand resting against a marble column, and looked down at the world.

The morning sky stretched endlessly before him, pale gold at the horizon and deep blue overhead. Clouds drifted below the mountain, slow and obedient. Far beneath them, cities were waking. Roads glittered with the first movement of traffic. Towers caught the sunrise in their glass windows.

Somewhere, thousands of people were checking the weather on their phones.

Zeus narrowed his eyes.

A storm was forming over the Aegean.

Not a large one.

Not yet.

But it was his.

He could feel it gathering like a thought behind his eyes—the pressure of cold air meeting warm, the restless churn of clouds, the distant promise of thunder. It was the sort of storm that could be summoned with little more than a gesture.

He lifted his hand.

The clouds below him shifted.

Then stopped.

Zeus frowned.

He lifted his hand again.

Nothing.

He lowered it slowly.

“That,” he said, “is impossible.”

Behind him came the sound of hurried footsteps.

“Father?”

Zeus did not turn.

“How much longer?”

A pause.

“How much longer for what?”

Zeus turned.

Athena stood several paces away, a tablet tucked beneath one arm and a stack of papers beneath the other. She wore a dark blue suit today rather than her usual armor, though she still had the expression of someone who had spent the morning surrounded by people making avoidable mistakes.

“Do not play games with me, Athena.”

“I wasn’t.”

“The storm.”

She glanced toward the horizon.

“What about it?”

“I told it to move.”

Athena’s expression remained perfectly neutral.

“I see.”

“It did not.”

“I see.”

“I am the king of the gods.”

“I am aware.”

“I command the sky.”

“Yes.”

“And the sky,” Zeus said, pointing toward the clouds with mounting irritation, “has apparently decided to ignore me.”

Athena looked at the clouds.

Then at him.

Then back at the clouds.

“Perhaps it needs a moment.”

Zeus stared at her.

Athena’s mouth twitched.

“You are laughing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Leave.”

Athena smiled.

“Gladly.”

She turned and walked away.

Zeus watched her go.

Children.

Even divine children.

No respect.

He turned back toward the horizon.

The storm remained exactly where it was.

Zeus exhaled through his nose.

He could, of course, force it.

That was not the point.

The point was that he should not have to.

He had not fought the Titans, overthrown Cronus, divided the universe among himself and his brothers, established Olympus as the seat of divine authority, and ruled gods and mortals for millennia only to be defeated by—

His stomach growled.

Zeus looked down.

He had forgotten breakfast.

That was Hera’s fault.

He decided this immediately.

Everything was Hera’s fault before breakfast.

He left the balcony.

By the time Zeus entered the great dining hall, the problem had become worse.

Not the storm.

The gods.

Hermes was sitting on the edge of the table, one winged sandal dangling from his foot while he scrolled through his phone.

Dionysus was asleep in a chair.

Apollo was arguing with someone through a pair of wireless earbuds.

Aphrodite was examining her reflection in a spoon.

Hephaestus had brought some piece of machinery to breakfast and was taking it apart directly over the table.

Artemis was nowhere to be seen.

Hades, naturally, had not come.

Zeus looked at the assembled gods.

Then at the table.

Then back at the gods.

“Where is my breakfast?”

No one answered.

Zeus’s eyes narrowed.

“Where is my breakfast?”

Hermes looked up.

“Oh. Morning.”

“Where is my breakfast?”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Hermes.”

“Yes?”

“Where is my breakfast?”

Hermes looked toward the empty place in front of Zeus.

“Have you checked the kitchen?”

The room went silent.

Zeus stared at him.

Hermes slowly lowered his phone.

“That was a joke.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

“Was it a good one?”

“No.”

“Then why did you make it?”

Hermes shrugged.

“Poor judgment.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“I try.”

“You fail.”

“Frequently.”

Zeus sat.

A plate appeared in front of him.

He looked down.

Two slices of toast.

One boiled egg.

A small bowl of figs.

He looked at Hermes.

“Who prepared this?”

Hermes raised a hand.

“Me.”

Zeus’s eyebrows rose.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Hera said she was busy.”

Zeus looked at the food again.

“Busy with what?”

Hermes hesitated.

“Something involving you.”

Zeus stopped.

“What involving me?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Where is she?”

“Probably looking for you.”

“Why?”

Hermes gave him a sympathetic smile.

“That’s the sort of question I wouldn’t ask if I were you.”

Zeus stared at him.

Hermes returned to his phone.

Zeus picked up a fig.

He bit into it.

It was excellent.

He hated that.

“You may leave.”

Hermes blinked.

“I’ve already sat down.”

“You may leave while sitting.”

“I don’t think that’s physically possible.”

“Then develop the ability.”

Hermes grinned.

Zeus heard laughter from somewhere behind him.

Dionysus, who had apparently awakened.

“Don’t encourage him,” Zeus said.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were laughing.”

“I laugh at everything.”

“That is not a defense.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Zeus sighed.

This was why kings needed servants.

And why gods needed servants.

And why, apparently, no one had invented a satisfactory divine administrative system in three thousand years.

He ate another fig.

The doors to the dining hall opened.

Hera entered.

The room changed.

It always did.

Hera had that effect.

She did not need thunder.

She did not need a crown.

She simply walked into a room, and everyone remembered their manners.

Her eyes found Zeus.

Zeus immediately knew that Hermes had been right.

She was looking for him.

“Zeus.”

“Hera.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I have been working.”

“You have been standing on the eastern balcony for forty minutes.”

“I was working.”

“You were glaring at a cloud.”

“It was an insolent cloud.”

Hera stared at him.

Then she looked at the others.

“Does anyone else have anything to say?”

Every god suddenly became deeply interested in their food, their phones, their machinery, or the architectural qualities of the ceiling.

Hera looked back at Zeus.

“The storm over the Aegean.”

“What about it?”

“It was supposed to dissipate two hours ago.”

“I know.”

“The weather service has issued a warning.”

“I know.”

“Three ferries have been delayed.”

“I know.”

“Two airports have altered their flight schedules.”

“I know.”

“And apparently the mortals are complaining online.”

Zeus’s jaw tightened.

“They are complaining about my storm?”

“Apparently.”

“About what?”

Hera pulled out her phone.

“They’re calling it inconvenient.”

Zeus stared at her.

“Inconvenient.”

“Yes.”

“They’re calling my storm inconvenient.”

“Among other things.”

“Read them.”

Hera hesitated.

“Are you sure?”

“I command you.”

She sighed.

“One person says, ‘Of course it rains on the one day I wash my car.’”

Zeus’s eyes narrowed.

Another god snorted.

Hera continued.

“Someone else says, ‘Weather forecast was completely wrong again.’”

Zeus looked offended.

“I was not wrong.”

“You changed the forecast.”

“I am the forecast.”

“That’s not how forecasting works.”

“It should be.”

Hera ignored him.

“There is also someone asking why the weather service can’t ‘just make the clouds go away.’”

Zeus leaned back.

“I could make the clouds go away.”

Hera gave him a warning look.

“No.”

“I could.”

“I know you could.”

“I am tempted.”

“You will not.”

“They insult me.”

“They don’t know they’re insulting you.”

“They should.”

Hera’s expression softened.

For a moment, Zeus saw something beneath her irritation.

Concern.

“Something is wrong,” she said quietly.

Zeus looked toward the windows.

The storm over the Aegean was still gathering.

He knew that.

He could feel it.

But beneath that—

There was something else.

A pressure.

A disturbance.

Something he could not name.

The sky belonged to him.

He knew every movement of it.

Every shift in pressure.

Every breath of wind.

Every flash of lightning.

Yet something had changed.

He could feel the change the way a person feels a stranger standing behind them.

Zeus looked toward the doors.

And that was when he saw the dog.

At first, Zeus assumed someone had brought it.

This was reasonable.

Olympus was not exactly closed to visitors.

People came and went constantly. Gods brought mortals. Mortals occasionally stumbled into places they were not meant to be. Heroes had spent entire lifetimes appearing where they were least wanted.

A dog was hardly the strangest thing Zeus had encountered.

Still, he had questions.

The dog stood just inside the dining hall.

He was large.

Fluffy.

Cream-colored, with a darker muzzle and pointed ears partially hidden beneath thick fur. Snow-white fur covered his chest, making him look even broader than he was.

He had the peculiar face of an animal who had just arrived somewhere he had no intention of being impressed by.

He looked at the gods.

One by one.

Zeus.

Hera.

Athena.

Apollo.

Aphrodite.

Hermes.

Hephaestus.

Dionysus.

Then he looked at Zeus again.

Zeus waited.

The dog blinked.

Zeus blinked back.

Nobody moved.

Hermes slowly lowered his phone.

“Oh.”

Zeus glanced at him.

“What?”

Hermes smiled.

“That’s Cosmo.”

Zeus looked back at the dog.

“Who?”

“Cosmo.”

“Whose dog?”

Hermes shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

Zeus looked at Hera.

She shook her head.

Athena.

She shook hers.

Apollo.

“No idea.”

Aphrodite was already smiling.

“Oh, he’s beautiful.”

The dog ignored her.

Zeus looked at Hermes.

“You said that’s Cosmo.”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked him.”

Zeus stared.

“You asked the dog?”

“Yes.”

“And he told you?”

Hermes shrugged.

“More or less.”

“How?”

“He has a collar.”

Zeus looked.

The dog did indeed have a collar.

A simple one.

Dark leather.

A small metal tag hung from it.

Zeus could see the engraved letters even from across the room.

COSMO.

Nothing else.

Zeus frowned.

“Where is the owner’s name?”

Hermes stood.

“There’s nothing.”

“Phone number?”

“No.”

“Address?”

“No.”

“Anything?”

Hermes walked closer.

The dog watched him approach.

Hermes crouched.

He turned the tag over.

Nothing.

He stood.

“Just his name.”

Zeus looked at the animal.

“Where did he come from?”

Hermes shrugged.

“I found him outside.”

“Outside where?”

“The mountain.”

“You found him on Olympus?”

“Yes.”

“How did he get here?”

“Walked.”

Zeus stared at him.

“He walked.”

“Four legs. Very efficient.”

“Hermes.”

“I’m being serious.”

“You found an unknown dog on the highest mountain in Greece and decided to bring him inside?”

“He followed me.”

“You allowed him to follow you.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Hermes thought about it.

“I don’t know.”

Zeus looked at the dog.

Cosmo was sitting now.

Calmly.

His tail rested against the marble floor.

He looked at Zeus with an expression that was almost—

No.

Impossible.

Zeus refused to assign an emotion to a dog.

He was the king of the gods.

He did not interpret dogs.

“Remove it.”

Hermes looked surprised.

“Why?”

“Because it is a dog.”

“Yes.”

“This is Olympus.”

“Yes.”

“Not a kennel.”

Cosmo yawned.

Zeus’s eyes narrowed.

Hera noticed.

“Zeus.”

“What?”

“He’s harmless.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He is a dog.”

“That proves nothing.”

Aphrodite leaned over the table.

“Come here, darling.”

Cosmo looked at her.

His ears moved.

Then he turned his head away.

Aphrodite gasped.

“He rejected me.”

Hermes laughed.

“Apparently.”

“How dare he.”

Cosmo scratched his ear.

Aphrodite looked offended.

Zeus found himself almost smiling.

Almost.

Then Cosmo looked at him again.

The feeling disappeared.

There was something strange about the dog’s gaze.

Not intelligence.

Zeus had seen intelligent animals.

Not loyalty.

Not fear.

Not curiosity.

Something else.

It was as though Cosmo were evaluating him.

Judging him.

Zeus straightened.

The dog continued staring.

“Stop that.”

Cosmo did not.

Zeus pointed at him.

“I am speaking to you.”

The dog blinked.

“Zeus,” Hera said.

“What?”

“You’re arguing with a dog.”

“I am not arguing.”

“You are.”

“I am establishing authority.”

Hera smiled.

“Of course.”

Zeus stood.

“Someone will find his owner.”

Cosmo stood too.

Zeus glanced down.

Cosmo took one step toward him.

Zeus took one step back.

The dog stopped.

There was a beat of silence.

Hermes covered his mouth.

“Don’t.”

Hermes’s shoulders shook.

“Don’t laugh.”

That only made it worse.

Zeus turned.

“All of you are dismissed.”

No one moved.

“I said dismissed.”

The gods began to leave.

Cosmo did not.

Zeus watched him.

The dog watched Zeus.

Eventually, everyone else had gone.

Except Cosmo.

And Zeus.

The king of the gods looked at the dog.

The dog looked at the king of the gods.

“Well?”

Cosmo sat.

Zeus sighed.

It was not until an hour later that Zeus realized the dog was still there.

He had returned to the balcony.

The storm had worsened.

That alone was unusual.

He could summon storms.

He could disperse them.

He could turn clear skies black in moments or send rain across dry fields with the sweep of his hand.

Yet this one was behaving strangely.

The clouds were moving against one another.

Winds from the north collided with warmer air from the south.

Lightning flickered within the cloud mass but did not strike.

Zeus lifted his hand.

A low rumble answered.

He frowned.

“Come forth.”

Thunder rolled across the heavens.

The storm shifted.

Good.

Again.

He commanded the winds.

They obeyed.

The cloud formation began to break apart.

Then—

A sharp crack split the sky.

Lightning struck the sea.

Zeus’s eyes widened.

That had not been him.

The lightning had come from somewhere else.

He lowered his hand.

Silence.

The dog sat behind him.

Zeus turned.

Cosmo was watching the horizon.

Not Zeus.

The storm.

“You feel it too.”

The words escaped before Zeus could stop them.

Cosmo’s ears tilted forward.

Zeus stared at him.

“What am I doing?”

Cosmo stood.

He walked past Zeus.

The king watched him approach the balcony railing.

Cosmo sat.

He looked down.

Zeus followed his gaze.

Far below, the clouds were gathering around the mountain.

Not ordinary clouds.

Dark ones.

Zeus could feel the static in them.

He stepped forward.

The hairs along his arms rose.

Something was wrong.

The sky was not simply changing.

It was resisting him.

Zeus lifted his hand.

Nothing happened.

His eyes hardened.

“Enough.”

He summoned lightning.

For the first time in centuries, the heavens hesitated.

Then a single bolt formed in the clouds.

It struck the ground.

Not where Zeus had commanded.

Twenty meters from where he intended.

Zeus stared.

Cosmo stood.

He trotted toward the place where the lightning had struck.

“Cosmo.”

The dog kept walking.

“Come back.”

He did not.

Zeus followed.

The lightning had struck an old stone terrace below the main palace.

There was no damage.

No scorch mark.

Nothing.

Cosmo lowered his head.

He sniffed the ground.

Then he looked toward the trees.

Zeus followed his gaze.

Nothing.

“There’s nothing there.”

Cosmo walked into the trees.

Zeus followed.

He had no reason to.

He was aware of that.

He was the king of Olympus.

He should have summoned Hermes.

Or Apollo.

Or Athena.

He should have remained in his palace and ordered someone else to investigate.

Instead, he followed a dog.

He would later blame the dog for this.

The trees grew thickly around the old path.

Zeus walked beneath the branches.

The wind moved through the leaves.

Cosmo continued forward.

“Where are you going?”

The dog didn’t answer.

“That was rhetorical.”

Cosmo stopped.

Zeus almost walked into him.

The dog was staring at something beneath a tree.

Zeus looked down.

A phone lay in the dirt.

Modern.

Black.

The screen was cracked.

Zeus bent and picked it up.

It still worked.

The lock screen showed a photograph of a family.

A man.

A woman.

Two children.

And a dog.

Zeus looked at the photograph.

Then at Cosmo.

The dog was not in it.

Zeus turned the phone over.

No identification.

He pressed the emergency call button.

The phone displayed a number.

Zeus stared at it.

Numbers were strange things.

Mortals had become obsessed with them.

Numbers for houses.

Numbers for people.

Numbers for money.

Numbers for followers.

Numbers for the number of people who had viewed a photograph of themselves eating breakfast.

Zeus had never understood the appeal.

He set the phone down.

Cosmo sniffed it.

Then moved away.

“Wait.”

The dog continued.

Zeus followed.

Again.

By midday, Zeus had accomplished nothing.

The storm remained.

The phone had not led them anywhere.

Cosmo had found nothing else.

And Zeus had developed a growing irritation toward the dog.

Not because Cosmo was disobedient.

Because he wasn’t.

He simply didn’t acknowledge Zeus’s authority at all.

Zeus could summon lightning.

Cosmo could summon absolutely nothing.

Yet when Zeus told him to stop, Cosmo stopped only if he wanted to.

When Zeus told him to come, Cosmo came only when he felt like it.

When Zeus told him to leave, Cosmo sat down.

It was infuriating.

And somehow—

Refreshing.

Zeus hated that realization most of all.

He returned to the palace.

Cosmo followed.

At the entrance, Zeus stopped.

Cosmo stopped.

Zeus looked down.

“Are you coming inside?”

Cosmo wagged his tail once.

Zeus sighed.

“Fine.”

They entered.

The palace was quieter now.

The gods had dispersed.

Zeus walked toward his throne room.

Cosmo followed.

Zeus sat upon his throne.

Cosmo sat at the base of it.

Zeus looked down.

“You know, most beings kneel.”

Cosmo stared at him.

“Mortals have worshipped me for thousands of years.”

Cosmo tilted his head.

“I have been called king.”

The dog blinked.

“Ruler.”

Blink.

“Father of gods.”

Blink.

“Lord of the sky.”

Cosmo yawned.

Zeus leaned back.

“You’re unimpressed.”

Cosmo laid his head on his paws.

Zeus stared at him.

Then, unexpectedly, laughed.

It was only a short laugh.

But it echoed through the empty hall.

“You’re an arrogant little creature.”

Cosmo’s tail tapped once against the floor.

Zeus smiled.

“At least you’re honest.”

He looked toward the enormous windows.

The storm was still there.

He could feel it.

Something had changed, though.

Not in the clouds.

In him.

He had been thinking about the storm all morning as an insult.

As a challenge.

As something that dared to disobey him.

But now—

He wondered if it was trying to tell him something.

Zeus closed his eyes.

He listened.

The wind whispered around Olympus.

Thunder murmured in the distance.

The clouds moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Zeus felt something beneath them.

Fear.

Not his.

Theirs.

He opened his eyes.

Cosmo was standing.

The dog walked toward the doors.

Zeus frowned.

“Where are you going?”

Cosmo looked back.

For a moment, Zeus had the strangest impression that the dog was waiting for him.

“You want me to follow you.”

Cosmo wagged his tail.

Zeus stared.

Then shook his head.

“Ridiculous.”

Cosmo waited.

Zeus stood.

“Fine.”

They climbed higher.

Above the palace.

Past the marble terraces.

Past the golden statues.

Past the place where the mortal world could still be seen clearly below.

Cosmo led Zeus toward the summit.

The wind grew stronger.

Zeus’s hair whipped around his face.

His coat snapped behind him.

Clouds rolled overhead.

The air smelled of rain.

Cosmo stopped at the edge.

Zeus stepped beside him.

Below them, Greece stretched into the distance.

The sea glittered.

Mountains rose through the haze.

Cities spread along the coast.

Modern Greece.

Ancient Greece.

Both at once.

Zeus had always found that strange.

Humans were remarkably good at building new worlds on top of old ones.

He looked down.

A tiny ship moved across the sea.

The storm approached it.

Zeus frowned.

“No.”

He raised his hand.

The cloud mass changed direction.

But the wind fought him.

He pushed harder.

The storm resisted.

Lightning flashed.

Cosmo suddenly barked.

Once.

Sharp.

Zeus looked down at him.

“What?”

Cosmo barked again.

Zeus followed his gaze.

The ship.

The storm wasn’t moving toward it.

It was moving around it.

Protecting it.

Zeus lowered his hand.

The clouds curved around the vessel.

Rain fell on either side.

The ship sailed through the middle of the storm untouched.

Zeus stared.

Slowly, understanding came.

The storm wasn’t disobeying him.

He had misunderstood it.

It wasn’t attacking.

It was warning.

Zeus closed his eyes.

He reached into the sky.

Not with command.

With attention.

He felt the currents.

The pressure.

The movement of the air.

The hidden disturbance beneath the storm.

Something was moving through the heavens.

Something unfamiliar.

Zeus opened his eyes.

“Interesting.”

Cosmo sat beside him.

Zeus looked down.

“You knew.”

The dog looked at him.

“You knew the storm wasn’t the problem.”

Cosmo blinked.

Zeus smiled faintly.

“You’re clever.”

The dog’s tail moved.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Cosmo yawned.

Zeus laughed again.

This time, he didn’t stop himself.

By sunset, the storm had passed.

The sky over Olympus turned orange.

Zeus stood on the balcony once more.

The world below glittered with lights.

He held the recovered phone in one hand.

The photograph remained on the screen.

A family.

A dog.

A life.

Somewhere below, perhaps someone was searching for the phone.

Perhaps they were searching for the dog too.

Zeus looked down.

Cosmo was lying near the balcony doors.

His paws stretched forward.

His eyes were closed.

Asleep.

Zeus stared at him.

There was something about the animal that bothered him.

Something he could not explain.

He had seen creatures born from gods.

Creatures born from monsters.

Creatures shaped by curses, prophecies, sacrifices, and divine accidents.

Cosmo was none of those things.

At least, Zeus thought he wasn’t.

He looked at the collar.

COSMO.

Only one name.

No owner.

No address.

No number.

Zeus wondered how long the dog had been alone.

The thought unsettled him.

He looked away.

“You’re not staying here.”

Cosmo opened one eye.

Zeus folded his arms.

“I mean it.”

The eye closed again.

“You cannot simply wander onto Olympus.”

Nothing.

“This is a sacred mountain.”

Silence.

“There are rules.”

Cosmo shifted onto his side.

Zeus sighed.

“There are supposed to be rules.”

Still nothing.

Zeus looked toward the setting sun.

“Tomorrow, I will have Hermes find your owner.”

Cosmo did not move.

“And if he cannot?”

Nothing.

Zeus paused.

“Then we’ll figure something out.”

The dog opened his eyes.

Zeus looked down at him.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Cosmo stood.

Zeus expected him to walk toward the palace.

Instead, the dog walked to the far end of the balcony.

He looked across Olympus.

His ears perked.

He seemed to be listening.

Zeus followed his gaze.

Nothing.

Then—

A voice drifted through the palace.

“Zeus?”

Hera.

Zeus closed his eyes.

Of course.

“Coming.”

He turned.

Cosmo remained where he was.

“Come along.”

Cosmo didn’t move.

Zeus frowned.

“Cosmo.”

The dog looked at him.

Then, very deliberately, turned his head toward the western wing of Olympus.

Zeus followed the movement.

The western wing.

Hades’s old guest chambers.

Zeus looked back at Cosmo.

“No.”

Cosmo’s tail moved once.

“No.”

The dog stared.

“You are not going to Hades.”

Cosmo stood.

Zeus pointed toward him.

“Absolutely not.”

Cosmo walked past him.

Zeus watched him disappear through the archway.

He stood there for several seconds.

Then he muttered something that would have horrified any mortal priest.

“Fine.”

He followed.

Hades was not in his chambers.

Of course he wasn’t.

The room was empty except for a black marble table, several books, and a potted plant Persephone had apparently left behind.

Cosmo walked inside.

Zeus stopped at the doorway.

“You have made your choice.”

Cosmo turned around.

He looked at Zeus.

Then at the empty chair.

Then back at Zeus.

Zeus frowned.

“You wanted to come here.”

Cosmo sat.

Zeus looked around.

Nothing.

“Why?”

The dog gave no answer.

Zeus walked farther into the room.

There was no disturbance.

No divine presence.

No hidden threat.

Nothing.

He looked at Cosmo.

“You have spent the entire day following me.”

Cosmo blinked.

“You watched the storm.”

Blink.

“You found the phone.”

Blink.

“You brought me here.”

Blink.

Zeus crouched.

It was an undignified position for the king of the gods.

He did it anyway.

He looked closely at the dog’s collar.

The metal tag caught the last light of evening.

COSMO.

Zeus touched it.

Cold metal.

Nothing more.

Yet the instant his fingers brushed the tag, the lights in the room flickered.

Zeus froze.

Cosmo’s ears rose.

A wind passed through the room.

There were no open windows.

Zeus stood.

The shadows along the walls shifted.

For the briefest instant, Zeus felt something.

A presence.

Not divine.

Not mortal.

Old.

Watching.

Then it was gone.

Zeus’s hand moved instinctively toward the thunderbolt hanging at his side.

Cosmo remained perfectly still.

Zeus looked down at him.

The dog looked back.

And for the first time that day, Zeus stopped thinking of Cosmo as a lost animal.

He wondered who had put that collar around his neck.

He wondered why there was no owner.

He wondered how a dog had found his way onto Olympus.

And most of all—

He wondered why, of all the gods on the mountain, Cosmo had chosen him.

Zeus straightened.

“You’re hiding something.”

Cosmo wagged his tail.

“That wasn’t permission to be pleased with yourself.”

Another wag.

Zeus shook his head.

“You are an unusual creature.”

Cosmo sat.

Zeus turned toward the door.

“Come.”

This time, Cosmo followed.

Not because Zeus had commanded him.

Zeus knew that now.

He followed because he had decided to.

And somehow, that distinction mattered.

As they walked back through the halls of Olympus, Zeus found himself thinking about the next morning.

About the storm.

About the strange disturbance in the sky.

About the phone.

About the empty side of Cosmo’s collar.

About the fact that the dog had spent an entire day with the most powerful being in the heavens and had somehow managed to make Zeus feel as though he had been the one being watched.

At the entrance to his chambers, Zeus stopped.

Cosmo stopped beside him.

Zeus looked down.

“You are not sleeping in my room.”

Cosmo looked at the open doors.

Then at Zeus.

Then walked inside.

Zeus stared.

“Cosmo.”

The dog continued.

“Absolutely not.”

Cosmo climbed onto the rug beside the enormous bed, turned three times, and dropped heavily onto the floor.

Zeus stood in the doorway.

He considered using his authority.

He considered using thunder.

He considered calling Hermes.

Instead, he closed the door.

“One night.”

Cosmo’s eyes closed.

Zeus walked toward his bed.

He looked out the window.

The clouds had cleared.

Stars filled the sky.

For the first time in centuries, Zeus felt that the heavens were watching him.

He glanced at the dog.

Cosmo was already asleep.

Zeus smiled despite himself.

“Goodnight, Cosmo.”

The dog’s tail tapped once against the floor.

And Zeus, King of the Gods, Lord of the Sky, Supreme Ruler of Mount Olympus, went to sleep with a dog he had never met curled up at the foot of his bed.

Neither of them knew that, by morning, Cosmo would choose someone else.