You wouldn't think impersonating a Titan would require this much grunting.
"Stretch your back more," Adrastea said, arms crossed as she circled me like a drillmaster. "Your spine still curves like a mortal's. Titans don't slouch."
"I'm not slouching," I muttered, knees bent, back arched uncomfortably. "This is called being tired."
"Try again," she said, ignoring me.
Zeus was groaning next to me, already sprawled on the floor of the cave, shirtless and breathing hard. His golden curls were a tangled mess, his chest slick with sweat.
"I don't even know what form I'm trying to copy anymore," he gasped. "My body hurts in places I didn't even know existed."
"You'll thank me when you don't get turned into ash the second you walk into Cronus's throne room," Adrastea said, tapping her finger on his forehead. "Now up. Again."
I rolled my shoulders and tried to focus.
We'd been at it for a week. Seven days of transformation drills, muscle control exercises, aura suppression, and the occasional magical slap to the back of the head whenever one of us messed up—which was often.
Disguising ourselves as Titans wasn't just about looking the part. It was about feeling it. Projecting that calm, cruel confidence. Titans didn't just walk into a room. They dominated it. Even when they were silent, the air bent around them.
I was starting to get the hang of it.
Zeus? Not so much.
"I'm just saying," Zeus grunted as he hauled himself upright again. "Maybe we don't need to be perfect Titans. Just convincing enough. Like… background characters."
"Cronus executes background characters when he's bored," I said dryly.
Zeus opened his mouth to reply—but then stopped.
A pulse of divine energy washed into the cave, soft and intricate. Not oppressive like Cronus's presence, not wild like Prometheus. This was precise. Cool.
She stepped inside, tall and veiled, wrapped in sea-green robes and silver thread. Her eyes shimmered with shifting patterns, like an ever-turning kaleidoscope of constellations. Her presence made the air taste like mint and copper.
Metis.
Titaness of Wisdom.
"Metis," I said, standing straighter. "You arrived."
She nodded once. "Rhea is persuasive. And desperate. And I've grown… weary of Cronus."
Adrastea bowed slightly. "We could use your help."
"You will have it," she said, turning her gaze on me. "You are Hades?"
"I am."
"You're the one who devised the poison plan?"
"With some help," I said, jerking a thumb toward Zeus, who was still catching his breath on the floor. "Mostly moral support."
"Hey!" Zeus said.
Metis smiled faintly. "Come. Show me what you've tried."
And just like that, we began the next phase.
☼
The cave we used for experiments was separate from the others. Rhea had called it "The Labyrinth Hollow"—a place where she didn't have to deal with the mess.
It was perfect.
Metis knelt over a wide basin of glass, her hands glowing faintly as she stirred the latest attempt at a solution. A dozen failed mixtures sat in jars along the ledge—each labeled with increasingly creative nicknames.
Rotgut, The Shocker, Vomit Storm, Sleepy Screamer, and Nope. (That one had nearly blinded me.)
"It needs something else," Metis muttered. "Something that targets the stomach without numbing the nerves too quickly. Too fast, and Cronus will realize that he was poisoned."
"What about Syrup of Manna?" I offered, pointing to a jar Amaltheia had bartered from a dryad.
"That's a laxative," Zeus said.
"Exactly."
Metis gave me a look—then added a few drops to the mixture.
The result fizzed. A rich, burgundy liquid with swirls of iridescent green. It smelled sweet… but underneath, there was a sharp metallic tang.
Metis dipped a small shard of copper into the mixture. It hissed and burned. Then she added poppy juice and copper sulfate.
I watched as she mixed it all for a while and we all leaned forward, waiting.
It was the first one that didn't change color after a minute. It stayed dark. Opaque. Like a moonless ocean.
Metis raised the goblet to her lips.
"Wait—" Zeus started.
But she took a sip. Yeah this woman was insane.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
"Metis?" I asked, my heart suddenly racing.
She opened her eyes slowly. "It works."
Zeus let out a breath.
"How long?" I asked.
"Three minutes until vomiting begins. Ten before the stomach starts convulsing."
"What do we call it?" Zeus asked, eyeing the shimmering liquid with a mix of awe and horror.
I looked at the burgundy surface of the wine, as I mixed in the poison and watched it vanish leaving behind no smell. A drink that looks delicious and yet will backstab the drinker.
"Nightshade," I said.
Metis nodded once. "Fitting."
☼
The next few weeks passed in a blur.
We trained. Perfected the transformation. Practiced our roles—how to bow like a servant, how to speak when spoken to and not before. Amaltheia forced us to memorize Titan dialects. Adrastea drilled us with etiquette and posture. Metis taught us how to shield our divine presence, cloaking our true selves in a shell of illusion.
Every night I fell into a cot with burning muscles and a racing mind.
Every morning I woke up wondering if it was the day.
And then—three weeks in—Rhea came.
She didn't say a word as she entered. She just stood there, face grim, holding a crumpled scroll.
We all turned.
"He killed the last cupbearer," she said.
Silence.
My heart sank.
"Publicly," she added. "Tore his head off during a banquet. Send a notice across the empire. 'New blood for the king's wine.'"
Zeus stood slowly. "So…"
"This is it," I said.
Metis handed me the vial of Nightshade. It was sealed with wax and wrapped in a cloth. "It has to be fresh," she warned. "Open it at the banquet. Mix it in the king's goblet, while one of you prepares the drink the other has to distract everyone."
"Noted," I said, slipping it into the inner pocket of my robe. The plan was simple and if everything went right than by tomorrow this time we will be hired as new cupbearer's
☼
By dawn, we set out for Mount Othrys.
The sky was slate-gray as our ship glided toward the mainland, the salt-stung wind pulling at my cloak. The closer we came, the more the sea seemed to darken. Not with magic, but with memory. Mount Othrys loomed on the horizon like a scar upon the world—its jagged peaks stabbing into the heavens, sheathed in storm clouds. It was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful. Sharp. Cold. Deadly.
Iapetus was waiting for us on the shore, right where he said he'd be.
He hadn't changed much—broad shoulders, silver-streaked beard, eyes that saw too much. When he spotted us, he waved us over with a grin that was more teeth than warmth. I had written to him weeks ago. If this plan was going to work, it needed Titan blood to open the doors.
"Finally," he said as we approached. "I was starting to think you'd drowned."
"Disappointed?" I asked.
He snorted. "Only mildly."
He gave Zeus a once-over, then me. "Are you ready for this?"
"I've been ready since I left," I said. "Let's get moving before someone notices."
The path up Mount Othrys hadn't changed—still a twisted, unforgiving climb carved into black cliffs, flanked by statues of the Titans. They watched us pass with stone eyes, flames flickering from torches nestled in their hands. The statues had once frightened me. Now they simply looked tired.
By the time we reached the summit, the world had thinned to breathless air and bare stone. Mount Othrys scraped the sky like the spine of some ancient beast, jagged and cruel. Wind screamed across the cliff face, tugging at our cloaks as if trying to push us back. But we pressed on.
Then we saw it—the palace of the Titans.
It wasn't a single structure, but a city-fortress sprawled across the mountain's crown. Columns of white and obsidian marble rose like spears, open to the air, framing platforms that hung suspended above vast drops. Bridges of polished stone connected balconies and towers, all gleaming with veins of gold and fire-lit crystal. No walls enclosed it. Titans feared no armies. They wanted the sky to bear witness to their glory.
It was breathtaking—and deeply wrong. Too elegant for its bones. Too hollow for its grandeur. It was a monument to arrogance, and beneath its polish, I could feel the cold rot of power gone unchallenged for too long.
We climbed the last set of stairs toward the gate when Atlas stepped into view.
He didn't wear armor. He didn't need to. His body was a sculpture of muscle and scar tissue, standing well over fifteen feet tall. His skin was bronzed and weathered, marked with old battle runes carved into his arms and chest—each one a vow of strength. His black hair was braided into thick cords down his back, and golden bands circled his wrists and ankles like shackles he wore with pride. His eyes were pale gray, almost white, and they cut through us like stone blades.
He blocked the gate with a single step, folding his arms across his massive chest. The shadows of the pillars behind him danced in the torchlight, and his presence made the very mountain seem to stand still.
"What business do you have here?" he rumbled, voice deep and unhurried—like a boulder deciding whether to fall.
Iapetus stepped forward smoothly, with the same ease one might show when stepping into a den of wolves.
"These two are my grandchildren," he said, tone casual but firm. "Children of an old friend who passed away some time ago. I've been raising them myself."
Atlas' gaze narrowed. "You've never spoken of them."
"You've never asked."
The silence that followed dragged just a breath too long.
Atlas looked to me next. "What do you want?"
I lowered my head, keeping my tone humble, but not weak. "To serve. I was told the court is in need of a new cupbearer. I come with no ambition, only the skill my grandfather has taught me. A steady hand. A loyal heart."
His eyes stayed on me for a long, suffocating moment. I wondered if he could see through the name, the story, the glamoured shadow wrapped around my true face. But no. The Titans were prideful—they didn't look for deception in lesser beings. That was their flaw.
"Fine," Atlas grunted at last. "The King will decide if you're worth keeping."
Atlas's massive form shifted slightly as he stepped aside. The gate behind him cracked open, spilling firelight and the hum of distant conversation into the mountain air.
But I didn't walk through just yet.
Instead, I reached into the leather satchel slung over my shoulder and pulled out a slim obsidian flask sealed with a golden stopper—etched with symbols I'd carved myself beneath the moonlight, when inspiration first struck.
"Before we enter," I said, my voice calm but carrying enough weight to make even Atlas's brow twitch, "I'd like to offer you something. A gift."
His eyes flicked down to the flask, wary.
I pulled the stopper. A soft aroma drifted out—sweet, rich, with a strange warmth that reminded you of things you hadn't felt in years. Sunlight in your chest. Ambrosia in your veins. Laughter you didn't know you missed.
He frowned. "What is it?"
"A drink. One I crafted myself." I poured it carefully into a silver cup. The deep violet liquid shimmered in the light like a captured star. "I call it wine."
Atlas stared at it for a moment. Then, slowly, he took the cup from my hand. His fingers dwarfed the silver, but he raised it to his lips and drank.
I watched.
The first sip hit him like a quiet thunderclap.
His eyes widened slightly. He took another. Slower. Then looked down at the liquid, as if trying to understand how something so soft could feel so… divine.
He let out a breath and let the cup hang loose in his hand. "This…" His voice was quieter now, almost reverent. "Lord Cronus will love this beverage."
I gave a small smile. "That's the idea."
He looked back at me, expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then, with a short grunt, he stepped fully aside and motioned toward the grand entrance. "Go. But don't embarrass me in front of the court."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I said smoothly.
As we stepped through the gate and into the Titan stronghold, I caught Iapetus glancing at me with the faintest curve of his mouth.
The hall had changed.
Once, Mount Othrys had echoed with war songs and booming laughter, with Titans who strode like gods and lived as if the world bent to their will. But now, the air was thick with tension, the laughter replaced by whispers. What had once been a citadel of chaos and power had hardened into something colder, older, and more brittle.
I walked beside Iapetus and the boy who now called himself my brother. He was trying not to look impressed, but his eyes darted everywhere—columns carved with constellations, mosaics of ancient victories, ceilings so high the stars themselves peeked through the cracks. The great hall stretched endlessly forward, flanked by Titans who stood like statues. Even still, their presence was suffocating.
And at the end of it all sat my father, Cronus.
The Titan King no longer radiated that power and strength I remembered from my childhood. He was colossal, yes—but the years had carved into him like erosion into stone. His once-proud frame now bore the heavy slouch of age, as though the cosmos pressed on his shoulders. His skin, weathered and dull, looked like old parchment stretched over armor, and veins of gold pulsed faintly beneath it. His beard was fuller now, streaked with iron-grey, and his eyes—once wild—had dimmed into a slow-burning gold, like embers that refused to die out.
He wore a deep indigo toga draped over layered armor—black bronze plates etched with swirling constellations and ancient runes, each piece fitted like scales across his broad frame. The cloth shimmered faintly with divine thread, catching the torchlight in muted gold. Around his neck hung a heavy torque of orichalcum, and rings of obsidian and silver adorned his fingers.
Resting against the side of his throne—an obsidian monolith veined with gold—was his scythe. Taller than any man, its haft was forged from a petrified root, dark and gnarled, while the blade curved with a brutal elegance—a silver crescent moon that looked very dangerous.
He did not rise as we approached.
Iapetus bowed and nudged me forward. I stepped ahead, followed by my younger companion. I could feel Cronus's gaze sweep over me—curious at first, then cautious, then… something else. A flicker of familiarity, maybe. Or suspicion.
"Who comes before me?" Cronus asked, his voice slow and heavy, like millstones grinding in the dark. The court hushed.
I bowed low, but not too low. "My name is Ganymede, my lord. I come to offer my service as your new cupbearer."
"And the boy behind you?" His eyes flicked toward Zeus.
"This is my brother," I said smoothly, "Callidus. A simple servant's shadow, for now."
Cronus drummed his fingers on the armrest of his throne. "Many have offered. Few are satisfied. What makes you different?"
I gave him a small smile and reached into the satchel on my side. "Because I bring something new. A drink that might please even the king of time himself."
His brow rose, faintly amused. "A bold claim."
I uncorked the flask. As I poured the deep violet liquid into a goblet of polished bronze, a rich aroma bloomed into the air—dark fruit, earth, sunlight, warmth. The hall quieted. A few Titans leaned in, curious.
"I call it wine," I said, presenting the cup to Cronus with both hands.
He accepted it with one thick-fingered hand and sniffed it cautiously. Then he drank.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then his eyes opened wider. His posture shifted. He licked his lips.
"This…" His voice was softer now, tinged with something like surprise. "This is... unlike anything I've tasted in eons."
Cronus took another sip, slower this time. He let the wine rest on his tongue before swallowing, thoughtful. "I have to admit that this does taste very good, very rich in taste.
He leaned back, the smallest smile carving itself across his weathered face.
"Very well, you have earned a place, Ganymede. You and your brother may serve in my court."
I bowed. "Your praise honors me, my king."
Iapetus gave me a nod, but his eyes said something else—Well played.
As I stepped back, I couldn't help but glance once more at Cronus. At the scythe. At the shadow that had grown around him since the last time I had called him Father.
The King had grown older. Slower. But that did not mean that my father was weak.