"Why?"

  Hebe's voice cut through the silence like breaking glass.

  She stood directly in front of Apollo, neck craned to meet his golden eyes, fists clenched white at her sides. Behind her, Midas trembled. Pan slumped in shame. The entire glade held its breath.

  Apollo's perfect brow arched. "Why what, little sister?"

  "Why do you have to behave like this?!" Hebe's fists clenched. "He lost! You won! Everyone said so! Wasn't that enough? He was trying to give his friend a kind word, and you turned him into a permanent joke!"

  "A 'kind word' that publicly challenged my divine judgment," Apollo corrected calmly.

  Peleus appeared at Apollo's shoulder, eyes locked on Hebe with urgent warning. Lena and I skidded to a halt nearby—close enough to lunge, close enough to hear every damning word.

  "That's not order!" Hebe shook her head violently. "That's just you being cruel because someone didn't praise you perfectly!"

  A flicker of something colder passed behind Apollo's golden eyes. "You speak of things you do not understand." His gaze swept over her. "You, who have never held a domain, defended its borders against challengers. You deal in nectar and ambrosia. I deal in truth and consequence."

  Hebe flinched as if struck.

  Apollo continued, gesturing to the watching crowd. "This is how it is done. A lesson must be memorable. If I let one mortal king question my verdict with impunity, how long before others think they can do the same?"

  He looked back at Hebe, his gaze softening into pity. "You are soft-hearted, little Hebe. It is charming. It is also why your Guild remains small. Why your blessings are... quiet. You cultivate a garden. I maintain a cosmos."

  Hebe's face was pale as marble, but her eyes blazed. "I would rather have a small Guild who trusts me than a vast court that fears me!"

  The words hung in the clearing. A fundamental split between two divine natures laid bare.

  Apollo sighed. Deep disappointment. "Fear and respect are two sides of the same coin, sister. You need both to spend it in the halls of power." His voice fell to a whisper. "And you, at present, possess neither."

  Then his gaze shifted. It moved past her and landed squarely on Lena and me. The pity vanished. His eyes were now pure, assessing calculation.

  -?-

  A sharp, solitary CLAP echoed through the glade. It wasn't applause. It was a punctuation mark, brutal and final.

  Every head turned.

  Dionysus pushed himself off the pine he'd been lounging against, strolling into the center with an easy gait. The three Hyades—Vie, Ariadne, and Deiah—fell into step behind him.

  He walked right up to Apollo and clapped a hand firmly on his brother's golden-armored shoulder.

  From a distance, it looked like camaraderie. A brotherly 'well played.'

  But I saw how his fingers dug into the seam of the armor, just enough. I saw how his smile didn't reach his ancient, violet eyes, which held a glint of weary warning.

  Apollo went preternaturally still. The lecture died on his lips. The message was silent but screamed: Enough. The game is over. Push further, and you play with me.

  Dionysus finally removed his hand from Apollo's shoulder, giving it a final, patronizing pat. "A splendid performance, brother," he said aloud, voice carrying warm resonance. "Truly moving. I think we've all learned something valuable today."

  His tone was perfectly polite.

  Every being present heard the subtext: The lesson is over. Dismiss your class.

  Apollo's eyes moved from Dionysus's unreadable smile to the three Hyades arrayed behind him. Another major Olympian power had just interposed himself. The calculus had changed.

  He offered Dionysus a thin, polished smile. "I am glad you appreciated the... nuances."

  Then his gaze slid back to us—to Hebe, trembling with emotion, to me and Lena standing guard. It was no longer wrathful. It was coldly, clinically evaluative.

  We just became a permanent entry in his ledger.

  The standoff held for one more breath before Dionysus turned away with a flourish.

  "Well! This has been most delightful. But all the best parties must find their end. Come along, girls. The wine won't drink itself."

  Dionysus began to amble away. The Hyades fell in behind him—but not before Ariadne caught my eye.

  She mouthed two words: "Good luck."

  Whether she meant it as encouragement or mockery, I couldn't tell. As if we needed more complicated women in our lives.

  Apollo watched them leave, expression placid. Then he glanced at Peleus and gave a single, imperceptible nod.

  But before he turned to go, his eyes found Midas one last time.

  What I saw wasn't amusement—it was cold, analytical respect. Apollo understood what Midas had sacrificed, and in his merciless calculus, acknowledged it.

  Even a god can recognize when he's been out-stubborned by a mortal.

  "Do enjoy your new... perspective on music, Your Highness."

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  Hebe's chest was still heaving. She opened her mouth, fury aimed at Apollo's retreating back.

  "He can't just—he doesn't get to—!"

  "Lady Hebe."

  The voice that cut through her outburst was quiet, gravelly, utterly steady. It belonged to Midas.

  He had finally lowered his hands from his new ears. They twitched, long and grey and absurd, but his face... his face was a landscape of unexpected calm. More than calm. Strange, hard-won peace etched there, deep as river-cut stone.

  Hebe turned to him, confusion warring with anger. "Midas, I... I am so sorry. This is my fault—"

  Midas held up a hand, stopping her apology. "This," he said, gesturing toward the donkey ears, "is not a punishment."

  He looked past her, toward where Dionysus had vanished. "It is a badge of honor."

  Silence fell over our small group.

  Midas met Hebe's bewildered gaze. "Honor. To make the right decision, not the safe one. To stand beside a friend when every other soul has turned their back."

  He placed a hand on Pan's shoulder. The god flinched but didn't pull away.

  "I do not lament this outcome." Midas looked down at Marigold, her eyes swimming with tears and dawning pride. "Ever since my golden problem was resolved, I have lived here. In these woods. With my daughter. Away from palaces that are gilded cages."

  A warm smile touched his lips. "And I have been... happy. A simple father. A true friend. It is a richer life than any my touch ever granted me."

  He flicked one donkey ear deliberately. It flopped. A soft chuckle escaped him.

  "These ears? They are just another reminder. That I chose kindness over safety. Friendship over royal favor. A heart over a crown." His eyes locked on Hebe. "A reminder that some things—some people—are worth looking foolish for."

  Hebe stared at him, her anger dissolving into something else—dawning, humbling understanding tinged with sadness for the cost of such nobility.

  Pan finally found his voice, rough and scraped raw. "You are a better friend, Midas, than I have ever deserved."

  Midas shook his head, the ears swaying. "Nonsense. Friendship isn't a ledger. It's a well. You drink from it when you are parched. You defend it when it is threatened."

  The tension finally bled away, replaced by weary, somber quiet.

  Apollo paused at the clearing's edge. He half-turned, his profile a golden line against the dusk.

  "Ah," he said, voice slicing through the quiet like a scalpel. "Hebe. You are still here."

  He said it as if he'd genuinely forgotten.

  Hebe blinked, pulled violently from her thoughts. "I... yes?"

  Apollo tilted his head. "You did not travel all this way, risk my displeasure and this... rustic company, merely to critique my disciplinary methods, did you? You are here on Mother's errand. The official one."

  The peacock.

  I winced. Dia, you forgot it? Really? After all that righteous fury?

  Hebe's eyes went wide, color draining. "Oh gods. Yes. The Helios-blessed peacock—for Mother's Entheos—do you have it?"

  "The bird is secure," Apollo said smoothly. "At my temple complex near Pylos in Epirus, under vigilant guard."

  Relief flooded her face. "Then we can—"

  "After you have rendered a service to my cause here in Epirus."

  Hebe's relief evaporated. "A... service?"

  Before Apollo could elaborate, a harsh CRAW shattered the twilight quiet.

  We all looked up. A black crow, larger than any natural bird, circled overhead. Its wings beat a frantic rhythm, feathers slick with sea spray. It swooped down in an ungainly spiral, landing heavily near where Peleus stood.

  The bird's feathers held a blue-black sheen, its eyes glinting with unnatural intelligence. A message bird. Tied to its leg was a slender bone tube, sealed with black wax stamped with a lyre.

  Peleus strode forward quickly. He snatched the tube, broke the seal, and pulled out a tight scroll. His eyes scanned the cramped script, and his face hardened with each passing word.

  He turned and marched to Apollo, voice tight with urgency. "My lord! Priority message from the coast."

  Apollo stopped. He didn't turn quickly—it was a slow, deliberate pivot. "Report."

  Peleus reached him, holding out the scroll. "Hyacinthus has been forced to retreat, my lord. He's disengaging to defensive position Theta." He swallowed. "The beaches... the primary landing zones at Mornos. They have fallen. In battle."

  Frozen silence gripped the clearing.This duel was never about a flute or just a god’s pride or title. It was about maintaining all his powers intact.

  Apollo's face was now like a thunderhead lit from within. "The beaches have fallen? To the Imperion? To Brutii's vanguard?" His voice was dangerously soft.

  Peleus nodded. "To the lead elements of the Brutii legion, yes. But..." He paused, loaded with genuine confusion. "My lord, the reports are... strange. Hyacinthus emphasizes: they are not using phalanxes. They abandoned the hoplite shield wall entirely."

  Apollo's eyes narrowed. "What?!"

  Peleus's gaze flicked from Apollo to us. "They fought in a new formation. Manipular legions, they call them. Smaller, flexible units. Three lines that rotate. Their tactics were... fluid. Adapting in real time."

  He looked back at Apollo, fear of a soldier facing an unknown weapon naked in his eyes. "This isn't just a new army, my lord. It's a new way of war."

  The words hung in the cooling air. Not just a report of lost battle, but the declaration of a paradigm shift.

  Apollo's expression hardened. He absorbed the report without comment, then turned to Hebe as if the interruption had been scheduled.

  "The Imperion stirs. They push east from Tarentum, carving roads where my sacred groves have stood for millennia."

  His eyes snapped to Hebe. "One of Bellona's most favored houses leads the spearhead. The Brutii. Their captain, Aurelios—'The Iron Strategist'— on of the Extraordinarii the elite of Bellona drives into these hills with his shock force."

  Hebe paled. The Imperion? Here? Since when?

  "My Retainers are stretched thin. They guard my temples, my oracles, and yes, mother's precious peacock. The local tribes are useless in formation."

  He gestured toward us. "So. If you want your peacock, little sister, you will aid my cause. Go north. Find where Aurelios's scouts probe. Disrupt them. Harass their supply lines. Slow their advance... and the peacock is yours."

  He leaned in. "Fail, and I will personally inform Mother that her errand was beyond your capabilities. Every god on Olympus will hear the same tale. Your Guild's reputation will be ash."

  The threat settled over us like a shroud.

  Apollo turned on his heel and walked away, Peleus falling into his shadow.

  Leaving Hebe shell-shocked, her simple fetch-quest transformed into desperate guerrilla war against the most enigmatic military machine in the mortal world—the Imperion's new Legions

  I stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on Hebe's shoulder. She flinched, then sagged into it. "It's okay, Dia," I said, keeping my voice low and factual. "We can do that."

  She looked up at me, eyes wide with doubt. "Nihl, he's not asking us to fight a monster. He's asking us to fight an army!"

  "He's asking us to be a thorn in its side," I corrected gently. "To be clever, fast, and annoying. We don't have to beat them. We just have to make winning more trouble than it's worth." I offered a tired smirk. "We're exceptionally good at being thorns."

  I gave her shoulder a final squeeze before turning my gaze to Lena.

  Just a look. A slight tilt of my head. We need to talk. Now.

  She read it instantly. Her frustration banked down, compressed into diamond-hard focus. She gave a single nod, eyes already scanning the northern tree line. Oh. Of course. The bastard wasn't defending his pride—he was defending his position.

  Before we could turn to our planning, I called out to Peleus. "Captain! A moment!"

  He paused, glancing at Apollo, who continued without breaking stride.

  I kept my voice level. "Who's currently holding the line on the beaches? If we're to be your distraction, it'd be good to know who we're distracting for."

  Peleus's expression hardened, but I saw the flicker—concern, fatigue, respect. He hesitated, gaze darting to Apollo before turning back.

  "Sub-Captain Hyacinthus," he replied, voice clipped. "He commands the coastal defenses at the Bay of Mornos. A capable warrior. Devoted." He paused, and the unspoken 'but' hung heavy. But young. But outmatched.

  "Complete your task," he said abruptly. He turned and strode after his god.

  I looked back at our small, battered group.

  A young goddess on a desperate errand.

  Lena, half-healed and burning with fury.

  And me, a weary spearman with more questions than answers and now we had to poke the most mysterious army in the world. Just another day with the Hebe Guild. Good life choices am I right?

  As Pan, Midas, and Marigold disappeared into the darkening tree line—Pan glancing back with mingled gratitude and guilt—the weight of what lay ahead settled over us.

  On the breeze, we could almost smell the salt, the blood, and the cold, efficient iron of a changing age.

  Lena cracked her knuckles. "When do we leave?"

  "Tonight. Before Apollo changes his mind about giving us a choice." I looked at Hebe, still pale and shell-shocked.