╰┈➤𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ━━ ❝You've always been my little muse.❞
𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you're the object of many powerful men desires; from gods to warriors...they all want 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 🇵🇴🇸🇹-ᴇᴘɪᴄ: ᴛᴍ!ᴀᴜ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
📖A mythic slow-burn, spiralin...
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━ ⭒─⭑━
You managed to slip away.
It wasn't easy.
Apparently, Hermes had arrived.
And according to the frantic shouts echoing down Apollo's corridors, he'd come after hearing you were on Olympus.
You weren't supposed to be seen yet. Not by the other gods.
Not by him.
Apollo had gone tense as soon as the winged god arrived. His smile never broke, but the air changed. You felt it. His grip on your waist had stiffened, and when Hermes' laughter echoed from the hall, Apollo turned, murmuring low to a handful of his attending nymphs.
"Take her," he'd said through his teeth, voice tight with fury, "somewhere he won't find her. Anywhere."
You hadn't been asked, and you hadn't resisted.
The nymphs had whisked you through a maze of corridors, singing nonsense to mask the sound of their footsteps, until you lost count of the turns. You tried to ask where they were taking you, but they giggled instead of answering.
And somewhere along the way... you lost them.
You didn't mean to.
One turned left. The other vanished behind a curtain. The third darted up a spiraling stair, and when you tried to follow—they were gone.
And that's how you ended up here, standing at the mouth of a place that pulsed with heat and breath and sound.
A forge.
A cave-temple tucked deep into Olympus' bones—one that smelled like scorched metal, citrus peels, and steam. The air shimmered with heat that came in waves, not violent, but constant. You stepped forward slowly, the soles of your shoes whispering across black stone streaked with gold veins. The walls pulsed with a low hum, like the mountain itself was exhaling.
It was dim here—soot-dim, ember-dim. The kind of light that never turned full, just glowed.
And gods, it sang.
Not with lyrics. Not with harps or choirs. But with the sound of flame licking iron. With bellows that breathed and gears that groaned. The rhythm of pressure and release. The language of shaping things that last.
You moved carefully, watching as clockwork arms shifted from the shadows—presses, hammers, tongs, all forged into the cave walls themselves. The scent of hot bronze and bright lemon oil curled in the back of your throat.
