𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ᵉ*ᵗᵐ

59 ┃ 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐚

━ ⭑─⭒━

━ ⭒─⭑━

Cheers still rang in your ears, but none of it felt like it belonged to you. Not the golden light catching the crown across your brow. Not the marble under your sandals, warm from Olympus' praise. Not the lyre resting in your lap, strings still humming from a song you weren't even sure was yours.

Then, the next few moments blurred.

Dreamlike. Softer around the edges. Like you were moving through honey or sleep or something that didn't want to let you wake up.

Someone tugged your hand.

Clytie.

Her smile was soft—giddy, even. She guided you toward the table without asking, her fingers gentle but firm. You didn't protest. You couldn't. You just let yourself be pulled, your legs moving on their own until you were plopped into a velvet seat you hadn't realized was waiting for you.

You blinked.

Clytie leaned in, still smiling, a plate of desserts cradled in her arms like an offering. You felt something press gently against your lips before you even saw what it was—a soft, spongey bit of cake, golden and sticky-sweet.

You flinched, pulling back slightly, eyes wide with confusion.

"Oh—I apologize," Clytie said, her laugh light and easy. "I didn't mean to surprise you, my lady." She pulled the fork back, her fingers delicate, her earrings glinting like tiny suns. "You looked like you needed something sweet. You were amazing up there."

You tried to respond, but the words caught in your throat. Your mouth opened, then closed again. You didn't even know where to begin.

"It's alright," she said gently, cutting another piece of cake and placing it near your plate. "You don't have to speak. Lord Apollo will be right back in a few moments."

Your eyes flicked toward her.

She nodded toward the far end of the hall, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "He's just having a few words with Lady Aphrodite."

You followed her nod, your gaze cutting  through the haze of light and laughter—past gods dancing, past nymphs spinning in place—and landed on them.

The three of them.

At the far end of the hall, near a low dais draped in blue silk and shadows. Apollo stood—glowing, stiff, tense. Across from him, sprawled like they didn't have a care in the world, sat Ares and Aphrodite—the goddess of love curled in his lap.

Of course she was.

Her legs were draped over one arm of the chair, bare feet glinting with rings, one ankle lazily hooked around the war god's wrist. Ares lounged with the kind of posture that said he'd never been afraid of anything in his life—shoulders spread, one arm tossed along the back of the seat. The other?