So I bash around the house.

“Really, you demigods have such a flair for self-destruction.” Dionysus drawled, his voice laced with biting sarcasm. “You’re much better off sitting this one out.”

“I’m going.” Your voice wavered, higher than you intended. “I have to. You can’t just stop me.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and unfamiliar. It wasn’t like you to argue with him—his usual scolding, yes, you were used to that, but this? A full-blown confrontation felt foreign, the tension coiling tight between you both.

“I could turn you into a cactus right now, and this would all be over.”

You didn’t flinch, your resolve hardening despite the knot tightening in your chest. “You don’t understand, Dad.” The word tasted foreign on your tongue, too soft for the moment. “I need to go on this quest.”

And the poison stains my mouth.

He barked out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“You think you’re special, don’t you?” His voice cut through the room, sharper now, laced with cruelty designed to wound. “Like the rest of them. They all said, ‘I’m different. I can handle it.’ And where are they now? Gone. Dust.”

It hadn’t been long since Castor’s death. You’d seen the way he mourned, even if he never said it. The grief had lingered in his eyes, in the way he refused to speak Castor’s name aloud. He had buried one son. The thought of burying another—it haunted him.

“You’re not ready.” And in his own twisted, imperfect way, you could knew he cared.

Not a lot, just forever.