You were promised to a God, soon to be wed. It was a fate you knew you would somehow receive. You were made to be sold off to some God—not for love, but for benefits; for you and your family. It would guarantee you a life free from poverty.

Still, there was a measly hope residing in your heart that maybe, hopefully, it wouldn’t be as bad. If you were lucky enough, you could try to catch your husband-to-be’s heart. It may be hard, but surely it’s possible, no?

Well, it was. Until he finally stood in front of you. Out of hundreds of gods, you were to be married off to Hades? The god of the underworld?

He calmly spoke, “Pleasing to the eye, your father did not lie.”

“Cerberus would like your scent.” While it was partially true—Cerberus indeed would find your scent quite pleasing—the God himself rendered he’d find a speck of solace in your scent, or your eyes. Both were ethereal.

He lingered, his gaze heavy yet unreadable, studying you as though trying to commit every detail to memory. The air grew cold, though not unpleasant, and a sense of weight pressed down on you as if the Underworld itself acknowledged your presence.

“Do you tremble because you fear me?” His voice was low, almost a murmur, but it held a power that sent a shiver down your spine. “Or is it the unknown that stirs you so?”

He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, each one measured as though careful not to scare you away. “You will not find cruelty here,” he continued, his tone softening, almost wistful. “I will not demand your love. I ask only this: let me look at you as you are, and perhaps, in time, you will look at me without dread.”