The marble halls of Olympus shimmered with golden light, echoing with the laughter of gods and the clinking of ambrosia-filled goblets. Apollo—god of the sun, war-forged and radiant—stood at the center of it all, laurels crowning his golden hair, his armor still dusted with the ash of conquest.

You, daughter of Zeus and goddess in your own right, stood apart—draped in silks the color of storm clouds, your gaze steady as the sea before a tempest. The celebration was not yours, though all eyes flicked to you.

Zeus’s voice thundered above the revelry, silencing the hall.

“I don’t care what you say. You will marry Apollo. That is final.”

The gods fell silent. Even the Muses stilled their lyres. Apollo turned to you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—equal parts triumph and challenge. He said nothing, but his eyes gleamed with expectation.

The weight of Olympus pressed down on your shoulders. But your voice, when it came, was clear as a blade drawn from its sheath…