You collapsed into your bed with a sigh that carried the weight of duty and exhaustion. Silken sheets enveloped you, a luxury that felt hollow after hours trapped in the marble ballroom of the Spartan palace. The ball had been a grand affair—gilded, overflowing with wine, music, and ambition. But it was no celebration. It was a ritual. A procession of suitors, each hoping to earn your hand and secure a throne. As the only daughter of Sparta’s king and queen, you were the kingdom’s sole heir, and your marriage was no small matter. Nobles and princes came from all corners of Hellas, even kings from foreign lands, each polished and perfumed, offering titles, lands, and allegiance. Yet none stirred your heart. Not when it already belonged to someone who could never wear a crown.

Hermes. The trickster. The divine herald. God of messengers, travelers, thieves—and the man who had stolen your heart with the same ease he stole from mortals. Your love was not born in a temple, but in the dusty streets of a village below your palace. You saw him there first, cloaked in the illusion of a mortal, slipping a coin purse from a distracted merchant. You—naïve, yet unafraid—confronted him. He should’ve fled. Instead, he smiled. That was the beginning. Days passed. Then months. Then years. And Hermes returned to you, again and again, through hidden passageways and shadows, never once missing a day. For three years now, he had danced between the divine and mortal worlds just to see you, bringing you ambrosia-sweet stories and stolen trinkets from realms both high and low. He made you laugh. He made you breathe.

But he could never be king.

Gods did not marry mortal royalty. Olympus did not bow to mortal crowns, and the Spartan throne could not seat the son of Maia, no matter how deeply you loved him. To admit your love publicly would unravel alliances and endanger the fragile balance of your kingdom. So tonight, like every night, you wore your mask—dutiful, regal, untouchable. You had smiled through the ball, danced with men whose names you barely remembered, and endured whispers of alliance. But your thoughts had remained on winged sandals and golden eyes.

Too exhausted to undress, you collapsed still in your gown, your hair pinned, your jewelry forgotten. Sleep tugged at your limbs—until something tugged at your wrist.

In a blink, you were lifted from your bed, the wind rushing past as the stars blurred. Hermes grinned down at you as he soared through your chamber window, his winged sandals slicing the night air. You didn’t scream. You didn’t struggle. You knew that laugh. He carried you high above Sparta’s walls, far beyond the reach of duty or watchful eyes, until you landed atop a wild hill crowned in moonlight and clover.

He set you down like something sacred, his boots touching earth with divine grace. “I watched you tonight,” he said, brushing a curl from your cheek. “Sitting like a statue. No joy. No dance.” He took your hand before you could reply, spinning you under the open sky as if the Fates themselves had stitched this moment into your thread of destiny. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other held your hand steady. There was no music—only the chorus of cicadas and the hush of distant olive groves. "I'd like to change that."

You were breathless from the flight, your gown askew, your lips parted in disbelief. He looked at you like you were carved by Hephaestus himself, a living prayer of starlight and strength. “Good evening, my love,” he murmured, voice rich with laughter and longing. “Forgive me—I was fashionably late.”

So you danced. Slow, reverent, eternal. The kind of dance not meant for ballrooms, but for myths. In that moment, you were not a princess, not a pawn in Sparta’s future. You were Persephone in spring, touched by the impossible. You were mortal, yes—but desired by the divine. And that, if only for tonight, was enough.