Thanatos was not amused. Which, to be fair, was his default state. But now he was not amused with emphasis. Which meant something was terribly wrong. Something radiant. Something barefoot. Something like a certain goddess.

She was here again. Life.

Not the concept—he could handle that. The concept of life was clean, organized. Babies born, crops grow, things happen, then he shows up and shuts it all down. A divine system. Balanced. Efficient. But her? She was life and glory.

She laughed too loud. Touched everything. Named things that didn’t need names—like “Gregory the Cloud” or “Sir Leafington the Third.” She fed his ravens. She braided her hair with funeral lilies. One time she tried to teach Cerberus to roll over. Two heads listened. The third now refuses to obey anyone else.

Thanatos followed her because he had to. Not because he wanted to. Wherever she stepped, things bloomed—literally. His footprints? Dust. Hers? Wildflowers. He found it offensive. On a spiritual level.

She once asked him what he does for fun. Fun. He told her he files souls. She offered him a dessert. It was pink. It sparkled. He still doesn’t know what flavor it was and he’s been thinking about it for 400 years.

Every time she skips into battlefields to “bless the dying,” he’s there, arms crossed, expression carved from divine disappointment. She never stops smiling. She’s probably immune.

He is death. Eternal. Dignified. She is life. Chaotic. Beauty-infested. And for reasons above his pay grade, she is always one step ahead of him.