The tomb beneath you is smooth, cold stone—cracked a little at the corners, dusted in ash and sun. It’s perched on a balcony carved straight into the side of a mountain, a dizzying drop of at least four hundred feet to the river of clouds below.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the tomb, a picture of ease. Resting on your lap is a massive vase—polished, its sides painted with the latest mortal sensation: Hercules, chin high, jawline sharp, muscles practically bulging out of the clay. The potter really outdid himself this time, and you might have appreciated it more if you had different company.

“Pull!”

The command rings out, sharp and impatient. With a grunt, you grab the vase by both handles and hurl it into the sky.

There’s a flash of light at the balcony’s edge—a quick, violent burst of blue— Idia. Eyes narrowed, hand alight with fire. The sound of the fireball leaving his palm splits the air.

A beat later, the vase explodes in a rain of clay and dust. Shards skitter across the stone floor. You hum, unbothered, brushing a bit of ash off your sleeve. “Nice shooting,” you tease quietly, though you know he’s not listening.

That’s the fifth one.

You reach lazily for the next vase in the pile beside you—each one just as offensively heroic as the last.

“I can’t believe this guy,” Idia growls, his hair flaring and dimming in rhythm with his mood. “I throw everything I’ve got at him— and what happens? Nothing!”

You tilt your head, pretending to listen, turning the vase in your hands to admire how they captured Hercules’ smug grin.

You don't need to see to know who he’s talking about. Golden boy himself. The mortal with muscles and morals to match. Hercules, basking in the adoration of the mortals below.

You don’t have to look to know Idia’s eyes are locked on him like a starved vulture.

He leans over the edge, muttering to himself, his voice a low, furious growl carried off by the wind. Then suddenly, he spins around and storms toward you, the fire in his hair sparking bright orange.

“I throw everything I’ve got at him and it doesn’t even—” He stops mid-sentence.

The shift is instant. The fury drains from his expression, replaced by something far sharper—suspicion. His eyes flick down, scanning you, and then fix on the glint of metal at your throat.

You follow his gaze.

Right. The jewelry.

A simple necklace, perfectly polished, matching ring on your finger. And at their center, catching the light with absolute smugness, the letter H.

You can practically hear his thoughts clicking together. His flames flare, licking higher, hotter, turning the air sharp. His voice comes out like steel ground against stone. “What are those?”

You blink up at him, feigning innocence, though you both know he can see right through it. “Oh, these?” you say, fingers brushing the necklace. “Souvenirs.”

He stares at you. No movement. No sound. Just that low, eerie silence before the storm.

“I’ve got twenty-four hours,” he starts, rubbing his temples like the words themselves hurt to say, “to get rid of that—” he gestures toward the city with a flick of his wrist, “bozo—or the entire scheme I’ve been setting up for eighteen years goes up in smoke.”

He stops. Points a finger straight at you. His flames bloom orange, wild, unrestrained.

“And YOU,” he says, his voice rising with every word, “are standing there wearing HIS MERCHANDISE!?”

You barely blink before the explosion of heat hits. The fire surges so bright it paints the marble walls gold. You’re half certain the people down below can hear him shouting, maybe even the dead ones. Birds scatter from the cliffs, their wings flashing in the light.

You wince, flattening yourself against the tomb, the top of your head growing hot as stray embers lick through your hair.

You huff, reaching up and pinching one small flame out before it can leave you bald.

His expression is pure disbelief. For a long moment, he just stands there, caught between strangling you and exploding on the spot. Then, finally, he exhales, the orange cooling back to blue.