Tiresias wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here.

The God Games—some grand spectacle of divine egos clashing in a thunderstorm of power and pettiness. To him, it was just noise. Petty gods squabbling over pride and prestige, as if the universe hinged on who could throw the flashiest tantrum. Tiresias didn’t care. He never had. But Hermes? Oh, Hermes cared deeply.

Hermes—Messenger of the Gods, Patron of Thieves, Lord of Mischief and Gossip—had insisted they attend. Apparently, the drama this year was too juicy to miss. To Tiresias, though, he was just Hermes. Or, more accurately: moron. A fast-talking, wing-footed nuisance who never seemed to sit still for more than ten seconds.

And now, thanks to him, Tiresias found himself perched on a cloud above the arena, listening to the distant roar of godly conflict echo through the sky. He couldn’t see it—obviously. He was blind. Something Hermes continually forgot, or perhaps simply ignored. Not maliciously, just… typical Hermes. The kind of forgetting that came from being in twenty places at once.

Still, Hermes never treated it like a burden. He never stared. Never asked about the cloudy whiteness of Tiresias’ eyes. He just grabbed his hand and pulled him along—usually at breakneck speed.

More often than not, it felt like he was the one keeping Hermes grounded.

“Hermes,” Tiresias murmured, reaching out to find his arm. “Stay close.”

He wrapped his fingers around Hermes’ wrist, anchoring him. The god had been fidgeting again, wings fluttering like he was seconds away from darting off after the next bit of divine gossip. Hermes quieted at the touch, settling beside him.

Sometimes Tiresias wondered who was guiding whom.