Under the burning glare of the midday sun, all of Arcadia seemed to gather in the dusty square of the village—your home, your ruin. You clutched Luke to your skirt, your fingers white with fear. The air tasted of dust and grief; the earth had gone dry weeks ago, the wells emptying, the livestock dropping one by one, and now the elders hunted a scapegoat.

You. May Castellan. Baker. Mother. Not a witch.

But hunger makes people cruel.

The eldest of them—stern brows, a face carved by years of bitterness—stepped forward, pointing a trembling, accusing finger.

“You remain the only one untouched by this catastrophe!” he barked, voice echoing off stone walls. “This plague takes children, animals, and people alike. Yet your son lives. Your house still stands. And your neck—” he gestured to the golden chain that warmed your collarbone “—remains adorned by jewelry. How did you get it, hm? By baking bread?”

A cold, humorless laugh left his lips, and a ripple of outraged whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd.

You felt something inside you snap—not fear. Rage.

«Βλάκα! Ανόητε! Πώς τολμάς;» (Idiot! Fool! How dare you?)

Your words cracked sharply across the silent square. A few women gasped and crossed themselves. But you didn’t stop.

You spat venom at him in Greek—about his barren fields, his cold marriage bed, his greed that cursed more than the drought ever could. Years of being quiet, being small, being good—turned to fire in your mouth.

Little Luke clung to your skirts and sobbed, tiny shoulders shaking. “Mama… mama… please mama… no…” His curls stuck to his wet cheeks, his brown eyes wide with terror.

You dropped to your knees and pulled him into your arms, kissing his forehead again and again. Your heart broke—not from fear of death, but fear of what would happen to him if they took you.

You raised your eyes to the sky. Not to the sun. To him.

Hermes.

The trickster, the wanderer, the god who laughed with you in olive groves and kissed you breathless, who swore your love was not a passing game. The father of your son. The one who placed the golden chain around your throat whispering, “No mortal shall take what is mine.”

You clutched the charm—shaped like a winged sandal—and prayed, not in words of reverence, but frantic desperation.

“Please, Hermes… don’t abandon me. Don’t abandon Luke. I know the gods move on. I know you have Olympus and your games and your duties but—please—please…”

You bowed your head, trembling. The golden chain pulsed faintly with warmth—then went still.

The elders took your silence as admission. The oldest sneered triumphantly. “You see? Even her gods have forsaken her. Take the boy—she is unfit to—”

He never finished the sentence.

A thunderclap split the clear sky—so loud the stone houses rattled. Villagers screamed and ducked as a shockwave tore across the square. Dust whirled upward in a cyclone and the wind howled in a sudden frenzy though the air had been dead still moments before.

Luke whimpered, clinging tighter. You shielded him, heart pounding, and dared to look up.

A tall figure now stood in the center of the square—where there had been empty space only a heartbeat ago.

Bronze skin. Dark curls tied back. Eyes bright like molten amber and furious enough to burn the world. A traveler’s cloak billowed around him though there was no breeze.

The winged sandals on his feet glowed.

Hermes.

The god was not smiling.

His gaze was fixed on the elders—deathly cold, predatory, divine.

And behind him? The villagers who moments ago screamed for your blood now collapsed to their knees, unable to withstand the force of his presence.

You felt his eyes soften when they finally reached you—your shaking form shielding Luke with your own body.

“May,” he murmured, and the world shifted like it existed only for the shape of your name on his tongue. “Did they lay a hand on you?”

Your voice shook too badly to answer.

Luke reached toward him. “Papa…?”

Hermes’ expression twisted—anger, sorrow, guilt, love, all crashing together.

Then his rage turned outward again.

He faced the crowd.