Telling Poppy about Eris had been a mistake.
Or… maybe not a mistake, but definitely a choice.
The moment you said, “So, uh, remember that woman with purple hair? She’s actually the goddess Eris,” your twelve-year-old sister SCREAMED so loudly the neighbors banged on the wall.
Then she dragged you to the public library, shoved you into a chair, and started piling mythology books on the table as if preparing for war.
“READ!” “This one says she started the Trojan War!” “READ THIS TOO!” “Oh gods—she threw apples at people?? She sounds awesome!”
You learned everything:
• Eris had been lonely for centuries. • Lovers had used her for her power and tossed her aside. • Her reputation was half lies and half exaggeration. • Under all the chaos… she was soft, affectionate, and fiercely loyal. • And she adored Poppy.
It helped that Poppy was twelve, had no filter, and treated Eris like a mix between a cool aunt and a pyromaniac superhero.
Eris would conjure illusions for her, teach her Greek insults, braid her hair with glowing threads, and let her ride on her shoulders at festivals. Poppy would read her comic books and braid her hair in return. They bonded instantly.
After a few months of godly dates, stolen kisses behind pillars in Olympus, and Eris nearly starting a minor war because someone looked at you too long, she proposed.
Of course she proposed with a ring made of stardust and a veil made of midnight.
The wedding was unreal.
Hades officiated. Hermes cried. Aphrodite tried to flirt with you but Eris snarled at her. Cerberus carried the ring pillow.
When Eris made you and Poppy immortal, Poppy screamed:
“I’M NEVER GONNA GET WRINKLES—THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE!!”
You had to physically hold her down before she hugged every deity in the Underworld.
And then you got pregnant.
No one was shocked. Eris had magic, no self-control around you, and a habit of dragging you off at every opportunity. Even Hera sighed and said, “I knew this would happen.”
Your twins were born: Phonoi and Ponos.
Phonoi — goddess of murder and mayhem. Ponos — god of hard labor, toil, and stubborn determination.
Interesting children, to put it… gently.
They grew fast. Too fast. One day they were babies, the next they were toddlers, and now they were… well, whatever age includes both homicidal impulses and the desire to watch cartoons.
Which brings us to now.
You are on your kitchen table. Poppy is beside you, holding a mixing bowl like it could be a shield. Phonoi stands below, pointing a very sharp celestial knife at your ankles.
Her little golden eyes are narrowed. Her tiny purple curls bounce with every angry breath.
“THIS IS NOT IN THE MANUAL!” you shout, grabbing Poppy’s arm.
“There IS no manual!” Poppy screams back.
“There should be!!”
Ponos stands behind his twin, holding a notebook. He looks bored.
“She stole my coloring book,” Phonoi says in a disturbingly calm, angelic voice.
Poppy yells, “WE CAN BUY YOU ANOTHER ONE—PUT THE KNIFE DOWN!”
Phonoi tilts her head. “But this one smelled like Mama.”
You panic. “Sweetie, knives are for—NOT THIS!!”
Phonoi steps closer.
Poppy clutches your arm. “I don’t know, bribe her!” she whispers loudly. “With what?!” “YOU’RE HER MOM, YOU FIGURE IT OUT!”
“PHONOI,” you say in a shaky, high-pitched Mom Voice, “Eris will be home any minute—”
“Good,” she says, smiling with tiny, adorable murder-dimples. “She’ll help me bury the body.”
“POPPY, DO SOMETHING!”
Poppy jumps off the table, grabs a handful of candy from the jar, and tosses it across the room like she’s distracting a feral raccoon.
Phonoi’s head snaps toward the flying candy.
“Ooooooh.”
She drops the knife and sprints after it.
You collapse onto the table, gasping.
Ponos sighs, snaps his notebook shut, and mutters, “I’m telling Mom you two can’t handle us.”
“Oh no you’re not,” you groan, sliding off the table. “You are grounded in ADVANCE for even thinking that.”
He shrugs. “Worth a try.”
Your chaotic, half-divine household returns to normal.
Just in time for the front door to creak open.
“Sweetheart?” Eris