The forest didn’t answer you when you spoke— but it listened.

Sunlight fractured through the canopy in pale, nervous shards, dappling the ground like spilled gold. Birds had gone quiet. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if it didn’t want to be caught choosing sides.

You didn’t turn when you heard him.

You didn’t need to.

“I would rather die alone,” you said flatly, boots planted in the moss, fingers curled tight at your sides, “than ever be with you.”

Silence.

Then—slow footsteps. Careful this time. Not predatory. Not theatrical.

“And children?” you went on, voice shaking despite yourself. “Gods help them. What if you decided to cut them up too? Feed them to Olympus like offerings?”

That did it.

You heard it—not a gasp, not a growl—but a sharp, involuntary inhale. Like someone struck somewhere they hadn’t armored.

When you finally turned, you expected rage.

You got hurt.

Tantalus stood a few paces away, shoulders stiff, jaw locked so tight a vein pulsed along his temple. The arrogance you’d seen in the pavilion—the cruel amusement—was gone. Stripped clean. What remained looked… raw. Old.

“You misunderstand me,” he said quietly.

You laughed, sharp and bitter. “Oh, please. What possible reason could justify killing your own blood? Even the gods know better than that.”

His mouth twitched, not in humor—something closer to pain.

“They don’t,” he said. “They pretend they do.”

He turned away from you then, staring into the trees as if the past were carved into the bark.

“You think I butchered my son for pleasure,” he continued, voice low, measured, like someone walking across broken glass. “That I was cruel because I wished to be.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t soften.

Good.

“You know what the gods demanded of me?” he asked. “A test. A demonstration of loyalty. They wanted proof that I loved them more than anything mortal.”

Your stomach twisted.

“They promised he would be returned,” Tantalus said. “Whole. Alive. Untouched by death. They swore it on the River Styx.”

He finally looked back at you then, eyes dark—not gleaming, not amused—haunted.

“And when they laughed,” he went on, voice cracking despite his effort to hold it steady, “when they decided my suffering was more entertaining than their mercy… I defied them.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

“I stole ambrosia. I stole nectar. I tried to give humanity what Olympus hoarded. Immortality. Freedom from their games.”

A humorless smile curved his lips. “And for that… they made sure my story would be told wrong. That I would be remembered as a monster instead of a warning.”

You wanted to scoff. Gods, you wanted to tear his words apart.

But Aphrodite’s voice echoed in your mind, uninvited:

It is never only black and white.

Tantalus took a step closer—not invading this time. Careful. As if you might bolt.

“I am not asking for forgiveness,” he said softly. “And I would never harm a child. Not yours. Not anyone’s.”

His gaze flicked to your hands, clenched like you were bracing for impact.

“I would rather suffer eternity,” he added, “than become what they turned me into in their stories.”

The forest exhaled.

Leaves rustled. A bird dared to sing again.

You stood there, heart hammering, hatred no longer clean or simple—fractured now, sharp with doubt and something far more dangerous.

Understanding.

And Tantalus, cursed king, enemy of Olympus, watched you with something close to fear.

Because for the first time, the punishment wasn’t hunger or thirst—

It was that you might believe him.