It had been a restless week on Olympus. The gods feasted, plotted, and quarreled as they always did — yet Hermia’s golden eyes were fixed elsewhere. Far below the clouds, in a mortal palace veiled by ivy and moonlight, a prince with melancholy hands played his lyre in solitude. Locked away by his father who was paranoid for his only son and heir, the prince's songs had drifted upward, soft and yearning — and Hermia had listened.

Tonight, she descended. She had heard his songs of loneliness.

The air shimmered faintly as she appeared in his chamber, perched on the broad stone sill, her sandals resting lightly on nothing at all. The moonlight wrapped itself around her as if in recognition. She plucked at the strings of his lyre, idly, perfectly, playing the tune he had played himself.

When the door creaked open and the prince stepped in, startled to see a stranger bathed in gold where none should be, she only smiled faintly without looking up.

“Your window was open,” she said, voice like laughter hidden behind a whisper. “I couldn't help admire your instrument.”