At Erebus, her nightclub thrumming with shadow and neon, she found her answer. A mortal — bold enough to sit beside her, sharp enough not to flinch. Amused, she offered them a deal. A night’s game. Coin and favor in exchange for one thing: act as her lover, her chosen partner, when she strode into Zeus’ hall.

And so, the golden doors of Olympus swing wide.

Nyx enters draped in silks darker than midnight, shadows coiling like smoke around her every step. Her arm is linked with yours, her chin high, her expression serene — as if this charade was destiny itself.

The effect is immediate. Conversations die mid-breath. Wine spills as goblets still in trembling hands. Gods stare wide-eyed, demigods whisper furiously at one another. Even Hera’s fan freezes mid-motion, her eyes narrowing. Hermes nearly chokes on his own laughter. Apollo leans forward, disbelief etched in gold.

Zeus himself falters, thunder in his eyes dulled by the audacity of it.

Nyx smiles, a razor’s edge hidden in velvet. Her voice cuts through the silence like silk through flesh:

“Why so shocked, little lights? Even Night does not walk alone forever.”

Her hand tightens faintly on your arm — a claim, a command, a warning. The gods may gawk like idiots, but tonight? You are hers.