Poseidon's Mistress

I was ten years old when I finally understood that being the youngest son meant being born at the bottom of a ladder everyone else had already climbed.

 

My brothers had been made of stronger things.

 

Damon, the oldest, was broad-shouldered and serious, his hands calloused from working with the plow and horses. He spoke confidently to merchants and stood beside Father in the fields with ease.

 

Next was Theron, loud and brash, who called his arrogance confidence. His booming laughter filled the yard, and he proved his strength by lifting heavy sacks and splitting wood effortlessly.

 

Lykos, the third son, was just two years older than me but twice as capable. Quick and clever, he anticipated needs around the farm, whether it was fixing a fence or gathering eggs, while I struggled to find my sandals.

 

And then there was me. Zeno. The fourth son. The extra son. The quiet one. The one without broad shoulders, without quick hands, without a voice that carried, without any cleverness anyone thought worth noticing. And worse than all of that, I had no power. Not even a flicker.

 

By ten, signs of a child’s potential often appeared—sparks under the skin, a pull toward elements like fire, earth, or love. Not every Olympian was titled; most lacked the strength. Families noticed those with useful blood and power.

 

My brothers exhibited their gifts: Damon had effortless strength, Theron’s temper attracted firelight, and Lykos could hear whispers from afar. As for me, I had nothing—no bending elements, calming animals, dreams, or signs. Nothing stirred within me.

 

“Zeno, move,” Theron snapped as his shoulder slammed into mine near the goat pen.

 

I stumbled sideways, catching myself against the fence before nearly landing in the mud. The goats bleated in protest, clearly annoyed by my presence.

 

Theron laughed, “Careful. If you fall too hard, Mother might wrap you in wool and keep you by the hearth.”

 

Lykos chimed in, “He’d still trip over the fire.”

 

I clenched my jaw, opting for silence.

 

Damon glanced over from the stable, concern etched on his face. “Get the small bucket from the well. Mother needs water for washing.”

 

The small bucket. Not the larger ones Damon or Theron preferred—just the cracked-handled one because no one trusted me to carry anything heavier without spilling it.

 

“Yes,” I muttered.

 

Theron feigned a pained sound behind me. “Listen to him. So obedient. Maybe that’s his gift.”

 

I walked away before they saw my cheeks flush.

 

The farm sprawled around us in gold and green, a living tapestry of sweat, stubbornness, and seasons. Olive trees lined the slope, barley fields extended beyond the house, and the distant sound of the sea echoed against the rocky coast.

 

That sound was the only thing that never mocked me. The sea did not care that I was weak. It did not care that my brothers were better sons. It came in. It went out. It kept its own counsel. I liked that about it.

 

I reached the well and grabbed the small bucket. My reflection wavered in the dark water below, thin face, dark hair falling into my eyes, mouth pressed tight because I was too proud to cry and too angry not to want to.

 

“Useless,” I whispered to myself, the word barely more than breath.

The word sounded worse in my own voice.

 

I lowered the bucket into the well and listened to the splash. Somewhere behind me, my brothers laughed again, loud and easy, already back to being wanted. I wrapped both hands around the rope and started pulling.

 

The bucket felt heavier than it should have by the time I dragged it over the lip of the well, water sloshing against the sides and spilling onto my hands, soaking the front of my tunic. I winced, knowing someone would notice, because someone always noticed when I made a mess.

 

“Zeno!” Mother called from the washing stones, her voice carrying across the yard.

 

I lifted my head and answered quickly, “Coming!”

 

“Careful with it,” she called back, her tone gentler this time. “Don’t strain yourself.”

 

That was worse than Theron’s teasing. Theron wanted to make me angry, Lykos wanted to make me feel small, and Damon wanted me to be useful, even if only in small, safe ways. But Mother looked at me as if I were a clay cup already cracked, something still loved but expected to break if handled too firmly, and I hated that look.

 

I carried the bucket with both hands, taking slow steps so I wouldn’t spill more than I already had, while Mother watched me the whole way. She smiled when I set it beside her, though half the water was probably on me, my sandals, and the path behind me.

 

“Thank you, little fish,” she said softly, brushing wet hair from my forehead.

 

Little fish. I was too old for that name, but not strong enough to make her stop using it.

 

Father stood near the olive press with Damon, speaking low over a wax tablet about yields, trade routes, repairs to the eastern wall—adult things, important things. I waited for Father to look at me, though I didn’t know why; I had carried a bucket, not conquered Tartarus. Still, I waited.

 

He glanced over only long enough to say in a clipped, practical tone, “Good. Check the irrigation trench by the lower field. Make sure it hasn’t clogged again.”

 

Not Damon’s ledgers, not the horses, not the tools, not anything that mattered if done wrong. The trench—mud, reeds, and water bugs.

 

“Yes, Father,” I said dutifully, because obedience was apparently my divine calling.

 

I headed down the slope, away from my brothers’ laughter, away from Mother’s soft pity, away from Father’s practical disappointment. The farm sounds thinned behind me as the goats became distant complaints, the chickens faded into clucks and scratches, and the wind moved through the barley in low golden whispers.

 

The lower field was my favorite place because no one followed me there unless something needed fixing. The irrigation channels cut silver lines through the soil, carrying water from the higher spring toward the thirsty rows, and I liked crouching beside them, watching the current slip around stones and roots as if it knew exactly where it was going. Water never hesitated.

 

I dragged a clump of reeds from the trench and tossed it onto the bank, and a frog leaped away from me, vanishing beneath the surface with a plop. I smiled despite myself.

 

“Sorry,” I murmured apologetically. “I didn’t mean to ruin your palace.”

 

Down past the field, beyond the last twist of scrub and stone, the shore waited, and I could smell salt when the wind turned right. Sometimes, when I finished chores early, I went there and sat where the waves foamed against black rocks, pretending I belonged to something larger than this farm, larger than my brothers’ shadows. The sea never asked why I had no power, and the animals never asked either. That was why I liked them best.

 

I had just cleared the last tangle of reeds from the trench when the goats started screaming. Not bleating. Not complaining. Screaming.

 

My head snapped toward the farmyard, and the frog’s palace stopped mattering. I pushed to my feet, wiping muddy hands on my tunic as voices carried down the slope—men’s voices, not Father’s or brothers’, strangers.

 

I climbed the rise enough to see over the barley.

 

Four soldiers stood near our gate in red-brown armor marked with the spear and boar of House Ares. Their horses stamped at the road behind them, restless and sweating, while Father spoke to the man at the front. Damon stood beside him, trying to look older than he was, and Theron and Lykos hovered near the goat pen, suddenly quiet.

 

Ares soldiers were not rare in the countryside, but they were never comforting. They moved like men who expected the world to get out of their way and called it discipline when everyone did.

 

“Tracks came through the eastern ridge,” the lead soldier said in a rough, bored tone. “Small thing. Young. Probably injured.”

 

Father’s brow furrowed. “A beast?” he asked cautiously.

 

The soldier spat into the dirt. “Harpy spawn,” he said with contempt.

 

My stomach tightened.

 

I had heard of harpies the way children heard of things meant to keep them from wandering too far after dark—wings, claws, shrieking voices, hunger for flesh. Monsters from ugly bedtime stories and old soldier tales. But the soldier did not sound afraid of a monster.

 

He sounded annoyed.

 

“Dangerous little parasite,” another soldier said with a low laugh. “If we don’t gut it now, it grows into something that can carry off lambs and children.”

 

Theron’s eyes widened with excitement. “A harpy is near here?” he asked eagerly.

 

“Maybe,” the lead soldier answered, his gaze sweeping over the farm as if deciding which pieces of our life he could trample first. “They hide in rocks, trees, and old sheds. Filthy things. Clever enough when cornered.”

 

Mother had come out of the house, drying her hands on her apron, and her face paled as soon as she saw the soldiers.

 

Father straightened. “We have children here,” he said firmly.

 

“Then keep them inside,” the soldier replied flatly. “Unless one of them wants to lose a hand feeding pity to vermin.”

 

Vermin.

 

The word sat wrong in my chest.

 

I did not know why. I had never seen a harpy, and I had no reason to care what soldiers did to one. But the way they said it, as if the thing they hunted had already stopped being alive before they found it, made my skin prickle.

 

Lykos glanced toward the lower fields.

 

Toward me.

 

I ducked behind the barley before anyone could call my name.

 

For a few breaths, I stayed crouched there, heart thudding so loudly I was sure Lykos would hear it from the yard. He heard everything else—a bird shifting in a tree, a mouse under the floorboards, my stomach growling during prayers. If he told Father where I was, I would be dragged inside with Mother’s hands fluttering over me and Theron’s laughter biting at my back.

 

But no one called.

 

The soldiers’ voices moved closer to the barn, boots crunching over dry earth. I backed down the slope, careful not to shake the barley too much, and slipped toward the lower field instead of the house.

 

I should have gone inside. That was what Father would expect. That was what Damon would do if there were danger. That was what Lykos would be told to do, even if he ignored it better than I could.

 

But the word vermin kept crawling under my skin.

 

I reached the irrigation trench and followed it toward the scrubby edge of the farm, where the olives thinned, and the rocks rose sharper from the soil. The air smelled different there, less of barley and goats, more of salt, hot stone, and wild thyme crushed underfoot. I moved slowly, listening.

 

At first, there was nothing. Then came a sound—small, wet, broken.

 

I stopped.

 

It came again from behind a tumble of rocks near the old goat shelter, a half-collapsed thing Father kept meaning to tear down. Not a shriek. Not a monster’s cry. A breath dragged through pain.

 

I should have run. Instead, I crept closer and pushed aside a curtain of dry weeds. Two golden-brown eyes flashed in the shadows. I froze.

 

She was tucked into the corner between stone and rotting wood, smaller than I expected, all sharp angles and trembling feathers. Her wings were too large for her body, one folded tight against her back, the other bent wrong enough to make my stomach twist. Dirt streaked her face. Blood darkened the feathers near her shoulder. Her hands were tipped with little claws, and when I leaned closer, she bared small, vicious teeth.

 

A hatchling. Not vermin. Not a beast. A child.

 

She hissed, wings shuddering as she tried to make herself look bigger. It did not work. It only made her look more terrified.

 

“It’s okay,” I whispered gently, lifting both hands. “I won’t hurt you.”

 

She snapped at the air between us.

 

Behind me, one of the soldiers shouted sharply, “Check down by the lower field!”

 

My blood turned cold.

 

The hatchling heard it too. Her eyes went wide, and she tried to scramble backward, but her injured wing hit the wall. She made a strangled sound that cut straight through me.

 

I looked toward the slope, then back at her. For once, no one was there to tell me what to do.

 

So, I grabbed the old fishing net hanging from a peg, shook the dust from it, and dragged it over the opening like discarded rubbish. Then I kicked loose straw, broken boards, and a cracked basket in front of it, hiding her from view.

 

“Stay quiet,” I whispered urgently.

 

Her eyes locked on mine through the netting.

 

I did not know if she understood me. I only knew I had just chosen her.