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홈 / Fantasy / Poseidon's Mistress / Chapter 35 - Zeno

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Chapter 35 - Zeno

작가: Bryant
last update 게시일: 2026-09-18 19:00:45

House Ares locked down before midnight. Iron gates sealed, inner doors barred, every servant questioned, every guard reassigned, every corridor turned into a throat with teeth. Diokles took command until Androkles could be reached, and no one had the sense or death wish to argue with Zeus when his voice went quiet.

 

Lady Ismene was moved to Lord Ares’ chambers with Alexis at her side, a healer close behind, and Mitha walking beside the bed like a blade given legs. The cu
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  • Poseidon's Mistress   Chapter 42 - Mitha

    The news arrived without thunder. I appreciated that. By then, I distrusted grand entrances. Thunder was usually the sky bragging, and prophecy dressed itself in drama because if it arrived plainly, someone might think to tell it to piss off. This came as parchment, carried through House Hades by a junior scribe whose hands shook hard enough to rattle the silver tray. Before that, the morning had been ordinary. House Hades did ordinary better than people assumed. Death did not mean constant wailing in corridors or shadows crawling dramatically along walls. Mostly, it meant records, names, patrol assignments, quiet voices, tea gone cold beside testimony scrolls, and boots crossing black stone at measured intervals. Chara’s household moved in its own precise rhythm, shaped by people who understood both power and grief. I sat in the east archive reviewing patrol rotations while a guard captain argued that two soldiers were enough for a corridor where three had been assigned for a de

  • Poseidon's Mistress   Chapter 41 - Zeno

    Years didn’t pass gently; they wore grooves into us. Inside House Poseidon, life revolved around an unspoken wound between Berenice and me. We navigated our duties—dining, hosting, overseeing expenses—ensuring the marriage’s machinery ran smoothly enough to avoid any disruption from Olympus. It wasn’t forgiveness; Berenice made sure of that. She didn’t reach for my hand or show softness in private. Instead, she became more precise, applying pressure on our wounds without making them visible to the outside world. Our children grew amidst this tension. Leandros sharpened his political instincts by questioning the gap between words and actions. Nereus, once easily distracted, grew harder to deceive, keeping odd creatures and insisting they had personalities. My daughter Mitha matured, no longer interpreting silences as simple adult mysteries. She noticed, of course she did; children always noticed the things adults buried badly. One afternoon, she found Berenice in the east gall

  • Poseidon's Mistress   Chapter 40 - Mitha

    That was what we had, then. Sporadic. Honest. Ours. Ugly little words, some of them, sharp little bones of a life picked clean by duty before we ever got to touch it. But they were true, and I had always preferred truth with blood on its mouth to a lie perfumed and dressed for Council. Zeno stood close enough that I could feel the heat of him through the air between us, but not so close that he presumed he had earned the right to take more than I offered. That mattered. It should not have. It should have been bare minimum, nothing worth noticing, but Olympus had trained me to notice every hand that did not grab. The west archive held its breath around us. Old records lined the shelves from floor to ceiling, sealed judgments bound in black leather and silver thread. Names of the dead. Names of the condemned. Names of those Olympus had wronged, then filed away neatly, as if ink could clean a wound. The lamps burned low, blue-white flames trapped in glass, making Zeno look almos

  • Poseidon's Mistress   Chapter 39 - Zeno

    No announcement was made. There was no public declaration, no contract drafted, no room assigned, no jewelry delivered in velvet, no formal adjustment to the machinery of House Poseidon. I didn’t stand before my household and name Mitha as anything. I didn’t ask Berenice to smile while I sharpened the blade already in her back. Still, the House noticed. Houses always did. Servants knew when a Lord stopped sleeping in his wife’s bed with any consistency. Guards knew when messengers from Ares were admitted faster than others. Stable hands knew when my horse was saddled too often for errands that didn’t require a horse. Kitchen girls knew when Berenice no longer looked up at the sound of my footsteps with the old, quiet expectation that I might cross the room toward her. Nothing was said. That made it worse. Some bowed lower to me, as if my failure had polished my rank rather than stained it. Some looked away when Berenice passed, which enraged me more than open pity would have.

  • Poseidon's Mistress   Chapter 38 - Mitha

    Ismene noticed everything, despite her blindness. Eyes often made people lazy, leading them to miss subtle cues—a breath catching, a hand tightening, an uneasy silence. After Androkles returned home, House Ares slowly began to find its footing again. The gates were guarded but not sealed, laughter returned cautiously, and servants spoke above whispers. The air smelled of wet stone, horse sweat, fresh bread, and the remnants of cleaning armor after battle. Victory was settling in, but so was the cost. I stood by the balcony while Ismene sat near the open window, her hand resting on her stomach. The healer had prescribed quiet afternoons, which Ismene accepted as grudgingly as a wolf on a leash. Alexis slept at her feet, one ear still alert, always watchful. “You have been quiet,” Ismene said calmly. “I am often quiet,” I replied. “No,” she said, her tone mild but certain. “You are often watchful. There is a difference.” I kept my gaze on the courtyard below, where two guar

  • Poseidon's Mistress   Chapter 37 - Zeno

    Berenice waited until the children were asleep. That was like her. She didn’t spend pain carelessly or let grief spill where small eyes might step in it. Through supper, she sat across from me with perfect posture, her hands folded, her voice gentle when Leandros argued about his lessons, and Nereus claimed one of the kitchen cats had insulted him. Our daughter leaned against her mother’s side, half-asleep before the final course, her dark lashes resting on cheeks still soft with childhood. I watched them and felt the coward in me look for punishment—a shouted accusation, a broken plate, a scene large enough to match what I had done. Berenice gave me none of that. When the children were led away, the room became too large. Servants cleared the table quickly, perhaps sensing a storm even without thunder. I remained seated after the last cup disappeared, listening to water move in the courtyard fountain. It sounded wrong. Everything did. “Come with me,” Berenice said quietly. Sh

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