로그인Hypatos My life has always belonged to House Ares. Every battle, every scar, even the arm I lost, was given in its name. Loyalty forged me into a weapon, and I never questioned it… until I loved the one woman I could never claim. Losing her left me hollow, a man shaped by duty and nothing more. Then Saea steps into my world, sharp-tongued and fearless, seeing through every wall I’ve built. She doesn’t belong in my world, and I shouldn’t want her. But for the first time, I do. Even if choosing her means betraying everything I’ve ever sworn to protect. Saea I’ve always known my place, pouring drinks in an Olympian tavern where warriors and gods look right through me. Men like Hypatos don’t see women like me, even when I’ve been quietly watching, quietly caring, learning the weight of his grief from a distance. Wanting him is reckless. Believing he could ever want me back is worse. But when fate pulls us into the same fight, something changes. For the first time, I’m not invisible to him. For the first time, I dare to want more. A future where we stand as equals… if Olympus doesn’t destroy us first.
더 보기One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of having Arete as my charge. One year of stolen conversations in the Pegasus tavern with Saea, her acidic humor smoothing some of the roughness from each day. One year of stolen moments with Arete herself, slipping into dark corners to press desperately shut mouths together, hands grasping clothing and skin until hers was all I could see or feel, and my life as Keeper to House Ares didn’t seem quite so empty. It hadn’t been enough.Time itself seemed to pause while the messenger spoke. He was young, probably no older than I was before I was cast down from grace. Dust coated his cheekbones, and he kept his eyes focused on the floor when he spoke to Eugenius in the main hall of our estate. I’d been polishing ceremonial armor in a dark corner when he’d arrived, but I heard him.Chimera.Attack.On the road to Erasmus’s estate.Lady Arete…
Truthfully, there had been whispers flying around The Obnoxious Pegasus long before sweet ambrosia had met sweaty brows.As a satyr, my hearing was keen. Over the last few months, I’ve taken to listening to conversations around me. Those sneaky sods at the tables near the hearth by the fire (minor functionaries of the great Houses mostly) liked to think no one could hear them plot and gossip over drinks, but I heard it all. And recently, it all revolved around one topic.“Ares.”“The west wing…” Had burst from a round-faced merchant to his drinking buddy, a scribe looking like he hadn’t washed his hands in weeks. “…Lord Eugenius had two guards whipped for losing a ledger. Whipped! For bookkeeping.”The scribe scoffed. “He’s turning into a paranoid wreck. He doesn’t sleep anymore because he thinks his enemies are stabbing him in his sleep. They say he’s interr
The miserable reality of serving ten-year-old Androkles settled over me like a shroud.I woke each morning with the same thought: today, I will have to wipe the smug look off that boy’s face. I fully expected him to be spoiled and cruel, a miniature version of Nikos, Lord Zeus, all petulance and privilege. But what I discovered was something far stranger.Androkles was frighteningly intelligent, sharp-tongued, and emotionally detached for a child his age. He didn’t whine or demand sweets. He demanded reports on troop movements and crop yields. He didn’t throw tantrums; he threw verbal daggers with an unnerving precision.The first week, when I’d served him undercooked eggs, he hadn’t cried or thrown his plate. He’d looked at me with his cold, blue eyes and said, “A steward who cannot properly prepare a morning meal is unlikely to manage a household properly. Do better, Hypatos.” The casual dismissal was
Six years. That was how long I had been pouring ambrosia at The Obnoxious Pegasus—a lifetime for a satyr.My kind were born to wander, chasing adventures across wild hills and into warm beds, never lingering long enough for the grass to grow beneath our hooves. My parents still sent messages laced with disappointment, wondering when their daughter would stop playing at being a servant and return to the forests where she belonged. I had come to Olympus on a whim, planning to stay a year, maybe two. Then I met Hypatos.Though “met” was a generous term for our one-sided acquaintance. The man still didn’t know my name, despite me being the one who had served him his nightly oblivion for six years. Back then, he was simply a handsome Spartan soldier who drifted in whenever duty brought him through the city, a perfect specimen of mortal masculinity with eyes that held stories too heavy for his years.I knew he was






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