Lahat ng Kabanata ng Poseidon's Mistress: Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 30

I should have gone to Androkles. That was the proper path. A new Lord Ares had taken his title before the full Capital, and the council would expect formal acknowledgment from the other Houses, especially those with enough weight to steady the first tremors after Eugenius’ humiliation. Not death. Not yet. Yield. Messier. A dead tyrant became a memory, but a living, disgraced one became a problem. Below, medics moved toward Eugenius while House Ares servants scrambled to obey commands that had changed ownership in a single breath. Helene had been sent through the lower entrance, guiding a blind young woman toward the new Lord Ares—Ismene-Eirene, if I remembered correctly, the girl whose voice had cut through the arena and pulled Androkles back to his feet when defeat had almost closed around him. That mattered. It would matter more later. For now, I used it as an excuse. “Androkles will be occupied,” I told Amilios as we descended from the witness platform, my tone measured. “I

Duty became a convenient liar. For three days after Androkles took the title of Lord Ares, the Capital pretended it was interested in stability. It was not. It was interested in advantage. Council members requested emergency discussions. House Hera wanted reassurances that Ares’ existing agreements would be honored. House Athena wanted to know whether Androkles intended to restructure military training. House Apollo sent inquiries about healing costs and casualty records from Eugenius’ final days as Lord. House Zeus, through Diokles, moved with irritating efficiency, gathering facts before anyone could twist rumor into policy. House Poseidon had legitimate reasons to remain involved. That was the problem. Every reason was legitimate. A formal letter acknowledging Androkles’ ascension. A review of port security contracts tied to Ares patrols. Discussion of whether trade routes jointly guarded by Ares and Poseidon would require a revised command structure. A council breakfast whe

House Hades prepared to withdraw its representative on the fifth morning after Androkles became Lord Ares. That was how the records would phrase it, clean and bloodless. Representatives arrived, representatives observed, representatives withdrew, as if Mitha weren’t standing beneath the shadowed arch of House Ares’ eastern gate with black wings folded behind her, armor catching the dull morning light, and two Hades ravens perched on the stone above her like fragments of night too stubborn to leave with dawn. I had no reason to be there. That was the lie I put on with my formal cloak. House Poseidon had already sent acknowledgment to Lord Hades regarding the stability of Chara’s claim. I had already spoken with Androkles about cooperation between Houses. I had already received sufficient assurance that no public challenge would be made to Hades’ custody of the child Eugenius had tried to bury in rumor. There was nothing left to do, so naturally, I found a reason. “Political courtesy

A month and a half passed. Publicly, I was exactly what Olympus expected me to be. Lord Poseidon attended council in blue and bronze, spoke when required, listened when others mistook volume for wisdom, and kept his hands folded neatly before him when debates grew foolish enough to deserve drowning. I reviewed coastal patrol records, approved trade routes, settled disputes between dockmasters, and sat through three separate arguments about salt tax distribution without once letting the sea rise through the marble floor. A miracle, truly. I returned home each evening before dinner. I listened to Leandros complain about weapon drills. I watched Nereus attempt to sneak sweet figs beneath his tunic with all the subtlety of a drunken goat. I let my daughter climb into my lap with ink on her fingers and ask whether fish had dreams. “Yes,” I told her gently, brushing dark hair from her face. “What do they dream about?” she asked curiously. “Open water,” I replied. She consider

Two weeks should have made her presence ordinary. It did not. If anything, repetition made the problem worse by giving me more evidence. The first day Mitha returned to the Capital, I could have blamed shock—the courtyard, the armor, the impossible fact of her standing beneath the bright sky again, alive and armed and no longer leaving. Desire born from old grief could be dismissed as weakness, a flare, a wound struck too hard. Two weeks later, I knew better. I watched her work, though not openly. I wasn’t foolish enough for that, though Amilios’ expression suggested he disagreed. I saw her in fragments because fragments were all duty allowed—across House Ares courtyards, at the edge of council corridors, beside Lady Ismene during formal visits, quiet walks, physician appointments, and brief appearances meant to reassure a House still learning what loyalty looked like after Eugenius. Mitha belonged in armor, and that realization unsettled me more than it should have. As a chi