I manage a smile, though. “Thanks.”
“Knock ’em dead, Helen.” His grin is sharp enough to cut. “I’ll be rooting for you.”
I drag in a slow breath and turn for the door. Since I’m late, I might as well make an entrance. I straighten my spine and push both doors open with more force than necessary. People scatter as I step into the room. I pause, letting them look at me and taking them in at the same time.
This room has changed since Perseus inherited the title of Zeus. Oh, the space is still functionally the same. Shining white marble floors that I can barely see beneath the crowd, an arching ceiling that gives the impression of the ballroom being even larger than it is, the massive windows and glass doors that lead out to the balcony on the other side of the room. But it still feels different. The walls used to be cream, but now they’re a cool gray. A subtle change, but it makes a difference.
Most notably, the larger-than-life portraits of the Thirteen that line the walls have different frames. Gone are the thick gold frames that my father favored, replaced by finely crafted black. I would have to get closer to verify, but each looks like they might be custom, unique to each member of the Thirteen.
Perseus didn’t make these changes, either. I’m certain of it. Our father might have been obsessive about his image, but my brother doesn’t give a fuck. Even when he should.
I start through the crowd, holding my head high.
Normally, I can identify every single person who attends a Dodona Tower party. Information is everything, and I learned from a very young age that it’s the only weapon I’m allowed. Some people meet my gaze, others stare at my body in a way that makes my skin crawl, and still others all but turn their backs on me. No surprises there. Being a Kasios in Olympus might have its perks, but it means being born into generations-old grudges and politicking. I grew up learning who could be trusted—no one—and who would actually shove me into traffic if given half a chance—more people than is comforting.
But this party isn’t a regular one, and tonight is not a regular night. Nearly half the faces are new to me, people who have arrived from the outskirts around Olympus or been ferried into the city by Poseidon for this special occasion. I don’t stop moving to memorize faces. Not everyone here will be nominating themselves as champions; plenty of them are just like the majority of the people here from Olympus. Hangers-on. They don’t matter.
I don’t pick up my pace, moving at a steady stalk that forces people to get out of my way. The crowd parts for me just like I know it will, whispers following in my wake. I’m making a scene, and while half of them love me for it, the rest resent me.
Everyone has pulled out all the stops tonight. In one corner, my sister Eris—Aphrodite, as of three months ago—is laughing at something with Hermes and Dionysus. My chest gives a pang. I would like nothing more than to be with them now, just like I am at every other party. My sister and my friends are what makes living in Olympus bearable, but the last few months have driven home the new differences between us. It wasn’t so noticeable when Eris was still Eris, but now that she’s also one of the Thirteen…
I’m getting left behind. Being sister to Zeus and Aphrodite, friend to Hermes and Dionysus? It doesn’t mean shit. I’m still a piece to be moved around on someone else’s board.
Becoming Ares is my only opportunity to change that.
I catch sight of the Dimitriou clan in the opposite corner, Demeter with three of her four daughters, as well as Hades, husband to Persephone. Like everyone else, they’re dressed to perfection. The fact that Hades and Persephone are here only spotlights the importance of what’s to come. Every member of the Thirteen is present to stand witness to the ceremonial announcement of the tournament to replace Ares. Eros appears at his wife’s side, and the way her face lights up at the sight of him… I turn away.
The throne is my destination.
Well, the pair of thrones—two more changes our shift in leadership has caused. Gone is the gaudy gold monstrosity our father used to love, replaced with a steel sculpture that’s attractive but oh so cold. Kind of like Perseus himself.
The second throne is a daintier version of his. Callisto Dimitriou sits on it, a beautiful white woman with long dark hair dressed in an elegant black gown. She’s staring at everyone gathered below her as if she’d like to shove each one of us through the huge glass doors that have been opened to let in the balmy June evening air. I doubt she’d stop there, though. More likely, she’d love to see us tossed right over the balcony.