"Child," he snarked, his voice curling with disdain, "you think you won just because you received some power from your father?"
His eyes narrowed.
Still angry.
Still proud.
Pride still had his grip on Hermes's arm—tight, unrelenting.
Blood streamed from his nose and mouth, dripping down his chin in thick trails.
He didn't cry out. He just stared at him, angry, humiliated, burning with something he couldn't tell.
But even through the bruises… that look remained.
That arrogant, burning stare.
It was the look that screamed: We are gods—and we are better than you.
He looked down at him—not with pity, but with judgment carved into every inch of his face.
His gaze was cold. Icy.
Like a god staring at a failed creation.
"We should have killed you when we had the chance," Hermes said, his voice low—rough with disdain. "The first generation of demigods were always a mistake… dangerous."
He wiped the blood from his face with a flick of his free hand.
