Diomedes King is strange.
No—he's beyond strange. He's a mystery wrapped in something dead that got back up and decided to keep walking.
I've known him for six months now. Give or take. And I still don't understand him. I don't think anyone does. Not really.
He arrived at Circe's Spa when I was eight—barely more than a kid, still clinging to the edges of childhood after everything that happened with my father. Diomedes must've been seven. Even younger. But he didn't look at it. Gods, no. He looked ancient.
He came in with a nearly naked woman and this delirious man mumbling nonsense about the "Arc of Athena." No—wait. Park? No. The Mark. The Mark of Athena. I'll never forget the way Circe's eyes narrowed when he said it. That alone was enough to snap me to attention. But it wasn't the words that really held me—it was him.
Diomedes didn't speak. Didn't blink. Didn't move unless someone told him to. And he was surrounded by corpses—men and women who'd died from dehydration. Just three survivors, him, the man, and the woman who dragged him in, clutching a jug of fresh water like it was divine ambrosia. The implication was clear: they let everyone else die.
It was the kind of cruelty we dealt with often. And simply. Turn them into pigs. One drink, one flick of Circe's hand, and justice was served.
That's what I thought we'd do. Same old thing.
But when Circe turned the man beside him into a squealing guinea pig, Diomedes didn't flinch unlike the naked woman. No fear. No protest. No begging.
He just stared at us. At me.
And I'll never forget that stare. His eyes—a faded color I couldn't truly place, sun-bleached and hollow—met mine like he was grateful. Like we'd done him a favor. Like he wanted to be next.
His skin was sunburnt and cracked, lips blistered, hands trembling with exhaustion. He looked like a corpse that hadn't realized it was dead yet. But underneath all that decay and silence, there was this intensity—this rage—boiling behind his eyes. Like if he ever let it out, it'd tear the sky open.
It reminded me of Hylla.
That same clenched-fist expression. That same look of someone who'd seen too much and refused to fall apart because of it. He didn't have to say anything—his silence was louder than most people's screams.
Still, I thought he'd be turn like the rest.
But Circe spared him due to how the woman had begged for his life.
And I watched. I waited for the moment he'd show his true colors. They always do. That slow shift from docile to dangerous, from quiet to cunning. But... it never came.
He didn't try to charm Circe —probably because he was eight. Didn't suck up to the nymphs. He just helped. Carried things without being asked. Fixed things no one noticed were broken. Picked up the slack when Hylla was overwhelmed. Always steady. Always quiet.
Always kind.
That was what unsettled me the most.
Because how could someone who looked so broken still choose to be kind?
And maybe that's why I didn't trust him.
Because people like that? People who survive whatever it was that he survived and still choose decency? They terrify me. You can't predict them. They don't break like normal people. They bend, and bend, and bend—but they don't snap.
They become something else. Something powerful.
And I knew what trauma did to people. My father had been living proof of it. I'd watched it twist him, poison him, consume him. So to see someone like Diomedes—scarred, haunted, barely holding himself together—and still being kind?
It made me feel like I was the one doing something wrong.
Because even when I was short with him... even when I accused him of things, of being something dark just waiting to crawl out of his skin... he never snapped back.
He'd just take it. Eyes low. Voice soft. Hands steady.
Even when it was me who hurt him.
I didn't mean to. Not really.
It was a normal day for me. Diomedes and that woman had arrived on the island six months earlier and were already fitting in.
I laid awake in bed, staring at the living accumulation of clouds in my room. That was another thing about Diomedes.
He was a cloud nymph... I think.
He looked mortal when he came here, but after noticing how many nymph's were here I guess he decided to take a more cumulous appearance.
"Rise and shine, Reyna." He said, holding a plate of food.
I don't know why but he's been making breakfast for everyone every morning a month after he came here.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, blinking at him like he was an unsolvable riddle written in someone else's handwriting.
He just stood there, barefoot on the tiled floor, mist clinging to him like it belonged. Like it listened to him. There was a plate in his hands—slices of fruit, perfectly peeled; bread with that honey-lavender spread Circe liked; a warm cup of tea steeped just right. Balanced. Neat.
"Why?" I asked.
Diomedes tilted his head, like a curious cuckoo carved from marble. "You need to eat."
"That's not what I mean."
He blinked once. Slowly. "I know."
I rolled my eyes and took the plate, not because I was grateful, but because arguing before breakfast would've made Hylla scold me again. I hated that.
"Whatever," I muttered. "Put it on the table."
Diomedes obeyed, as usual. No sigh. No huff. Just this weird, quiet obedience that always made me feel like I was the one being unreasonable.
He turned to go, like that was the end of it, but something in me—it flared. Maybe it was his calm, or how he made everything look so easy. Like being decent was simple. Like the world hadn't chewed us both up and spat us out.
"Do you enjoy being everyone's servant?" I asked, sharper than I meant to be.
He paused mid-step, but didn't look back. "No."
"Then why do you keep doing it?"
A heartbeat. Then two.
"Because I can."
His voice was quiet, like always. Gentle, but not fragile. It made my insides twist. I hated that he said things like that. Like he didn't need recognition or thanks. Like he was... fine with it.
I set the plate down harder than necessary. "That's stupid," I said. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone."
Now he turned, slowly, with that same dead-serene expression. Not cold. Not distant. Just... unreadable.
"I'm not proving anything," he said. "I'm helping."
"Why?" I pushed. "You don't even talk to anyone. You float around like a ghost and pretend you're useful. Is that it? You wanna be needed so bad you'll wipe down tables and pick flowers like some trained faun?"
His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to answer—but not out of defense. More like... he was trying to find the right words to explain something I couldn't see.
But then he just said, "You're angry today."
I frowned, memories of the nightmare I had creeping into my head.
"Shut up," I snapped.
His eyes flicked down, and he gave the smallest bow of his head, like he was accepting a verdict. Or excusing himself from a conversation he hadn't started.
He left without another word, mist curling gently around his heels as the door closed behind him.
I sat there, plate untouched, hands balled in my lap like I'd just lost a fight I hadn't meant to start.
Gods, I hated that.
I hated that I couldn't get under his skin no matter how hard I tried. That he never flinched, never got mad, never shoved back when I shoved first. It made me feel like a bully. Worse—it made me feel seen.
Because what if he wasn't being polite?
What if he really was just... good?
And what did that make me?
I went through the rest of the morning with a storm cloud in my chest. The nymphs were busy polishing bottles and mixing potions. Hylla was already three steps ahead of me, barking orders like a mini-general as she directed a pair of naiads toward the east gardens. And me? I was stuck scrubbing the main entry tiles with a stiff-bristled brush, even though no one asked me to.
I told myself it was to stay busy.
But maybe I just didn't want to think about the way Diomedes had looked at me.
Not hurt. Not annoyed.
Just... quiet. Still. Like a lake that hadn't been stirred in centuries.
"That kid," I muttered under my breath, scrubbing harder. "That stupid, smiling, mist-drenched—"
"Reyna," Hylla called from across the hall. "Don't take it out on the tile. It's not the one who made you mad."
"I'm not mad," I said. Too quickly.
Hylla just gave me a look. Big sisters always know.
"Alright , if you're so calm why don't you explain why you snapped that brush in half?"
I glanced down at my scrub brush. Where I had been gripping it a large crack had formed across it.
I grumbled in annoyance. "It's an old brush. They break."
Hylla nodded. "Right. And this has nothing to do with how much you're glaring at the living nimbus cloud?"
I paused, blinking as I realized I had been staring out the window at Diomedes as he helped some of the younger nymphs with making crowns from lotus flowers.
"It has nothing to do with him." I spat.
Hylla sighed, waving off the nymphs she had been talking to. "I know it's crazy for me of all people to say this ... but you can't keep a grudge against someone who hasn't done anything to you."
I scoffed, leaning back on my heels and wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. "I don't hold grudges."
Hylla gave me a look.
"Not for no reason," I amended.
She folded her arms, her expression somewhere between exasperated and amused. Her
I threw down the cracked brush. "He's weird. He's too quiet. Too polite. Too helpful. Nobody is that perfect unless they're hiding something."
Hylla raised an eyebrow. "You mean, like you?"
I glared at her. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." She walked closer, lowering her voice. "You walk around here like a little Roman statue. Polished. Sharp-edged. Unbreakable. You smile when Circe's watching and bite your tongue until it bleeds when she's not. You're loyal. You're capable. You're composed."
"So?" I crossed my arms, defensive. "That's different."
Hylla's voice softened, but she didn't drop her gaze. "Is it? Because I remember when you used to hide in the fireplace with me and tell stories to make the ghosts shut up. You remember that?"
"Of course I remember." My voice cracked more than I wanted it to. "That's the point. We had to survive that. We earned our right to be guarded."
"And maybe he earned his right to be quiet," she said simply.
That shut me up.
Hylla let the silence stretch for a second before she added, "I know you're scared."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are," she interrupted. "You're scared because you see him, and you don't get him. And you don't like not getting people. It makes you feel out of control."
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words didn't come. Because she was right.
I hated that she was right.
"He's not like us," I muttered.
Hylla crouched beside me, resting her hand on my shoulder. "No. He's not. And maybe that's a good thing."
I stared down at my hands. Callused. Tense. Always ready for a fight.
"I don't like how he looks at me," I said quietly. "Like he understands something I don't. Like he sees everything and doesn't need to say it."
Hylla smiled faintly. "That's because he probably does understand. But unlike most people, he doesn't use that against you."
I pressed my lips into a tight line. "It's just... easier to hate people when they give you a reason."
"And harder when they don't."
I nodded.
Hylla stood up and nudged the broken brush with her foot. "You don't have to like him. But you don't have to fight him, either."
I sighed. "He'll just keep bringing breakfast, won't he?"
Hylla smirked. "Probably. And tea. Don't forget the tea."
I rubbed my temples, groaning. "Gods help me."
"Already did," Hylla said with a wink, turning to leave. "Now go rinse your hands. You look like you strangled a Dryad."
I watched her go, then glanced back toward the window.
Diomedes was still out there. Still helping. Still smiling that soft, unreadable smile like none of it cost him anything.
I didn't trust that.
But for the first time, I wondered if maybe that was my problem—not his.
Circe found me not long after that.
I was still in the main hall, hands raw and wet from rinsing off the tile scrubber grime, trying not to think too hard about Hylla's words—or the fact that I had been glaring out the window like some melodramatic villain.
Her perfume always announced her before she entered the room. Rosewater, myrrh, and something older—something sharp and sweet and dangerous, like the scent of a campfire being. She drifted in, robes trailing silk and starlight, the ever-present shimmer of her magic leaving specks of light in the air.
"Reyna, darling," she cooed, voice velvet and command all at once. "How would you like a task suited to your talents?"
I stood a little straighter. "Of course, my lady."
She smiled, pleased, but her golden eyes flicked toward my cracked brush and the faint scorch mark I hadn't noticed on the marble floor. "Hylla said you've been especially diligent today."
"Just trying to be useful."
Circe's smile deepened, knowing. "Indeed. Well, let's put that energy to better use than punishing the stonework. I need more starroot and dusk-thistle from the forest. The western grove, just past the spring."
I nodded, already mapping the route in my head. "Right away."
She touched my chin lightly with one jeweled finger, tilting my face up just slightly. "Take the little one with you."
I blinked. "Diomedes?"
"Of course." Her tone said it should've been obvious. "He's quick, quiet, and very good at not stepping on things he shouldn't. Unlike certain nymphs who think every vine is decorative."
I opened my mouth to protest—to say I didn't need help, or that I worked better alone, or anything—but Circe was already turning away, gold trailing behind her like comet dust.
"Don't be long, dear," she said over her shoulder. "Sunset blooms only last till moonrise, and I need that dusk-thistle whole."
And just like that, I was dismissed.
I found him outside, of course. Sitting beneath the afternoon sun with one of the younger nymphs, showing her how to braid reeds into bracelets. He looked up as I approached, that same mild, unreadable look on his face.
"We've been summoned," I said flatly.
He tilted his head. "Summoned?"
"To the woods. Supplies. You're coming."
He didn't argue. Of course he didn't. Just got up, brushed off his hands, and nodded.
The walk started in silence. Dense mist clung low to the ground, curling around our ankles as we followed the narrow path into the forest. Branches arched overhead like cathedral vaults, sunlight spilling in broken mosaics through the leaves. Everything felt too quiet. Too still.
Too much like being alone with someone I didn't want to talk to.
"You don't have to act like we're friends," I said after ten minutes of trudging. "Just because Circe told you to come."
"I'm not," he said calmly.
I glanced at him, suspicious. "You're not what?"
"Acting like we're friends."
That threw me for a second. "Then why are you here?"
"Because she asked me to come. And because I don't mind helping."
I huffed. "You always 'don't mind.' You ever actually mind anything?"
He looked thoughtful. "Loud sounds. Swans. Vermin... baklava."
I raised my brow at the way he had said vermin, like it hurt him to even say the word.
I shook my head, rolling my eyes. "I meant people."
He didn't answer right away. Just walked beside me, light-footed like he weighed nothing, hands tucked neatly behind his back.
"Sometimes," he said eventually. "Traitors. Infidels. People who they lie."
I stopped walking for a second. "You think I'm lying?"
"I think you're hurting."
I turned sharply. "Don't start with that."
"I'm not starting anything."
"Yeah, well, stop doing that thing where you talk like you've got it all figured out."
He paused, hands at his sides now. "I don't."
"Could've fooled me."
He looked at me again, but softer this time. "You don't have to be mad at me to be mad."
Gods.
"Stop talking like that," I muttered. "Like you're a grown-up in a child costume."
He didn't smile. Didn't smirk. Just bent down and plucked a starroot from the moss with surprising grace.
"You talk like that when you think no one hears," he said, still crouched. "Like you're not a kid either."
I wanted to yell at him. Or hit him. Or tell him he didn't know anything.
But the truth was, I didn't feel like a kid. Not after San Juan. Not after everything. Not after all the ways we had to grow up overnight.
So I said nothing.
We worked in silence after that. Gathering roots, checking for dusk-thistle hidden beneath fern fronds. I kept throwing glances at him, but he never once looked smug. Never once acted like he'd won something. He just moved like he belonged here.
Eventually, we had enough. I tied the herbs into a bundle with a spare string.
"You always listen that closely?" I asked, not looking at him.
He tilted his head. "To you?"
I shrugged.
"No," he said. "Only to those in pain."
I wanted to ask why. But I already knew the answer. Because that's who he was.
Quiet. Kind. Too soft for someone who'd survived something.
Too good for someone like me.
"Don't expect a thank you," I grumbled as we started back.
"I never do," he said.
Okay. That stung a little.
"Let's just keep looking."
Diomedes didn't disagree and followed after me, grabbing fruits from the higher leaves and places I didn't fit.
We kept walking.
I kept moving forward, deeper into the woods, pushing through the hanging vines like they were curtains I didn't want to walk back through. My fists were clenched even though there was nothing to punch, and the air was thick with the smell of moss and wild blossoms that made my head feel even more crowded.
He didn't say anything behind me. Just the soft sound of his steps, the occasional rustle as he reached up and took something I'd missed. Helpful. Always helpful.
That was the problem, wasn't it?
The deeper we went, the more the path narrowed, but I didn't stop. Didn't slow down. I was asked to do something so I'm going to do it.
The forest changed when you got deep enough. The trees got older, darker. The light didn't shine through as much. The air felt thick, like something was holding its breath.
I finally stopped near a tangle of thorny roots winding over an old stone, the kind that had markings on it—old, barely legible. Maybe something latin. Maybe something worse. I didn't care.
I just stood there, catching my breath, glaring at nothing.
"You're going too far," Diomedes said quietly behind me.
I didn't turn around. "You don't even know where we are."
"Yes, I do," he said.
Of course he did.
"Well, then you can find your way back without me," I snapped.
There was a beat of silence.
"I could," he said. "But I won't."
I whipped around. "Why not? You're good at not doing what people expect. Why not leave me alone for once?"
He blinked slowly. "Because I don't think Hylla will let me live if I leave you here to die."
I stared at him, confused as to how I was meant to respond to that.
"... I'm going to keep looking for the sunset blooms." I said, turning away from him and going left.
"Reyna we have more than enough," he said, holding the basket of herbs and flowers.
"I know what I'm doing, Diomedes," I snapped, yanking a root from the earth. I didn't want to hear caution. I wanted control.
He didn't argue. Just hovered beside me like a shadow.
The leaves blew calmly as Diomedes floated around, gathering some more items.
I wandered deeper into the green brush, pulling herb after herb like my life depended on it.
Because maybe it did.
Every stem I yanked, every blossom I pocketed, felt like a challenge. A defiance. To everything that had tried to shape me into something delicate, obedient, breakable. The farther I walked, the more tangled the vines became, as if the forest itself was trying to warn me. Or stop me. Or swallow me whole.
I didn't care.
"Reyna," Diomedes's voice came again, softer this time—like sea foam trying to tell a hurricane to calm down. "The path's farther behind us now."
"I said I know what I'm doing," I muttered, more to myself than to him. My hands were slick with crushed sap and pollen, knuckles stinging from bramble scratches. My sandals squelched with every step in the muck, but I kept going. Faster. Deeper.
Behind me, I heard the leaves shift.
"You don't," he said.
I froze mid-step.
What did he just say?
I turned on my heel, fists full of crushed herbs, and glared at him. "Excuse me?"
He didn't even blink. Just stood there like some tragic statue half-eaten by time and moss, his eyes as blank as the sky before a storm. Like he hadn't just told me—me—that I was wrong.
"What would you know about it?" I snapped. "You don't even feel things. You drift around like some—some cloud wraith and act like you understand people just because you watch them."
His expression didn't budge. Didn't even flicker. It made me want to throw something. He didn't have the right to be so unreadable.
"That doesn't mean I can't see when someone's hurting," he said, in that same infuriatingly even tone.
"You don't know me," I hissed, stepping toward him. "You've been here six months—if that. I don't know what your deal is, and honestly, I don't care. You don't get to analyze me like I'm some project that needs to be fixed."
He stayed still. Always still.
"You don't know what I've been through. You don't get to act like you see me. You haven't earned that."
I didn't even realize my voice had risen. That I'd taken another step toward him, like proximity would prove my point. Nor did I notice the sound of stone being broken.
And then—he moved.
A blur of motion, faster than I expected. One second I was standing, mid-rant, and the next—
"Wha—!"
I hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of me.
"What the Hades is your—"
(In Roman writings it's usually translated to Hades. The Greeks actually called it the Domos Aïdao, House of Hades or Dwellings of Hades.)
CRUNCH.
A club came down like thunder.
It should've hit me. I was standing right there.
But Diomedes moved.
It wasn't flashy. No big heroic leap. Just... a step. One step, right into the path of the blow. The wooden club slammed into his head with a sickening crunch, and he barely flinched. Like it had hit a post. Or mist.
Diomedes didn't scream.
Didn't even grunt.
His body just... jerked, like the blow was an afterthought. Like someone had nudged a statue too hard.
My heart dropped straight through my sandals.
I froze. For a split second, I froze. My lungs locked, my fingers curled around the dirt, and all I could hear was the attackers breathing—wet and wheezing and close.
"Diomedes!" I scrambled back, grabbing the first thing I could—some stalk of wolf's fang—like a weed would save us.
The thing that hit him snarled, stepping into the clearing. A Cyclops. Massive, greasy, teeth too big for its mouth and one yellow eye locked on us like we were already roasting on a spit.
Diomedes turned. Slowly. The mist around him curled upward, sharper than before. Less like drifting fog, more like claws.
"Vermin," he spat.
His voice didn't sound like him. Diomedes always talked like the world was distant, like everything was a puzzle he was still figuring out. But now? He sounded like the puzzle was finished and the answer was war.
It sniffed once. Twice. Then smiled.
"Mm~" the thing hummed. "I've never smelled demigods this fresh before. But you—"
Its nostrils flared, eye locking on Diomedes like a predator sizing up its favorite cut of meat.
"You smell like ambrosia. Like suffering and sunlight. Like a feast the gods forgot to finish."
I rose, shakily, fumbling for the dagger on my belt—Circe had given it to me when I had arrived. The golden blade caught the light like a sunbeam. She'd said it was made from judgment itself. It hummed in my hand like it remembered blood.
"Back off," I snapped, planting myself between the Cyclops and Diomedes My knees were trembling, but I didn't let them bend. "This island is protected. By Circe."
The Cyclops licked its lips. Its eye flicked between us, head tilting as it considered which one would scream louder.
"Circe's not here," it said. "You are. And you reek of war."
The Cyclops took another step. Each one felt like it shook the ground.
Its eye flicked between me and Diomedes, and gods, I knew that look. It wasn't hunger. It was cruelty.
"Little demi-things," it said, voice sludgy and thick. "You taste better when you scream."
The Cyclops laughed.
"Reyna," Diomedes said, quiet and sharp, blood running down his temple like it didn't bother him at all. "Why do you try to give this vermin mercy?"
What?
I turned to him, time slowing down as the air shifted.
It wasn't dramatic. It didn't explode. It just shifted. Like the temperature had dropped ten degrees. Like the world itself was holding its breath.
Diomedes shot forward like an animal out of its cage. In a matter of seconds this eight year old boy tackled the ten foot tall cyclops to the ground, a guttural roar echoing from the monster's jagged maw.
"You hesitate," he said. His voice was still gentle. Still weirdly kind. But it held the weight of a tombstone. "You see this disease... and give it the chance to live?"
The Cyclops gasped for air as Diomedes dug his nails into its neck, his form shifting to that of a storm cloud. His eyes glowed with a mix of thunder.
There was a familiarity to them though. They looked like my dad's eyes. The same color and everything.
The cyclops tried to hit Diomedes with its club but was stopped as Diomedes grabbed its shoulder and dislocated it, the ground cracking as he pushed it into the dirt.
The Cyclops tried to shriek but was stopped by Diomedes reeling back his fist and punching him in the jaw.
I was frozen. What in the name of Jupiter was I supposed to do? The guy I've been insulting for months, who I thought was just a quiet wind spirit, was currently beating a cyclops into the ground like it personally insulted his mother.
After a few moments, the cyclops turned to dust, dead. Diomedes's hands were coated in its golden remains.
Slowly, he stood up, wiping dirt onto his garments as he heaved deeply.
"Sorry," he said meekly. "I just... really hate cyclops's."
We stared at each other in silence for a few moments, unable to speak or move. Finally, I spoke.
"What the heck was that?!" I cried.
Diomedes blinked, slowly, like he was trying to remember how to use his face.
Then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, he said, "It was a Cyclops."
I stared at him.
He stared back.
"That's not—" I threw my arms up, pacing a furious little circle. "That's not what I meant and you know it!"
He tilted his head. "You asked what it was. I answered."
"Gods!" I spun to face him again. "You got hit with a tree trunk. You didn't even flinch! You turned into a cloud—or—or something, and then you obliterated it! Like it was a fly! You—your eyes—"
"I told you," he interrupted, brushing a smear of gold off his tunic like it was tomato soup. "I hate vermin."
"That's not an answer!"
He looked at me for a long moment. Then sighed. "No. It's not."
The mist around him began to fade, slowly, like it was crawling back into his skin. Whatever that storm was, it was retreating. But I'd seen it now. I'd seen him. And no amount of calm breathing or polite words was going to make me forget it.
"What are you?" I whispered.
His lips parted—just slightly—but he said nothing.
My fists clenched again, but not from anger. Not really. From fear. From confusion. From this sick twist in my chest that made me feel like I'd missed something important.
"I don't get you," I said, and this time my voice cracked. "You show up here half-dead. You never talk about yourself. You act like nothing bothers you, like you're above all of us. And then you say things like that. Do things like that. Like you're not even a real person."
He watched me, face unreadable, expression caught between tired and... something softer.
"I am a person," he said, so gently it almost didn't sound real. "I just don't... show it the same."
"That's not good enough!" I shouted, and the word echoed. Like even the trees were startled.
"I don't know who you are!" My voice was shaking now. "You make me feel like I'm the one going crazy! Like I'm always behind! Like you're watching me, judging me, and I don't even know why! I've been trying to be perfect, trying to keep everything together, because if I don't—"
My breath hitched.
"If I don't, then I'll break. And no one is going to put me back together again."
Diomedes didn't move. But something in his eyes did. Just a flicker.
"I'm not judging you," he said, voice low. "I'm not trying to be perfect either."
I laughed. Or tried to. It came out cracked. "Sure. Because the quiet, polite, genius child who just turned a monster into mist is totally not perfect."
His lips thinned into a line. "I'm not perfect. I'm just... me. I try not to break things."
I stared at him.
"You just broke a Cyclops," I said.
"That's different." He paused. "They're not people."
My skin went cold. "You said it like they're a disease."
His expression darkened, just barely. "They are. They are children who never grow. They create to destroy because they want. They don't feel. They're selfish. I hate them."
There was something final about the way he said it. Like a judge slamming down the gavel. Like someone who'd lived through something I hadn't yet imagined.
"But... I don't hate you," he added, quieter. "Even if you hate me."
I looked away. "I don't hate you."
He waited.
"I just—" I wrapped my arms around myself. "I don't understand you. And I hate not understanding. I hate feeling like I'm the weakest one in the room. Like I'm the only one still bleeding."
I expected him to say something vague again. Something distant.
Instead, he said, "I still bleed. Just not where anyone can see."
My throat closed up.
I turned, slowly, to look at him. And for the first time since I met him, he actually looked his age. Eight. Just eight. Bruised, scratched, tired. Covered in gold dust and grief.
"You shouldn't have protected me," I said, softer now.
"Yes I should've."
"You could've died."
"I've been close before," he said. "It wouldn't have been new."
My stomach twisted.
"You're not invincible, Diomedes," I whispered.
"No," he said. "But I'm not fragile either. Neither are you."
That... stung. In a different way.
We stood in silence, surrounded by crushed herbs and the ghost of something too large to name. And in that moment, I didn't feel angry anymore.
Just exposed.
"Promise me you'll stop doing that," I muttered.
"Doing what?"
"Throwing yourself in front of things for me."
He looked at me, quiet for a long time. Then nodded. "If you promise to stop pretending you're not afraid."
That was the deal?
"...Okay," I said. "Deal."
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close.
We turned toward the path, and this time, we walked side by side.
And though I didn't say it out loud, I realized something strange.
Maybe I didn't hate not understanding him.
Maybe I didn't hate him at all.
After that, things were different with Diomedes and I. We were... friendly? Acquaintances. We held up both our sides of the deal.
I stopped pretending to be afraid and he stopped overworking himself by helping everyone.
It was good.
Till I noticed.... Carol.