The first rule of dealing with gods? **Don't.**
**The second rule? If you absolutely must, at least bring snacks. I'd failed on both counts.**
For centuries, humans and deities existed in careful balance—they had their celestial dramas, we had our mortal problems, and everyone stayed out of each other's way. Then the Veil thinned. TikTok happened. **And somewhere between the Tide Pod challenge and eating cereal out of strangers' mouths, humanity collectively decided "marrying a god" sounded like reasonable content.**
I should've known better. My own grandmother used to whisper about the old days when gods walked among humans freely. **She'd pause her knitting, lower her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and say things like, "Aphrodite once turned an entire village into rose bushes because someone called her sandals 'mid'."**
**Which is why I absolutely should not have been attempting the #DivineBondChallenge in my dorm room at 3 AM while eating cold pizza.**
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### **The Accident**
I hadn't meant to summon anyone. **The video—posted by user @MysticBae420—promised "harmless fun with guaranteed minor deity interactions (no archangels, demons, or tax auditors)."**
**"Just light the candles, draw the sigil, and boom—instant divine pen pal!" the influencer had chirped while adjusting her crystal headband.**
But when my phone buzzed mid-ritual (Lacey: *"UR doing it WRONG the candles go clockwise! Also ur mom texted me looking for u")*, the chalk circle flared crimson. **My last thought as the floor disappeared was that I really hoped the "minor deity" wouldn't judge me for the pile of laundry in the corner.**
I landed in a grove where the air smelled like thunderstorms and wet earth. **Also possibly weed? Which tracked, given the tutorial's username.**
Before me stood a man covered in dirt, his tunic frayed at the hem. **He looked like someone had taken a Renaissance fair enthusiast and dropped him in a compost heap.** Golden light pulsed around his clenched fists as he lectured a boulder about "respecting territorial boundaries."
**"And another thing," he was saying, poking the rock aggressively, "your sedimentary layers are completely out of alignment with—"**
Then he saw me.
**We stared at each other in perfect silence. Somewhere, a bird coughed.**
"You." His voice made my teeth vibrate. "What part of 'NO TRESPASSING' carved in ten-foot letters did you not understand?"
**I glanced around. "I don't see any letters?"**
**"METAPHORICAL LETTERS!"**
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**The Binding**
The vines came first—thorny tendrils snaking around my ankles with the enthusiasm of overeager shoelaces. Then came the glow, searing words into my skin:
*Bound by the Old Laws.*
**"Huh," I said, examining my forearm. "That's a much nicer font than my tattoo artist used."**
The god recoiled like I'd spat on him. "No. Absolutely not." He scrubbed at his forearm where matching marks appeared. **The glowing letters stubbornly remained, like a cosmic "I told you so."** "This is a mistake. I didn't consent. I was gardening—"
**"You were yelling at a rock."**
**"IT WAS BEING INSUBORDINATE!"**
A thunderclap shook the trees. Distant laughter rolled across the sky—the kind of laughter usually accompanied by someone yelling "Worldstar!"
"Oh, wonderful." He paled. "Zeus knows."
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### **The Aftermath**
Turns out Terros—God of Exactly 1.5 Acres of Fertile Soil—was the divine equivalent of a middle manager: **overworked, underappreciated, and constantly being asked to do miracles with the budget of a lemonade stand.**
**"Let me get this straight," I said as storm clouds gathered ominously above us. "You're a god, but like...a zoning committee god?"**
**"I PREFER 'TERRITORIAL STEWARD'!"**
As the first raindrops fell, he groaned. "Gaia's going to kill me."
I pinched myself. "Still not dreaming."
"Obviously!" He kicked his disobedient boulder, which promptly rolled onto his foot. **As he hopped around cursing in what sounded like ancient Sumerian, I couldn't help but notice the marriage sigil on his arm was now pulsing to the tune of "Baby Shark."**
**This was going to be interesting.