The rumours reached Frankie before the truth did.
They crept through Grecko Academy the way damp crept through old stone, quiet, persistent, impossible to scrub out once it settled. By the time Frankie reached her second lecture, the story had already fractured into a dozen versions, each one less tethered to reality than the last.
A shadow in the ruins.
A blade that cut wings without touching flesh.
Something that moved between moments.
Something that wasn't blessed, but still answered when angels screamed.
Frankie took her seat at the back of the lecture hall and kept her head down.
She had learned the rhythm of rumours early in life. Let them burn hot without feeding them. Let people argue themselves into exhaustion. Truth survived longer when it wasn't defended.
Around her, gifted students spoke in low, excited tones, voices tight with adrenaline and pride.
"I swear it wasn't one of ours," someone whispered.
"No god-mark flared," another replied.
"Then what was it?"
"A trick. An illusion. Maybe Hermes."
"Hermes doesn't tear wings."
Frankie turned a page in her notes with deliberate care.
Across the room, Callista sat two rows up, posture composed, expression neutral. But her fingers tapped lightly against the desk, once, twice, then still. A signal Frankie had learned to recognize.
She knew.
The lecture passed in a blur of doctrine Frankie barely heard. The instructor spoke about supply lines and morale maintenance, about how fear spread faster than angels if left unmanaged. It would have been funny, if it hadn't been so close to the truth.
When the bell rang, students surged toward the exits, still talking, still alive with borrowed glory.
Frankie waited.
She always waited a few heartbeats longer than necessary, letting the room empty around her. It gave her space to think. To breathe. To keep the system quiet beneath her skin.
"Rinaldi."
The voice was calm. Curious.
Frankie turned.
Celeste stood near the aisle, scroll tucked beneath one arm, her other hand resting lightly at her side. She was Athenian-blessed, minor, subtle. Enhanced perception. Pattern recognition. The kind of gift that didn't throw lightning but remembered everything.
Celeste smiled faintly.
"You vanished yesterday," she said.
Frankie measured her response carefully. "I was reassigned."
Celeste tilted her head. "During an active engagement."
"Support roles move," Frankie replied evenly.
Celeste studied her for a moment longer than politeness allowed.
"Funny," she said. "So did the ghost."
Frankie felt the words settle against her ribs like a test weight.
She kept her expression blank. "People are bored. They invent things."
Celeste didn't argue.
Instead, she walked alongside Frankie as they exited into the corridor, matching her pace exactly.
"I heard you were part of the first auxiliary clearance," Celeste continued casually. "The one that went wrong."
Frankie nodded once. "A lot of them did."
Celeste's gaze flicked to the marble floor, then back up. "Most of that unit didn't come back."
"No," Frankie agreed.
"And yet," Celeste said softly, "the ones who did seem to keep surviving."
Frankie stopped.
Celeste stopped with her.
The corridor was empty now, the noise of students distant. Light spilled through high windows, catching dust motes in the air like suspended stars.
"Say what you mean," Frankie said.
Celeste hesitated.
Then she did something unexpected.
She lowered her voice.
"I saw you on the board yesterday," she said. "Assigned to Theta-Seven. But when the engagement started, you weren't where you should have been."
Frankie met her gaze steadily.
"And?"
"And when the angels started falling," Celeste continued, "I saw movement where no unit marker was registered."
Frankie felt the system stir, not alarmed, but alert. Listening.
Celeste exhaled slowly. "I'm not accusing you of anything."
"That's comforting," Frankie said dryly.
Celeste's lips twitched. "I'm saying… something interfered. Something that didn't fit doctrine. And then you reappeared afterward, exactly where you were supposed to be."
Frankie said nothing.
Celeste studied her face, searching for cracks.
"Everyone else is arguing over gods," Celeste went on. "Over blessings. Over credit. Over which spear struck first."
Her voice dropped another notch.
"I just want to know if the Academy is lying to us."
Frankie's answer came easily.
"Yes."
Celeste's breath caught.
"About what?" she asked.
Frankie looked past her, down the corridor toward a window that framed a slice of blue sky.
"About how prepared we are," Frankie said. "About how much control we actually have."
Celeste followed her gaze. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give."
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then Celeste straightened, schooling her expression back into something safer.
"Be careful," she said. "People are starting to notice patterns."
Frankie nodded. "People always do."
Celeste turned to leave, then paused.
"For what it's worth," she added, without looking back, "if the ghost is real… it didn't fight like a god."
Frankie waited.
"It fought like someone who didn't want to be seen."
Celeste walked away.
Frankie let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
The rest of the day passed under a strange tension. Lectures continued. Drills resumed. Life pretended to be normal. But everywhere Frankie went, she felt eyes slide toward her, then away. Not suspicion. Not recognition.
Curiosity.
By evening, the rumours had evolved again.
Now the ghost had a name.
Not an official one. Not a priest-sanctioned title.
Something whispered.
The Cockroach.
The angel-slayer that refused to die.
Frankie almost laughed when she heard it.
Almost.
She left the Academy at dusk, slipping through the gates as temple lanterns flared to life. The city felt different tonight, tighter. Like it was holding something in.
She took the long way home, weaving through side streets, keeping to shadowed alleys where vendors packed up and prayers gave way to hunger.
That was when she felt it.
Not dominion.
Not danger.
Attention.
The air shifted near the plaza ahead, subtle, but unmistakable. A presence stepping into the world without bothering to announce itself.
Frankie slowed.
Across the open stone square, two figures stood near a dry fountain.
One was unmistakable.
Ares.
He wore no armor tonight, but the space around him felt dense, like violence waiting for permission. His presence bent attention toward him whether people wanted it to or not. Soldiers paused mid-step without knowing why. A merchant dropped a crate and cursed, heart pounding.
Beside him stood another figure.
Slim. Laughing eyes. A smile that didn't quite align with the rest of his face.
Dolus.
God of deception. Of tricks that worked because you wanted them to. Of lies that survived because they felt convenient.
Ares spoke first, voice low, carrying farther than it should have.
"I felt it," he said. "Steel meeting wing. Fear turning sharp."
Dolus chuckled. "You always do. You mistake noise for meaning."
Ares snorted. "Something hunted my enemies."
"Or embarrassed them," Dolus replied pleasantly. "Much more interesting."
Frankie kept walking, head down, heart steady.
She was just another girl crossing a plaza.
Ares's gaze swept the square, searching for a follower, a champion, a sign.
It passed over Frankie without pause.
Dolus, however, lingered.
Not on her face.
On the space she occupied.
On the absence where something should have been.
His smile widened by a fraction.
"Well," Dolus murmured, "that's curious."
Ares grunted. "What is?"
Dolus waved a hand dismissively. "Probably nothing."
Frankie did not look back.
She did not quicken her pace.
She walked home like she always did, carrying bread, carrying silence, carrying a secret that was starting to echo louder than she liked.
Behind her, gods debated ghosts.
Above her, angels recalculated.
And inside her chest, dominion flowed quietly, patiently, as if it knew something the rest of the world was only just beginning to suspect.
The mistake hadn't been erased.
It had learned how to hide.
And soon, hiding wouldn't be enough.