“What about you?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder. “What’s your excuse?”
I arch a brow. “My excuse for what?”
“For being like this.” She gestures vaguely around the room, at the throne, at me. “For being a king. People don’t just wake up and decide to rule monsters.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “You’d be surprised.”
She turns fully, curiosity outweighing caution. “I doubt that.”
I consider lying. It’d be easier. It’d keep her at a distance.
I don’t.
“I didn’t choose this,” I say. “I inherited it.”
She frowns. “Inherited being . . . what you are?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
I hold her gaze. “My father.”
“And he was?”
I pause just long enough to let the tension stretch.
“Hades.”
She blinks.
Once.
Then she laughs.
Not mocking. Just startled disbelief.
“You’re serious,” she says, wiping the corner of her eye.
“I am.”
She studies my face, searching for cracks. For arrogance. For fantasy.
There are none.
“Oh,” she breathes.
Understanding dawns slowly. Skepticism fades into awe she tries to hide.
“You’re saying the God of the Underworld, Hades, is your father?” she says carefully. “As in mythology. As in stories people stopped believing in centuries ago.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re telling me this because?”
“Because you asked,” I reply. “And because you don’t strike me as someone who’d kneel just because of a name.”
Her lips part, then press together. “That’s insane.”
