She was gorgeous. She knew it without vanity. Tall and elegant, she was the kind of beauty that made men stupid and gods careless. Piercings adorned her nose, eyebrows, and lips—silver trophies of rebellion earned over centuries. Crimson rings circled her irises, the permanent mark of the siren queen. Even in simple mortal clothes—leggings and a jacket—she looked stunning.
Everyone wanted her, except the one who mattered.
Hades treated her as little more than an assistant. His gaze only ever fixed on Persephone, no matter how many times the goddess died and left him broken. He could have Morrigan. She was loyal. Devoted. A true queen in bed. She could give him everything Persephone never could.
Yet he chose to walk through hell over and over for the minor goddess who brought him nothing but curses. Persephone had diminished him, weakened him, turned the feared God of Death into a lovesick fool waiting centuries for a woman who kept dying.
But Hades couldn’t see it. Not while Persephone still breathed.
This had to be corrected. And it would be. Today.
This was Persephone’s final chance. If she died in this timeline, there would be no more reincarnations. The cycle would end. One hundred lives. One hundred deaths. The Goddess of Spring would be no more.
So decreed the Three Sisters.
“Is it here?” Morrigan asked, dragging her gaze from her reflection.
“Wait.” Bloom’s eyes remained fixed on the center of the lake.
Morrigan folded her arms. She had waited an eternity for what she wanted—for what she deserved. She could wait a few more minutes.
Then, something at the bottom of the lake began to glow. Soft at first, then brighter—a star kindling in the deep.
Bloom stripped off her jacket and dove in.
The water must have been biting, but the girl didn’t surface gasping. She swam down with purpose, her red hair streaming behind her like a trail of blood in the black water.
When she broke the surface again, she cradled a glowing plant in her hand.
Mortis Bloom.
Its petals were silver, edged in crimson, pulsing with a faint light. The stem gleamed like liquid obsidian, and its roots shone pale and intricate, woven like threads of moonlight.
“That’s it,” Bloom breathed, a plume of frost escaping her blue-tinged lips. “We have it.”
A sigh of relief escaped Morrigan’s chest.
It felt like a miracle, and the Fates had arranged it beautifully—the only cure, growing in the very forest where Bloom was raised. Poetic.
“I was afraid it wouldn’t be here,” Bloom said, treading water. “But it was waiting.” She shivered. “The antidote for Hera’s Whip requires blood and tears.”
“I can do that for him,” Morrigan said from the bank.
Bloom shook her head, cradling the root ball, her touch protective. “Only I can do that—it must be my blood and tears.”
Morrigan felt a sharp twinge of annoyance. A small, cold comfort was that Bloom still didn’t know that Nero was Hades. Persephone could never know him the way Morrigan did.
“There’s no need for you to be soaked, too,” Bloom added softly and lowered her gaze.
Two tears fell on the silver petals, and Morrigan recognized the ritual of purging the death flower’s latent poison, leaving only its healing essence behind.
“Now I need to bind it and contain the healing essence,” Bloom offered as she bit into the pad of her thumb, and blood welled.
She darted Morrigan a quick glance, as if she was hesitant to reveal her secrets, before she called her magic forth. Her fingers flexed and twisted as if weaving threads. Morrigan couldn’t see them, but she felt the intent of the Queen of Death and Life settle over Mortis Bloom as a stream of light and shadow bound root, stem, and petal.
A cold knot tightened in Morrigan’s stomach.
This reincarnation of Persephone was awakening faster than any of the previous ninety-nine. None of the others had come this far. Physically, this version was the frailest—the girl who’d needed an inhaler to breathe. Yet she’d overcome that and more. She’d survived multiple attempts on her life. Given more time, she would piece everything together.
