The night Alethea dared the sacred grove of Artemis, the olive trees whispered warnings. No mortal woman was meant to walk there after sunset, especially not alone, especially not bare-footed and bare-shouldered, the hem of her white chiton brushing wild thyme.
But Alethea was cursed with curiosity and blessed with beauty — a combination the gods never left unpunished.
The moon hung low and swollen, lighting her path in silver. At the center of the grove, where even the boldest priests dared not tread, there was a pool — black as forgotten dreams, ringed with broken statues.
And there, waiting for her, lounged a figure half in shadow.
A man.
No.
A god.
His hair was the color of ravens' wings, his skin gleamed like marble warmed by summer. A crown of olive branches tangled in his curls. His smile was lazy, knowing, dangerous.
"You trespass, little one," he said, voice a rich, mocking purr. "What shall I take as payment?"
Alethea should have run. Should have prayed. Should have wept.
Instead, she smiled — slow, wicked, as if she too had a touch of the divine in her blood.
"Take what you dare," she whispered.
With a laugh that shook the leaves from the trees, he rose. He circled her like a lion playing with its prey, brushing fingers down her throat, over her hips, teasing the curve of her breasts through the thin fabric. Wherever he touched, fire bloomed under her skin.
He backed her toward the pool, his hands relentless, yet never cruel. She gasped as the cold marble of a fallen statue kissed the backs of her knees.
"Do you know my name?" he asked, voice slipping inside her like warm oil.
"No," she whispered, dizzy.
"Good," he smiled. "Then you might survive this night."
He took her then — on the edge of the sacred pool, under the heavy olive moon. His body was hard and unyielding, his mouth merciless on hers. They moved together, flesh against flesh, the scent of crushed thyme and sweat thick in the air. Alethea clutched his back, nails scoring down to feel muscle and power flex under her hands.
Above them, unseen, the gods watched and whispered.
She rode the storm he summoned, crying out in a voice that tore through the grove, a sound too wild for mortal throats. Stars blurred. Time unraveled.
When she woke at dawn, the god was gone. Only the wreath of olive branches remained, tangled in her hair.
And from that day forward, the women of her village spoke in hushed awe of Alethea — who bore no husband, but whose sons grew tall and golden, with the shadow of immortality in their smiles.