Sunlight pierced through the huge, broken window, its harsh rays glaring onto Damon's face, forcing open an eyelid. He groaned, rolling onto his side, the worn mattress crackling beneath his weight. His eyes snapped open, darting sideways to register the sun's position.
"Shit," he muttered to himself as he reluctantly stood up. Waking up late was an ominous sign. He took a minute to stare at the cracked mirror, a white-haired, puffy-eyed guy staring back at him.
The twenty-year-old demigod ran calloused fingers through his unkempt hair. He quickly slipped into a dark coat and stuffed his mouth with some dry bread that he stowed away in a locked cabinet. In this part of town, even bread was considered gold by thieves.
His bowler hat nearly flew off as the volcanic air of Olympus greeted him with a hot gust as he stepped outside. It was, as always, putrid and heavy. Damon pulled his mask up over his nose and mouth—a necessity in the Seventh Circle's capital, where sulfur from the surrounding mountains crept through the streets like invisible serpents. The black fabric covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his soulless, dark eyes visible…..It also helped him stay hidden.
As he walked, people scattered uncomfortably, creating a small but easily noticeable berth around him. Damon had long grown accustomed to the effect he had on others—that instinctive fear, the way mothers pulled children closer, the suspicious and sometimes fearful glances, the hushed whispers that made you realize one cold truth…..Demigods are not welcome here.
He hurriedly navigated the slums, carefully stepping over puddles of shit. The desperate hands of one of the numerous beggars sprawled across the streets and grabbed him by the feet. His hunger overrode any hint of fear.
"Spare a coin, Lord!"
As if drawn by Damon's hesitation and possible gullibility, the others soon began swarming, hands and plates in front, one man soon becoming a crowd. Overwhelmed, he dodged various hands, trying to explain at the same time that he was no richer than they were.
Then he felt the hair at the back of his neck rise; someone was staring intently at him. His head whipped as he came to face a pair of electric, blue eyes locked onto his. A girl-maybe nineteen, twenty at most. She regarded him with amusement, a smile playing at her lips as she grinned at him. As Damon took a step forward, she hurriedly darted into the crowd, disappearing from sight.
"Tch," Damon snarled. He had a suspicion that it was a bounty hunter. Many of them had been sneaking around lately. He had to move again; he had barely spent a month here!
Shaking off the unsettling encounter, he turned, pushing through the crowds and pressing on towards the docks. He headed for the part of the shoreline where the salt merchants conducted their business. The ocean crashed against rocky outcroppings, spraying mist that mingled with the volcanic haze. Muscular guards in bronze armor flanked a portly man with thin hair, who was busy examining shipments and marking figures on wax tablets.
"Alastor," Damon called from a distance, hurriedly approaching the merchant.
The short man's head snapped up. Recognition immediately turned to fear, which briefly flashed across his features before he forced a gleeful mask on his face. His guards equally stiffened, their hands drifting to sword hilts. It was as if they were expecting trouble.
"Fallenstar," Alastor acknowledged, his voice strained as he tried to sound casual. "What brings you here this hot noon?"
"Need work," Damon said simply. "Anything that pays."
The merchant's eyes darted nervously toward his men, then back to Damon. "B..bad timing, I'm afraid. There ain't any slot available this time. You know. Business is... slow."
A lie, Damon could sniff it right before it left his throat. Everyone knows the salt warehouses that Alastor owned were always bustling with activity, which meant that labor was always needed. But given that he threatened to gut the man two days ago….it was quite a bit understandable.
"Right," Damon replied flatly. "If you change your mind..."
"You'll be the first to know," the merchant prattled too quickly. He winced as Damon's eyes narrowed.
Disappointed but unsurprised, Damon sighed. He turned away from the sea. Perhaps he should just gut the man, he thought in annoyance, the salt air burning his nostrils even through his mask. He caught sight of the black palace, a speck of color close to the clouds. Built on the very top of an active volcano, around which the entire capital city of the seventh circle was built. High up in the air, as if the demigods who lived there were reminding everyone else in Olympus that they were always watching.
It was once his home too. And they really are watching.
---
Thirst drove him to the 'Klao', a dim establishment where the dregs of society like Damon gathered to drink cheap drinks. The tavern keeper nodded as Damon entered, he was one of the few people in Olympus who did not treat him like a walking bomb.
"The usual?" Theodore asked, already reaching for a clay cup.
Damon slid onto a stool, lowering his mask now that he was inside. "I don't have any money."
"You said that last week," Theodore replied but poured the drink anyway—a dark wine cut with water. "Heard about the arrests?"
"Those rebellion fools?" Damon muttered, pulling down his mask to take a swig. It burned. Good.
" Heard whispers."
"Twelve of them. Public execution scheduled for tomorrow." Theodore wiped a cup with a dirty cloth that seemed to be adding more grime than removing it. "People say this time it's different. That there's real momentum behind their movements."
"It's always 'different' until it isn't," Damon said. "The demigods don't even know how to relinquish power. They crush any of those who question it."
"Well, you know. We all want to change the world. Maybe fate has other plans this time," Theodore mused as he handed another man a drink.
Damon snorted. "Fate? If anything is bullshit, it's that word. Fate is what those at that black palace call their whims to make mortals feel better about being pawns."
"Coming from the demigod who got kicked out," Theodore laughed. "You know what the difference is between gods and demigods? Gods didn't have to pay their bar tabs."
Despite himself, Damon's lips quirked upward. "Then consider me painfully mortal."
" Oh no, I dare not, "Theodore curtsied jokily.
Before Damon could retort, a small figure darted like lightning past him. Hands brushed his side. Quick fingers slipped into his coat, lighter than the devil's breath.
Damon moved faster.
His hand snapped out, catching the pickpocket by the wrist—a boy, no older than twelve, with wide, terrified eyes. His wrist shook violently. It was tightly wrapped around a few bronze coins.
"So you do have money," Theodore grinned, folding his arms as the room suddenly became dead silent.
For a second, Damon just stared at the boy. The kid's emerald eyes stared back with unnatural bravery, the kind that comes over you when you get backed into a corner. Sighing, he released his grip.
"Run along, kid."
The boy bolted without hesitation—but straight into the thin chest of a man standing in the doorway. The source of the sudden silence that gripped the bar.
Gold.
That was the first thing Damon noticed. Gold embroidery inscribing words on a pristine white chiton, thick gold rings on slender fingers, gold-encased boots that probably would feed the entire town for a month. The man's face was all sharp angles and he grimaced in arrogance, ruffling his golden hair, which seemed to gleam even in the dim light. He stared down at the boy.
"Watch it, you filthy rat," his voice rang with disgust, as six more gold-dressed men entered the room, their eyes darting across the room. One of them had a sword.
The boy stumbled back. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the man's hand lashed out, striking him across the face with a crack that stiffened the bar. Even Theodore flinched. The slap had enough force that sent the boy sprawling across the bar, dropping unconscious like a bag of meat.
Damon didn't move. Just sipped his drink as the bar remained frozen. Eyes averted. Then he chuckled.
"That the best you got?" he suddenly asked, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Hitting children everyday must be so exhausting."
The man turned towards Damon. He sneered. "And who the hell are you?"
Damon faced him stonily. Recognition dawned on the golden-haired man, followed by scornful amusement as he stared across the room at him.
"A Fallenstar in the flesh," he said, voice dripping with an immeasurable amount of disdain.
" My..my, what an honor I must say it is." He bowed lightly, his lips curling.
"Lord.."