He withdrew a small silver pin—pilfered from the seamstress's workroom—and carefully inserted it into the nearly invisible seam where the jar met its base. Not trying to lift the jar, merely...
"Creating an opening," he whispered, sliding the pin around the circumference, separating the enchantments just enough to access without removing.
From his watering can, he extracted a slender hollow reed he'd prepared—disguised as a simple handle reinforcement. Inserting it through the gap, he delicately maneuvered it toward the Nectar Lily.
The air around the flower rippled as his reed approached, reality distorting in warning. Donatos held his breath, focusing all his concentration on steadying his hand. One brush against a petal was all he needed...
The reed touched a golden-liquid petal, and a single drop of nectar—more precious than all the wealth of mortal kingdoms—traveled up through capillary action. At the same instant, footsteps echoed from the corridor outside—Kleio returning.
With lightning reflexes belying his servant's body, Donatos withdrew the reed, sealed it, and returned to watering mundane plants. The pin remained in the bell jar seam—removing it too quickly would trigger the wards just as surely as breaking the glass.
The door swung open as Kleio returned, her expression pinched with the peculiar stress of serving a goddess whose moods determined the harmony of divine households across creation.
"Still here? Good. Her Divine Majesty requires fresh adornment for tonight's festivities. Collect the blue sage from the western pots—not the northern ones, those are venomous—and bring them to her dressing chamber."
Donatos bowed low. "At once."
As Kleio turned to leave, he spoke again. "The Elysian Blossom appears to be dropping pollen. Is that... normal?"
"What?" Kleio whirled, eyes wide with panic. "That's impossible! If its cycle begins early, the queen will—"
She rushed to the bell jar, her attention entirely focused on the perfect blue flower. As she leaned close to examine it, Donatos casually reached out as if steadying the jar, smoothly retrieving his silver pin in the process.
"Perhaps it was a trick of the light," he suggested as Kleio's panicked breathing slowed.
"Yes... yes, you're right. It's stable." She straightened, composing herself. "The blue sage, servant. Now."
As he gathered the requested herbs, Donatos maneuvered near the Elysian Blossom once more. With Kleio's attention on selecting the perfect stems of sage, he palmed a fallen petal from the floor beside the jar—one he'd carefully loosened with his reed while collecting the Nectar Lily's essence.
Two more divine elements secured. The reed containing liquid sorrow and the petal of paradise joined the vial of Divine Spring water in his hidden pocket. His heart pounded with adrenaline that his outward appearance betrayed not at all.
Now for the most dangerous acquisition of all.
***
Ares's armory was forbidden territory for common servants. Only his personal attendants—battle-hardened veterans who had earned the war god's respect—were permitted to cross its threshold. Divine weapons of mass destruction lined its walls, each capable of laying waste to civilizations. Entire constellations had been weaponized within its forges, and the screams of conquered realms echoed perpetually from certain darker corners.
Donatos had no legitimate reason to be anywhere near it, which meant creating one.
"You want me to what?" Kyrillos, the head servant, stared at him as though he'd suggested they host a feast for Titans in Zeus's bedroom.
"Deliver clean towels to the bathing chamber adjacent to Lord Ares's armory," Donatos repeated, keeping his voice differential yet confident. "The messenger said they're expecting fresh linens before Lord Ares returns from his campaign in the northern mortal realms."
Kyrillos's mismatched eyes narrowed suspiciously. "No such order came through me."
"It came directly from Phobos," Donatos replied, invoking the name of Ares's son and lieutenant. "He seemed quite insistent. Something about 'blood and viscera' being difficult to remove once dried."
The mention of divine bodily fluids that might stain permanently was enough to override Kyrillos's suspicion. After all, failing to provide clean towels was a far lesser crime than potentially allowing immortal ichor to mar Olympian fixtures.
"Take them and be quick about it," the head servant snapped, stamping Donatos's wooden identification token with the symbol that would grant him temporary access to that wing of the palace. "If you're lying, I'll personally request that Lord Ares use your skin for his next whetstone."
With a bundle of divine towels—woven from sunbeams and cloud-silk—Donatos made his way through increasingly militaristic corridors. The architecture itself grew more aggressive, pillars shaped like spears and doorways resembling the jaws of conquered beasts. The air smelled of iron, ozone, and that peculiar coppery scent that battlefields carried.
He passed several of Ares's attendants who gave him cursory glances before returning to their duties—polishing weapons that wept mortal tears or feeding raw meat to armor that growled with hunger. None questioned his presence; the stamped token was sufficient to avoid immediate execution.
The bathing chamber truly did exist—a space where Ares would wash away the grime of war before presenting himself in Olympus's main halls. Donatos arranged the towels precisely, giving any observers the impression of diligent service.
When alone, he examined the wall separating the chamber from the armory proper. Unlike most divine barriers, this one had a physical weakness—a small ventilation shaft that allowed the heat and fumes from the armory's eternal forges to escape. Too small for any normal infiltrator, but perfect for what he had in mind.
From his waistband, Donatos withdrew another stolen item—a simple children's toy taken from the nursery where divine offspring were sometimes kept. A mechanical mouse created by Hephaestus himself, designed to amuse godlings with its realistic movements.
He'd modified it over several sleepless nights, replacing its enchanted core with one salvaged from a broken message-delivery system in the servants' quarters. The mouse could now follow specific commands—simple ones, but sufficient for his needs.
"Find the red glass vial on the eastern wall," he whispered to the toy. "Third shelf, between the skull helmet and the screaming shield. Return with a single drop. Go."
The mechanical mouse quivered in his palm before leaping into the ventilation shaft, its tiny gears whirring with borrowed divine craftsmanship. Donatos pressed his ear to the wall, straining to track its progress through the sounds of bubbling forges and resonating weapons.
The minutes stretched into a small eternity. Had it been discovered? Crushed by some automated defense? Melted in the heat of divine creation?
Just as he prepared to abandon this part of his plan, a faint scratching came from the ventilation shaft. The mouse emerged, dragging its tail through the dust—a tail now stained crimson with a substance too thick to be mere blood.
The Blood of Atlas, last of the essential ingredients.
With reverent care, Donatos extracted a tiny glass dropper—another healer's tool—and collected the precious substance from the mechanical mouse's tail. The blood moved with ponderous weight, as though even this minute amount contained the burden of holding up the heavens.
A distant horn blared—the signal of Ares's return from battle, far earlier than expected.
"Tartarus take him," Donatos muttered, quickly secreting his prizes and returning the mechanical mouse to his waistband. He gathered the remaining towels and exited with purposeful strides, projecting the confidence of a servant completing assigned duties rather than the furtive movements of a thief.
He passed Ares himself in the corridor—the war god resplendent in armor that shifted between forms of historical and future conflicts, his presence a walking embodiment of violence that made mortal knees buckle involuntarily. Blood of various colors and consistencies dripped from his massive form, sizzling where it touched the floor.
Donatos kept his eyes downcast, his posture submissive, as he pressed himself against the wall to allow the deity to pass. Ares didn't spare him a glance, his thoughts clearly focused on whatever glorious carnage he'd just orchestrated.
"The northern campaign ends!" the god bellowed to no one in particular, his voice causing micro-fractures in the marble walls. "Prepare my trophies for display in the Hall of Conquests!"
Only when the war god had passed did Donatos allow himself to breathe normally again. The glass dropper containing the Titan's blood felt unnaturally heavy in his pocket, as though gravity itself paid special attention to it.
All three divine elements secured. Now to combine them without killing himself in the process.