“You know what I say to that? Prove it.”

He drew away from the mic, his face awash in the light from the stage.

“Bring the competitor forth!”

There was a disruption, and Persephone watched as the crowd split. Two burly men dragged a satyr between them. He was young and blond, his hair a nest of curls atop his head. His jaw was set, and his chest rose and fell quickly, giving away his fear, but his eyes were narrowed, black, and set upon Apollo with a hatred that Persephone could feel.

“Satyr! Your Hubris will be punished.”

The crowd cheered, and Apollo motioned for the men to bring the young man forward. They shoved him onto the stage, and he stumbled, falling to his knees. Persephone watched as Apollo summoned an instrument from thin air. It looked like a type of flute, and when the satyr saw it, his eyes widened. Clearly, it was important to him.

Apollo tossed it to him, and he caught it against his chest.

“Play it,” the god ordered. “Show us your talents, Marsyas.”

For a moment, the boy seemed even more frightened at hearing his name leave the god’s mouth, and then she watched as he rose to his feet, his expression determined.

Marsyas put the flute to his lips and began to perform. At first, Persephone could barely hear the music he created because the crowd was so unruly. She couldn’t help thinking that they seemed to be under some sort of spell, but slowly, they fell silent. Persephone watched Apollo, noting the way he clenched his fists and the tension in his shoulders. Clearly, he hadn’t expected the satyr to be good.

His music was beautiful—it was sweet, and it swelled, filling the whole room, seeping into pores and twinning with blood. Somehow, it knew exactly how to target each dark emotion, each painful memory, and by the end, Persephone found herself crying.

The crowd was quiet and Persephone couldn’t tell if they were stunned into silence, or if Apollo was preventing them from reacting with his magic, so she started to clap, and slowly, the rest joined in, whistling, cheering, and chanting the satyr’s name. Apollo’s face reddened and he gazed menacingly at Persephone and the young man before summoning his own instrument, a lyre.

As he strummed, a pretty tune emerged, and each note seemed to carry longer than the last. It was a strange and ethereal sound, one that didn’t calm, but commanded attention. Persephone felt as if she were on the edge of her seat, and she couldn’t figure out why. Was she fearful of Apollo? Or was she waiting for the music to transform into something more?

When he ended, the crowd erupted into applause.

Persephone felt like an invisible hand had clasped her heart and just released it. She sagged into her chair, taking deep breaths.