Most were formed in the image of gods and humans, but some were curious indeed, with wings like bats, or a crown of snakes instead of hair. Persephone recognized no one—none save her bride, whom she detested most in all the world.

Hades waited at the furthermost end of the Great Hall, standing beside an altar. She wore a chiton of pure white, held fast against her body by crisscrossing ties encrusted with sapphires. Her black hair was held back by a myrtle wreath made of gold, matching a single chain that adorned her throat.

Her eyes were fixed on Persephone, but Persephone could not watch her as she approached. Instead, she looked past Hades. Standing beside her was a tall god, broad-shouldered, with a pair of great, feathery wings at his back.

Persephone walked slowly, as a mortal walking to her gallows, but soon enough she was at Hades’ side. An unseen musician ceased strumming their lyre, though she had not noticed the music until it had stopped.

“Friends and family, we are gathered here today to witness my marriage to the beautiful Persephone, daughter of Zeus and Demeter,” Hades said.

Persephone was astonished when the crowd cheered, as if they were attending a comedy and not a solemn act of matrimony. Someone even called out, “It’s about time!” to which Hades only laughed, instead of striking down the person who’d dared speak, as Ares might have done.

“Yes, you have all been very patient, but the wait is over! Now, you shall have another queen truly worthy of your devotion.”

The crowd roared with approval, and Persephone’s stomach fell. Did no one see her for what she was—a captive and not a willing participant in all of this merrymaking? She looked at those around her, trying to meet their eyes, but no one seemed to see the despair she felt.

“As my wedding gift to the mortals, though they may not know it, while Thanatos is present with us here, no one born of woman will join our ranks tonight,” Hades said. She gestured to the god standing behind her as she spoke, and Persephone recognized him now for what he was—the personification of death, though he looked hale as anyone. He had a pleasant though utterly forgettable face, but when he looked at Persephone, she thought perhaps he might understand her plight.

“Help me,” she mouthed from beneath her veil, but his placid expression did not change. She would find no mercy there.

“May I have your hand?” Hades asked.

With all eyes upon her, Persephone did as she was bidden. Hades turned her palm upward, then released her, turning her own hand the same way. Before Persephone could cry out, Thanatos took a blade and sliced both their palms in a diagonal line, starting between the thumb and forefinger and angling down toward the wrist.