Griffin and I used to race down this very hall. From the edge of the mosaic inside the main doors, we would sprint all the way to the other end—which, for a pair of seven-year-olds, was a long run. Griffin always won. He loved to run more than I did. I actually hated it, but I loved the competition, the drive to beat him next time. We would collapse in a panting heap at the far end, right in front of the entrance to the Hall of Gods, where the Olympians would be inside making decisions that would alter countless lives without giving those affected a second thought.

As I walk down the hall, following the path of our races, my memory turns bitter in my stomach. I pause for a moment in front of the golden doors, inlaid with onyx and opal to reflect the balance of power within. Balance? That’s a joke. The balance always seems to skew to one side when the gods are involved.

Part of me wants to burst inside, to interrupt the important business of the day and demand they retract their decision about my and Griffin’s parents.

But the gods are childish creatures. Begging them to do something would only resolve them to do the opposite. I don’t know what could be worse, but I’m sure the gods could find some way to increase the sentences.

Before instinct takes over, I turn and head down the side hall toward the main offices of the gods.

Various chambers line either side of this passage: offices for minor deities, meeting rooms, waiting areas. Griffin and I used to love playing hide-and-seek in the palace because there always seemed to be new places to hide. I preferred hiding under desks or behind curtains. I almost always found Griffin in a closet or behind a door. He chose the safer hiding places. One time, I hid beneath the bed in Hera’s chamber—boy, was that terrifying. It’s a miracle I wasn’t scarred for life.

As I make my way through the palace, passing elegant statues of beautiful goddesses, curving vases painted with scenes from Olympic history, and mosaic-walled alcoves, I smile. Walking past one particularly tall vase, I’m snagged by a memory. I used to love trying to find spots Griffin couldn’t reach, even though he had been a few inches taller than me.

This vase was precisely the kind of thing I would try to tackle.

I hesitate, wondering if I should waste precious time on this little sidetrack. But then I shake my head. Other than not wanting to get caught trespassing on Mount Olympus, and Troy probably freaking out back home—which is always good for him—I’m on my own time schedule. Curiosity gets the best of me.