CHAPTER ONE

THE MEADOW//

Persephone gazed into the field of flowers, the wind rustling the tall stems back and forth languidly like an ocean pulling at its shore. The sky was clear and bright blue, the sun hanging at its peak before starting its descent into the horizon. Birds swooped in the air, their chirps a sweet melody. It was a perfect summer day.

Just like every other day.

She bent down and stroked her finger against a yellow buttercup nestled deep under the throng of flowers. Remnants of morning dew still clung to the curve of the petals, dripping down into the grass like golden honey. She rubbed the moisture between her fingers and then pressed them against her cheek. She hummed pleasantly at the feeling of the cool dew against her skin. Persephone stood there for a long while and watched the sun dry her skin once again.

She missed the cold bite of the water against her skin. Throwing a glance to the bright sky, Persephone thought. She thought of clouds rimmed with black ash, swallowing the sun up and snaking across the heavens in inky tendrils. She thought of clouds showering the earth with her bitter rage in icy torrents until the earth could soak up no more and drowned every last buttercup.

She felt a drop. Then another.

The rain came down faster and faster, the ground soaking it up greedily, and Persephone wondered how long it had been starved in this land of eternal summer.

The clouds that had gathered were not as dark as Persephone had imagined when she conjured the rain, but still blocked the sun's rays with a sheet of greyness.

She was drenched. The rain fell in one continuous cascade and Persephone tilted her head back, welcoming the drops to splash against her cheeks, her nose, her lips. She wanted to drink it all in.

Reaching out a cupped hand to catch the drops, a bird landed onto her palm, its claws digging crevices into her skin. Its feathers were simultaneously ruffled and matted, the pristine white colour almost silver in the rain. It cocked its head, beady eyes staring at her before releasing the vice grip on her hand and flapping off, sending a spray of water behind it. Persephone stared as it interwove between sheets of rain until it too was only a drop of grey in the distance, a giddy feeling bubbling in her chest.

Hair slicked to her face, Persephone laughed a warm tinkling sound that pulled green stalks out of the dirt, growing into a patch of blood-red roses. The red fascinated her, she had never seen a colour so rich, so deep, painted on the petals of flowers. Reaching out a finger and skimming it against the top of petals like she was coaxing music out of a wine glass, Persephone marvelled at the full bloom sitting on the stems coated with thorns. They wore them proudly. It spoke of beauty and power and everything in between.

She wanted to touch them. Curling her hand around the stem, she squeezed, feeling the thorns tear through her deathless skin and the slickness of the ichor dripping down her fingertips. Like golden honey.

A sudden wildness filled her, and Persephone grabbed the roses with both hands and yanked. She pulled out each flower, the roots trailing along with the soil as she discarded them one by one, her blood painting the roses with immortal fervour.

A pile of uprooted roses lay in from of her. Her hands, healed but still stained golden, dangled at her side. The rain slowed then ceased. The wilted flowers pulled themselves off the ground and unfurled their petals. Rays of sun peeked out from the clouds.

She stood motionless, staring at the dead roses until her hair unstuck from her face and her dress was no longer damp against her skin. No matter how many storms she would conjure up, they would not last. They never did, no in her mother's meadows. Not in this cage gilded with colourful blooms.

She finally turned from the mess she had made and wiped her hands clean on her dress. Her mother would be back soon.

As she walked away, Persephone cast one last look at the meadow, with its picturesque blooms and green grass, all traces of the storm gone. Maybe the rage that had rained down would be uptick by the roots and bloom into those red roses with jagged thorns.

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"What is this?"

Demeter lay a single rose on the table, petals dipped in gold and roots trailing dirt onto the engraved wooden surface.

Persephone didn't shift from the settee. She merely lifted her head up, chin jutted out with the same tilt that mortals carved in cold marble. "It's a flower, mother."

Demeter's smile was stuffed with thorns. "It is. I don't recall seeing this particular flower in the meadow before." Her smile widened. Persephone wanted to rip out those thorns from her mouth one by one.

But instead, she lifted a hand and waved flippantly. "The meadow is filled with many different kinds of flowers, mother. Maybe these particular ones were hiding from you." She arched an eyebrow, challenge clear in her eyes. Persephone was once the doting daughter, laying herself at her mother's feet and offering herself up for sacrifice. But her mother had too many times willingly taken the knife and slit Persephone's throat, dangling her daughter in front of the gods like a delectable piece of meat. Persephone was tired of being a pet to her mother, of being a puppet for her own self-gain.

The smile on her mother's face had settled into a thoughtful façade, but the knife edge press of her lips threatened to slash out and cut the defiance out of Persephone's eyes. Instead, Demeter just sighed and picked up the rose, fingers carefully manoeuvring around the thorns.

"Quite an exquisite colour, isn't it?" She touched a petal, brushing over the darkened veins and tracing the outline where the gold met red. Persephone suppressed the urge to yank the flower out of her mother's tainted hands. Those roses were watered with her fury and baptized with her ichor; they were hers.

"And such an interesting pairing, isn't it? Gold and red." Demeter continued. She brought the rose up close to her face, examining the metallic coating. Her hazel eyes glowed with fascination.

Persephone said nothing. For all her pent-up anger, she couldn't manifest it in front of her mother. Her lashing words always choked in her throat and she would always bow her head in submission, only for more bitterness to seep in her gut. She would not give her mother the satisfaction of seeing her embarrassed and defeated. So, Persephone remained silent like a good daughter, but her eyes were chipped jewels.

Her mother twirled the rose between her fingers. Seemingly vexed by Persephone's lack of response, she pursed her lips. "But unfortunately, red is also the colour of war. Quite unsuitable for an innocent girl like you. Men spill blood for your affection, dear. It would be unfitting for you to get splashed in the process."

She stopped spinning the rose between her fingers and examined it again before plucking a petal from the bloom. Persephone watched it shrivel up like papyrus caught in the flames of a pyre as it drifted down. Soon the table was covered in rose petals, all crumpled and blackened, the gold now a burnished bronze.

Demeter placed the stem on top of the pile. The sight made Persephone's heart stutter. The blossom severed from its body, the thorns now useless and skeletal. What good was beauty without power?

With a wave of Demeter's hand, the remnants of the deconstructed rose vanished. She brought the same hand up to Persephone's cheek and she fought to stifle a shudder. "Roses are unsuitable for my daughter. Regardless of how they appeared, there will no longer be a speck of red hiding between the stalks of my blossoms." The dark underlying threat was laced between the words. She lowered her arm and smoothed the skirt of her dress, then gestured at Persephone's own dress still stained with golden ichor.

"Now change out of that filthy dress, dear." A flash of black ire passed in Demeter's eyes before returning to their normal hazel irises. She headed for the door, then paused. "Ares is visiting later. You'd better look pretty for him."

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