The Great Hall of Olympus put mortal palaces to shame. Columns of cloud-marble stretched toward a ceiling that opened directly to the cosmos, displaying constellations that hadn't been visible from Earth for millennia. The floor shifted beneath one's feet, sometimes solid gold, sometimes transparent crystal revealing the mortal world far below.
Today, it showed a pastoral scene from the Greek countryside, tiny farmers tending crops no larger than ants from this divine perspective.
Donatos took his position along the wall with two dozen other servants, each standing precisely three paces apart, hands clasped behind backs, eyes downcast in the proper pose of invisible servitude. They would remain thus for hours, moving only when summoned by a divine finger-snap or impatient gesture.
The gods arrived for their morning council in typical dramatic fashion—Zeus in a crash of thunder, Poseidon in a spray of sea-foam, Athena with a flutter of owl's wings, Apollo in a blaze of sunlight. Each god a manifestation more ostentatious than the last, a divine competition of entrances that had been going on since the Titans fell.
Donatos kept his gaze lowered but watched through his lashes, cataloging each deity. There was Ares—bloodthirsty and brutish as ever, his armor rippling with reflected screams of the fallen. Beside him, Aphrodite—
His heart clenched at the sight of his mother, her beauty transcending description even after all he'd seen and done. She lounged on her shell-shaped throne, looking simultaneously bored and alert, her fingers idly playing with a strand of perfect hair. Would she sense something familiar in him if their eyes met? Would maternal instinct pierce through the disguise of regression?
He would need to avoid her most carefully of all.
The morning council droned on, discussing matters both cosmic and trivial with equal gravity. A dispute over a particularly devout mortal that both Athena and Demeter wanted to claim. The positioning of stars in a new constellation Apollo was designing to commemorate his latest musical triumph. A petition from a river god requesting more territory.
Donatos stood motionless until his legs ached, then found that particular servant's talent of locking his knees to remain upright while barely conscious. The hours stretched into a blur of divine voices and posturing.
Finally, a finger-snap jolted him to alertness. Hephaestus—the forge god and one of his mother's pursuers—had dropped a scroll and was gesturing impatiently for a servant to retrieve it.
Being closest, Donatos stepped forward, keeping his movements smooth and efficient. He bent to pick up the scroll, extending it to the god with proper deference, careful not to make direct eye contact.
"My thanks," Hephaestus grunted, his voice like grinding stones. For all his divine power, the forge god had simple courtesies that many other deities lacked.
Donatos retreated to his position, heart hammering. His first direct interaction with a god in this timeline—with the deity who, in another life, had crafted the chains that briefly imprisoned him during the final battle. Hephaestus hadn't noticed anything amiss, hadn't sensed the soul of his enemy lurking within the servant's form.
The disguise held. The game continued.
**
The day stretched endlessly, a parade of mundane tasks elevated to cosmic importance by the identities of those being served. After the council, Donatos was assigned to clean Apollo's music room, carefully dusting lyres crafted from tortoise shells and the ribs of legendary monsters, each instrument capable of producing sounds that could drive mortals to ecstasy or madness.
Later, he found himself in the antechamber of Hera's personal quarters, tasked with arranging flowers some delivered from her sacred gardens on Earth.
Each blossom had to be placed according to rigid specifications—white lilies facing east to represent purity, blood-red roses facing west for passion's end, orchids of jealous yellow interspersed throughout like watchful eyes.
"Not those together, fool!" snapped Kleio, one of Hera's personal attendant, slapping Donatos's hand as he placed a narcissus too close to a forget-me-not. "Do you want to invoke the queen's wrath? Those combinations have meanings!"
The language of divine flowers—another detail he'd never bothered to learn in his previous life, too focused on power to notice the subtle ways gods communicated. Now, such minutiae might prove crucial to his survival and ascension.
By midday, he was assigned to the stables where Zeus kept his more exotic mounts—not mere horses but creatures of legend. Griffins with razor beaks and eagle eyes that followed Donatos's every movement. A pegasus of pure white whose wings caused hurricanes when fully extended. A beast with no name that seemed to shift forms when not directly observed.
He mucked stalls filled with excrement that smoked and occasionally burst into flame, requiring special enchanted tools just to handle. One misstep and mortal flesh would dissolve like wax near flame. Throughout, the stable master barked orders, treating the servants with the same gruff disregard he showed the divine beasts.
"Move faster! These creatures defecate quintessence and chaos itself! Let it sit too long and we'll have spontaneous nymphs sprouting in the corners!"
The evening brought a shift to serving duties at the immortal feast—a daily revel that made mortal bacchanals seem like children's tea parties. Donatos was stationed behind Zeus's throne, responsible for keeping the god's goblet filled with nectar of precisely the right temperature and viscosity.
The palace dining hall transformed as night fell, its walls becoming transparent to display a panoramic view of stars and galaxies. The tables, crafted from materials unknown to mortal craftsmen, adjusted their height and shape according to the comfort of whoever sat before them. Food appeared and disappeared in cycles—ambrosia in its thousand forms, rare delicacies from across the mortal realm, exotic substances that defied categorization.
From his position, Donatos observed the divine politics at play—Athena and Poseidon still cool toward each other millennia after their contest for Athens, Hades sitting slightly apart as befitted his underworld domain, Aphrodite expertly balancing attention between her her pursuers Hephaestus and Ares without either seeming neglected.
It was during the third course—right after Apollo's insufferably self-congratulatory poetry recitation—that disaster nearly struck. As Donatos leaned forward to refill Zeus's goblet, the king-god shifted unexpectedly, causing his elbow to bump the servant's arm. Nectar splashed, three precious drops landing on the immaculate white chiton of Zeus's shoulder.
The hall fell silent. Even distant galaxies seemed to hold their breath.
Zeus turned slowly, his expression unreadable, eyes literally crackling with electrical energy. "You," he said, his voice quiet yet carrying the promise of obliteration, "have stained my garment."
Donatos felt the weight of divine attention—the entire pantheon watching to see how the king-god would punish this transgression. In his former life, he would have met that gaze defiantly, power against power. Now, survival demanded submission.
He dropped immediately to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. "Forgive this worthless one, Divine Majesty. I exist only to serve and have failed in my purpose. My life is yours to extinguish for this offense."
The words tasted like poison, but he infused them with the perfect blend of terror and sincerity. A heartbeat passed. Another. The air around them charged with potential destruction.
Then, unexpectedly, Zeus laughed—a booming sound that shook goblets across the hall.
"Such eloquence from a serving boy! Perhaps I should make you my herald instead of cup-bearer." The god waved a negligent hand, and the nectar stain vanished from his garment. "Rise and continue your duties. Your fear amuses me enough to warrant mercy."
Donatos stood shakily, keeping his eyes downcast. "You are most generous, Divine Majesty."
As the feast resumed, he caught Aphrodite watching him with a slight furrow between her perfect brows—the smallest indication of puzzlement or interest. He quickly averted his gaze and busied himself with the nectar pitcher, heart racing.
Had she sensed something? A mother's intuition piercing the veil of time and identity? Or merely a goddess noting an unusually articulate servant?
Either way, he'd drawn attention—exactly what he'd hoped to avoid.
**
The longest day of Donatos's existence—or at least, this existence—finally ended well past midnight. The gods had dispersed to their various chambers and domains, some to sleep (though they needed none), others to pursue divine pastimes incomprehensible to mortal minds.
His final task was preparing Zeus's bedchamber, turning down sheets woven from clouds gathered at the world's edge, lighting incense made from the dreams of faithful worshippers. The king-god would not sleep alone tonight—he never did—but protocol demanded the chamber be readied as though for restful slumber rather than divine conquest.
As Donatos arranged pillows stuffed with phoenix down, the door opened to admit not Zeus but one of Aphrodite's handmaidens—a lesser goddess in her own right, tasked with preparing whichever lucky (or unlucky) mortal or nymph had caught Zeus's eye this evening.
She barely glanced at Donatos as she swept past, arms full of shimmering garments and vials of enchanted perfumes. "You may go," she said dismissively. "The master will not require conventional service tonight."
Donatos bowed and retreated, grateful to escape before witnessing whatever spectacle Zeus had planned.
Divine debauchery was legendary for good reason, and while he'd once participated in his share of immortal revelries, watching the god who had helped destroy him enjoy such pleasures would test his already strained self-control.