#underworld's princess

The biident hummed softly, its two sharp prongs gleaming like tempered silver, the floating pomegranate seed in the center pulsing with a dim glow. When she raised her arms, spectral vines trailed along the shaft, shifting between the richness of blooming flowers and the brittle edges of decay.

The sound of lost souls groaning filled the clearing, their voices colliding against the wind, grasping for something unseen.

Her grip tightened.

Faster.

She swept the staff in practiced movements, violet fire blooming against the dark.

Then—she slammed it into the ground.

A rush of power roared outward, the spirits screaming, twisting, pulled by unseen forces, before the wind howled through the clearing, forcing them beneath the earth—returning them to the river where they belonged.

Silence followed.

Then—

"You seem to be struggling to keep yourself balanced."

Selene whirled, shifting into a defensive stance, fingers twitching toward her weapon.

The voice was familiar, sharp-edged but calm.

Artemis.

Selene exhaled sharply, her body relaxing just slightly, though irritation still flickered beneath her skin.

"How did you find me?"

Artemis raised a brow, arms crossing over her chest.

"You’re asking me that question?"

Selene rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

"If you found me, I have no doubt you’ll tell Zeus." She powered down, letting the energy fade from her fingertips, though the cold presence of Illiara remained, lingering beneath her ribs. "Not to mention, if you can find me, so can the others."

Artemis hesitated.

A rare crack in her confidence.

"Not exactly."

Selene narrowed her eyes.

"What does that mean?"

The goddess exhaled, lifting a hand to smooth down her hair, the movement calculated, careful.

"Your father has made it difficult for people to find you, Illiara."

Selene stilled, a slow, simmering anger crawling up her spine.

"That is not my name."

The words came out low, sharp, cutting through the stillness like a blade.

"Illiara is locked away. I am Selene. So get it right."

Artemis stared at her for a long moment.

Then—her expression shifted, something unreadable passing across her face.

"Don’t make me angry, young one."

Selene’s lips curled into a mocking smirk, though the weight of her exhaustion pressed against her limbs.

"Back at you, prude."

Artemis stiffened, eyes flashing, but instead of snapping like Selene expected, she sighed, closing her eyes.

"I did not come to fight."

Her voice was softer now, not pleading, but firm.

"I am on your side, Selene. All I want is for you to find balance, to heal, and to be one."

Selene’s jaw tensed, her pulse thrumming beneath her skin.

"It would’ve been better if you finished Zeus off."

The words came bitter, tangled in resentment she had carried for too long.

"He is not a father, Artemis. He is, at best, an egotistical sperm donor."

She exhaled, shoving her fingers through her hair, shaking her head.

Artemis studied her carefully, arms folded, gaze sharp.

"The skills I’ve taught you don’t seem to be going to waste."

Selene let out a quiet huff, adjusting her jacket, the energy from guiding the souls still tingling beneath her skin.

"Between Athena’s lessons and your training, you should know I don’t do anything halfway."

Artemis’ lips curled just slightly, a flicker of something like approval, but it didn’t last.

"Yet your stance is off." She gestured toward Selene’s grip, eyes narrowing. "You hesitate when you channel energy. It’s not refined—it flickers."

Selene rolled her shoulders, ignoring the tight coil of fatigue settling between them.

"And what do you suggest?"

Artemis took a slow step forward, gaze unwavering.

"You cannot fight fate like you fight an opponent, Selene. You can train endlessly, sharpen your skills—but prophecy does not care for precision."

Selene’s jaw tensed.

Because she wasn’t just fighting fate.

She was fighting herself.

Artemis saw it.

And she didn’t let it go.

Her voice softened—just slightly. “You fear yourself more than you fear him.”

Selene’s breath hitched, but she forced herself to scoff, shaking her head like the words held no weight.

“I don’t fear anything.”

Artemis didn’t argue. She only watched her, gaze unrelenting.

“You’re lying.”

The words were quiet. Knowing.

Lightning struck the earth ahead of her, splitting the night apart, illuminating the clearing with unnatural brilliance.

The force kicked up dirt, shattered rock, sending shockwaves rippling beneath her feet.

Zeus had found her.

A frustrated growl ripped from her throat as she felt her power surge unwillingly, instinct pulling at her bones.

Her mortal form wavered, flickering like a dying ember.

Then—she was in her goddess robes.

But they were wrong.

The midnight-black fabric that once shone like the cosmos was dull, its vibrance muted, resisting its place upon her body.

Her hair, usually fluid strands of celestial night, flickered like unstable fire, shifting between her mortal self and something greater.

Not mortal. Not goddess. Something in between.

Lightning cracked again—this time, striking the ground directly in front of her.

When the dust cleared—

The Manticore emerged, massive and coiled with wild storm energy, its fur woven with electricity, tail curling with deadly static, its eyes blazing with Zeus’ fury.

Selene tightened her grip, her staff pulsing in her grasp—the two-pronged trident humming with latent energy, its center holding a floating pomegranate seed, glowing faintly with an unearthly shimmer.

The weapon itself felt alive, shifting between lush silver vines curling along its shaft and the blackened cracks of decay, mirroring the battle between her mortal restraint and divine inevitability.

Then—Illiara’s voice sliced through her mind.

‘If you let me go, I can be more useful.’

Selene stiffened, jaw clenching.

Not now.

‘Come on. Admit it. You’re weak without me, Selene. If you keep me captive, it will only make me stronger in the end.’

Her pulse hammered, her vision wavered—Illiara’s influence coiling like a snake, waiting.

The Manticore lunged, its tail whipping forward with a crack like thunder, lightning sparking across its path.

Selene barely dodged, her movement faster than mortal—but clumsy, unrefined.

Illiara laughed.

A sharp, knowing sound inside her mind.

Artemis moved first.

A blur of celestial power.

Golden arrows whistled through the air, striking the beast’s flank, their glow illuminating the battlefield—but it did not fall.

It merely turned.

And roared.

Artemis landed beside Selene, bow already drawn, gaze locked onto her.

“You’re unstable.”

Selene grit her teeth, stepping forward, ignoring the way her fingers trembled with unchecked energy.

“I can handle this.”

Illiara’s voice slithered in again.

‘Then prove it.’

Selene lunged.

Her movement shifted—her mortal stance blending into something sharper, faster, her robes crackling with violet embers, her body pulsing in flickers between human and divine.

She was not Illiara.

But she was learning.

The floating pomegranate flared, absorbing the electricity coursing through the air, making the staff hum with unstable force.

The Manticore swung its tail toward her, aiming for a devastating strike—but Selene caught it mid-whip, twisting her body and slamming the prongs of her staff into the ground.

The weapon absorbed the lightning.

Redirected it.

With a deafening roar, the force exploded outward, turning the battlefield into a storm of raw, violet energy, sending shockwaves crashing through the trees.

The Manticore shrieked, its body splitting apart in a burst of electricity, its remains sinking into the earth, buried beneath the force of Selene’s raw defiance.

Silence followed.

Artemis stared at her, eyes sharp.

“You’re fighting more than just him, aren’t you?”

Selene exhaled, gripping her staff.

The answer hung in the air, unspoken.

She wasn’t just fighting Zeus.

She was fighting herself.

Lightning crackled violently across the clearing, splitting apart the night. The storm’s glow flickered against Selene’s robes, still dull, fractured, resisting their place upon her body.

Her breath was uneven, heart pounding from more than just exertion.

The Manticore’s remains sizzled where they had sunk into the earth, Zeus’ unnatural lightning still sparking faintly through the cracks in the soil.

Selene exhaled sharply, forcing herself back to ‘normal.’

The air shimmered around her before settling, her stance steadying—not because she was fine, but because she refused to acknowledge the alternative.

Adjusting her jacket, she brushed her hair back, huffing.

Artemis didn’t move.

She stood still, watching Selene too carefully, as if waiting for the realization to finally settle over her.

Then—her voice was low, measured.

“This was a warning.”

Selene scoffed.

“Obviously.”

Artemis didn’t flinch.

“Zeus is testing you. He doesn’t throw beasts like that unless he wants something more than blood.”

Selene rolled her shoulders, forcing herself to keep her posture steady despite the tight coil of exhaustion settling in her muscles.

“Let him try.”

Artemis let out a slow breath, as if debating whether to press further—as if she had a thousand things she could say, could warn Selene against, but already knew she wouldn’t listen.

So instead, she said simply—“He won’t stop.”

Selene’s lips curled into something close to a smirk, but sharper, layered with frustration deeper than just this moment.

"Would it really kill him to stay out of other people’s business?"

Artemis said nothing.

So Selene kept going, her voice steady but laced with fire.

"My father is the oldest of the gods, and you don’t see him crying about it. He balanced the Underworld better than Zeus controls the skies."

She shook her head, running her fingers through her hair, exhaling sharply.

"He embraced what he was, and he built something better—something that worked. Meanwhile, Zeus is out here throwing lightning at things whenever he feels threatened, as if destroying the world around him makes him stronger."

Her hands tightened at her sides.

"I refuse to be part of that legacy. And I refuse to let him dictate what happens to me."

Silence followed, heavy with something unspoken but understood.

Artemis didn’t argue.

She only watched.

Selene looked away first.

Then—without another word—she turned toward her car, slipped into the driver’s seat, and let the engine roar to life beneath her hands.

She would find another monster.

Another hunt.

Another fight to drown out the battle that raged within herself

The road stretched endlessly before them, the hum of the Impala’s tires blending into the familiar silence of a drive that should’ve been routine—but wasn’t. Sam shifted his gaze toward Dean, his brother’s grip tight on the wheel, fingers flexing every few moments as if trying to shake off some unseen weight.

The nightmare was still clinging to him.

This wasn’t unusual—Dean had plenty of bad dreams. But this time?

Sam couldn’t ignore it.

Every few hours, Dean had muttered about her. Asked for a name he couldn’t quite place. The huntress they called Revenant. And Sam knew—if Bobby were still alive, he would’ve had an answer. Maybe even a lead. Hell, even their Bobby’s counterpart from the Apocalypse world might have had something, some scrap of history that connected to this mystery.

But no luck.

No Bobby. No answers.

Just Dean, still trapped in the haze of a nightmare Sam didn’t understand, and a mission that required breaking into a monument guarded by more cameras than most museums.

Sam exhaled, shifting in his seat.

“Once we get to the Parthenon, security might be tight. We should have a game plan.”

Dean huffed, barely sparing him a glance. “Get in. Find the statue. Get the spell. Leave.”

Sam frowned. “That’s not a plan, that’s a bad idea.”

Dean gave a slow shrug. “Works for me.”

The tension between them lingered, but neither pushed further—not yet.

Outside, the Parthenon loomed on the horizon, a replica of a temple built for gods neither of them could afford to trust. The Impala rolled to a smooth stop near the edge of the park, just shy of the entrance to the monument. Dean killed the engine, letting the silence settle between them.

The Parthenon replica stood ahead, a towering presence against the skyline—too pristine for a structure meant to honor gods with a penchant for chaos.

Sam scanned the area. "Security’s tight. Cameras on the east wing, main doors look monitored, and I’m guessing they have staff patrolling inside."

Dean exhaled, pushing open his door. "Then we don’t get caught."

Simple plan. Terrible odds. But that never stopped them.

Sam sighed, following as Dean crossed the lot, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture casual but alert. They approached the entrance like tourists—taking in the massive columns, the intricate reliefs along the outer walls, blending into the slow-moving crowds filtering inside.

Sam muttered low enough for only Dean to hear. "Once we’re past the atrium, you’ll need to split off. Blend in, stall near the exhibits until I signal."

Dean smirked. "Stall? What do you think I’m gonna do, give an impromptu lecture on ancient Greece?"

Sam shot him a look. "Honestly? Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve done."

Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Inside, the air carried the faint scent of polished marble, a quiet hum of hushed voices echoing beneath the high ceilings. Dean slipped past a few groups, instinct guiding his steps, until he settled near a tour gathering near the exhibits.

His attention drifted.

A tapestry hung along the far wall, rich in color despite its age, the woven threads capturing a goddess unlike any he’d seen before. Violet hair cascaded down her shoulders, flowing like midnight mist, her robes deep, endless, a swirling darkness threaded with silver—like the cosmos itself had bled into the fabric.

And then—her eyes.

Amethyst. Bright. Watching.

Dean stilled, something uneasy curling in his gut.

Why did she feel familiar?

The curator’s voice echoed across the exhibit, drawing his focus back to the group.

"This tapestry is on loan from the Greek National History Museum," they explained, pausing just long enough for the crowd to absorb the image.

Dean barely listened—until the curator continued.

"The Unknown Goddess," they said with a measured tone, as though the title itself carried weight. "A figure of mystery. Some scholars speculate she may be another daughter of Hades and Persephone. Much like Melinoe and Macaria, whose myths are well-documented, this one remains an enigma."

Dean scoffed under his breath.

“Great. So we’ve got a mythological Wednesday Addams just hanging out in ancient Greek art?”

He muttered it low enough not to draw attention, but Sam caught it, shooting him a side glance.

Dean ignored it.

The curator gestured toward the intricate details of the fabric.

"This tapestry was discovered near the rumored entrance to the Underworld in Greece—by the sacred area of the Acheron River in Ephyra."

Dean frowned.

A place tied to death. To passage. To things that were never meant to be unearthed.

And yet—here they were.

Sam followed the group, keeping his movements measured, blending into the slow shuffle of tourists as they admired the towering architecture. He wasn’t admiring anything.

He was scanning.

So far, security seemed light—a few staff positioned at entry points, camera placements more focused on artifact preservation than visitor monitoring. Until they entered the Hall of Statues.

The shift was immediate.

Here, security tightened—guards stationed near the pillars, their postures not just formal, but watchful. Sam’s gaze swept over the statues—massive, towering tributes to the Olympians, each figure frozen in divine arrogance, carved with centuries of reverence woven into stone.

Then—his eyes caught on one in particular.

A woman.

Her stance was commanding, the weight of her carved armor resting perfectly balanced against the folds of her robes, the iconic warrior’s helmet shadowing half her face. But it was the owl that stood out. Perched on her shoulder, its stone-cut wings half raised, as if it had been caught mid-movement.

Athena.

Sam narrowed his eyes, shifting slightly to take in the details of the carving. Something about her felt different. The quiet hum of conversation faded into the background. His breathing slowed. He barely noticed how his fingers twitched at his sides, how the world around him had faded into static silence.

Then—

"Hey, you okay there, Sammy?"

Dean’s voice snapped him out of it, the unusual trance shattering as quickly as it had settled over him. Sam blinked, shaking his head slightly, the weight in his chest easing just enough for him to breathe normally again.

Dean raised a brow, amusement creeping into his expression. "Don’t tell me you have the hots for a statue. That’s what happens when you go through a dry spell."

Sam let out a sharp breath, rolling his eyes.

"Says the man who was staring at a tapestry."

Dean scoffed but didn’t argue.

Still—Sam could feel it.

Something about Athena was watching him. The weight of Athena’s stare still lingered in Sam’s mind, but as he took a careful step closer, something else caught his attention. The base of her statue—weathered, ancient—had what appeared to be a faint engraving, barely visible beneath centuries of erosion.

He knelt slightly, brushing his fingers along the stone.

At first, it felt like just worn edges, another detail lost to time.

But then—

The markings shifted in the light, shadows carving themselves into something more defined.

Letters.

Greek.

Sam’s heart kicked up a beat as he leaned in closer, quickly scanning the inscription. The words were faded, some incomplete, but enough remained intact for him to piece together the meaning. A location. Not here. Somewhere deeper. Somewhere below.

The scroll wasn’t in the Hall of Statues—this was only the marker. The real spell was waiting somewhere beneath the monument itself. Athena had known exactly how to bury a secret. Sam exhaled sharply, straightening, just as Dean’s voice cut in behind him.

"You find something, Professor Indiana?"

Sam didn’t look up immediately.

But he did smirk.

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Underworld's Princess

Heavy footsteps echoed as their captors approached.

“Pathetic hunters,” one of them sneered, his bald head covered in Greek-letter tattoos. His leather vest bore the name Minos—a title Dean didn’t like the look of.

The man crouched in front of him, tilting his head like a wolf considering its meal.

“I know you,” he chuckled. “The great Dean Winchester. Green eyes. Short hair. Smug, ugly face.”

Dean scoffed, narrowing his gaze.

“Who you callin’ ugly?” he shot back. “Last time I checked a mirror, I didn’t look like my mother had a thing for bulls.”

Minos’s grin faltered. A split second later, his fist connected with Dean’s jaw.

Dean exhaled sharply, shaking off the pain. “Touched a nerve, huh?”

Minos sneered. “We were hoping to catch a runaway Goddess. Instead, we catch a pair of hunters.”

Dean spat blood onto the floor. “Disappointing for both of us, buddy.”

“These ropes,” Minos continued, ignoring him, “are forged by Hephaestus—strong enough to bind a god.”

“Really?” Dean huffed. “That’s cute. You guys gonna sacrifice us along with the five others you kidnapped?”

Minos let out a haughty laugh. “You’re a joker. No—those humans are for us. We just need two more virgins to complete the ritual.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s definitely not us.”

Minos smirked. “Which is why you two are just for the killing. After all, Zeus has had a bounty on your heads for some time.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah? Well, Zeus is dead.”

Minos tilted his head, unimpressed. “You saw Artemis shoot him in a non-lethal place. Did you really think you could turn his favorite daughter against him? She had to be punished for allowing Prometheus to escape his fate—but she is still loyal.”

Sam focused on the bindings around his wrists. “You said these ropes are meant to capture a god? Why would you need one?”

Minos chuckled, shaking his head. “I suppose you wouldn’t know what’s happening in the realm of the gods.” He shot them a mocking glance. “Vessels of the Archangels. I would’ve expected more intelligence.”

Dean exhaled, unconcerned. “We’ve been busy.” He rolled his shoulders, testing the ropes again. “We don’t mess with your kind unless you mess with ours—and face it, pal, you have been messing with ours.”

Minos considered that, then sighed. “All you need to know is that Zeus has a bounty for the daughter of his brother Hades—the Goddess Illiara.” His lips curled. “You won’t live long enough to see us capture her.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “And what if we help?”

“Dean,” Sam warned.

“What?” Dean shot him a look. “These guys are monsters—and so are the gods that created them.”

Minos exhaled. “Spoken like a true hunter.” He leaned closer, gaze sharp. “We don’t need your help. We can catch the broken goddess just fine.”

Sam worked at his bindings, growing more impatient. “Dean, we’re here to rescue the kidnapped people and leave. That’s it.”

Dean watched as Minos strode toward the prisoners—eyes burning, calculating. A few of the girls screamed, thrashing against their restraints.

Dean clenched his jaw.

“Look, whatever’s happening—it’s spilling into our world,” he reasoned. “So we make it our business and stop whatever’s coming.” His voice dropped. “They called her broken, Sam. That means she’s not all that powerful.”

“If it’s Zeus that’s after her,” Sam scoffed, shaking his head. “It might mean she’s too powerful.”

Dean didn’t answer.

The thought weighed on him, heavy and unwelcome. Another dangerous supernatural force out in the world, wrapped up in godly politics? After everything—the alternate universe, the freaking apocalypse—why couldn’t fate give them a damn break? Or at least hand them a simple hunt for once.

Dean was so caught up in his frustration that he didn’t immediately notice—

His ropes had loosened.

A sharp inhale.

Familiar eyes stared back at him—ones he’d only seen in fragments, in dreams.

Before he could speak, a hand clamped over his mouth.

“Shh!” they hissed. “Don’t need the monsters catching on.”

Dean stiffened, narrowing his gaze.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he muttered against their grip.

Selene leaned closer, brow raised. “Doing my job, jackass.”

She gestured to the bindings. “Untie your boyfriend and get out of here.”

Dean scowled. “Brother. He’s my brother.”

Selene smirked. “Yeah, okay.”

Dean didn’t have time to retort before she was already moving, twirling a bronze sword with deadly precision.

She slipped behind a towering Minotaur—quick, fluid—then sliced clean through its neck, sending the creature crumbling. A second beast lunged. Selene twisted, narrowly avoiding the strike, shifting her weight just enough to let the blade glide across the creature’s chest. A third Minotaur surged forward, massive hooves slamming against the floor as it swung a brutal axe downward— Selene dodged, rolling beneath the strike, then spun to her feet, parrying the next attack with a sharp clang.

“Dean!” Sam hissed, snapping him back to reality.

Dean shook himself free of the moment and quickly cut his bindings, ignoring the strange flicker of admiration settling in his chest. Meanwhile, Sam sprang into motion, cutting through the restraints of the kidnapped girls and urging them toward the exit.

“Go—now!” Sam ordered, voice firm but controlled.

Selene barely seemed aware they had joined the fight until Dean abruptly snatched the sword from her grip mid-spin.

“Hey!” She snapped. “Give that back! I doubt you even know how to use it.”

Dean barely registered the surge of power running through the blade before swinging it, clashing against a Minotaur’s club.

The impact rattled through his arms, but he held firm—shifting into position before twisting his wrist, forcing the beast off balance.

Then, with a quick upward arc, he sliced clean through its throat.

He smirked. “Trust me, sweetheart. I know how to handle a sword.”

Selene scoffed, reaching for her crossbow while another Minotaur charged toward her.

Dean pivoted, swinging his blade in a tight crescent arc, catching the monster across the shoulder—just enough force to knock it into Selene’s line of fire.

She didn’t hesitate.

The bolt hit true, embedding deep into the beast’s heart before it collapsed.

“Can you two stop flirting and focus on getting out of here?” Sam interrupted, exasperation thick in his voice.

Dean and Selene whipped around simultaneously.

“We are NOT flirting!”

The glare they exchanged lasted only a second before they both broke into a sprint, charging toward the exit.

Behind them, Minos snarled.

“Illiara!” He thundered, voice barely loud enough for her to hear—but not for the Winchesters. “You will PAY for this!”

Selene stiffened.

Her jaw clenched.

She grabbed her crossbow, setting her aim without hesitation.

“I don’t think so.”

The bolt flew true, piercing Minos directly through the heart.

Dean and Sam turned just in time to watch the Minotaur turn to stone—then crumble into dust.

The brothers exchanged a glance, silently turning over what the hell just happened.

"We should go," Illiara murmured, voice curling through Selene’s thoughts. "I’m sure one of them alerted one of the gods. Probably Poseidon."

Selene inhaled deeply, steadying herself, then turned on her heel toward her Camaro. Behind her, the Winchesters trailed her, lingering just close enough to demand answers. She ignored them. For now.

Dean was the first to break the silence. “Are you going to tell us what the hell that was back there?”

Selene exhaled sharply. “I killed the monster, didn’t I?” She threw him a glance, her voice tired rather than biting. “Why do you care?”

Dean motioned toward the now-empty warehouse. “I care because those guys were hunting a goddess named Illiara.” His voice edged with frustration. “We could’ve captured one, gotten answers.”

Selene pinched the bridge of her nose, barely keeping her composure. “I’m talking from experience—stay out of the gods' affairs.”

“Hard to do when they’re kidnapping innocent people for their own amusement.” Dean’s tone sharpened. “You’re a hunter. You should know better.”

Selene let out a quiet, bitter laugh—but there was no real amusement in it.

She shoved her weapons into their compartment, barely sparing him a glance. Then, with deliberate ease, she strode up to Dean and took the sword from his grasp.

“Funny how I was the one who saved your ass in there.” Her voice was light, mocking, but her eyes weren’t. “You got captured—not me.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “You are the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met!”

“Likewise.”

He stepped in closer—toe to toe, towering over her.

“At least hunters have each other’s backs,” he growled. “We don’t go around playing lone wolf while people die.”

Selene’s shoulders tensed, the words hitting something raw.

Dean didn’t know her.

Didn’t know the years spent running. The battle against Zeus. The things she lost along the way—the things she gave up just to survive.

He didn’t know what it cost her.

Her jaw tightened.

“You care about people, huh?” She gave him a slow nod, voice sharper now, cutting. “So you were okay sacrificing yourself for a brother who drank demon blood?”

Dean’s expression darkened.

“Or when you went into Purgatory during Heaven’s war? Unleashed the Leviathans?”

Her words cut, sharp and deliberate.

“I care more than you do, Winchester.”

Dean exhaled sharply, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

Selene wasn’t done.

“But I don’t let people know me—because if they did, I’d be hunted down just like—” She poked his chest.

“You.”

Dean’s hands flexed at his sides.

“So if this goddess—Illiara—starts killing people, you’re just gonna sit back because it’s not your problem?” His voice rose.

Selene’s lips parted.

And then, something twisted inside her—a weight pressing too deep, too sharp.

It took every ounce of control not to let the sting show on her face.

She had spent years proving she wasn’t a monster.

And yet—without knowing her, without understanding a damn thing about what she’s been through—Dean Winchester looked at her like she was one anyway.

Her breath hitched.

She forced herself to scoff—forced herself to smile, even though something in her chest hurt.

“Wow.”

Her voice was lighter now—mocking, covering the wound.

“You label her a monster without even asking why she’s running.”

Dean bristled.

“You’re either with us or against us,” he snapped, motioning between himself and Sam. “If you’re against us, then you’re no better than the monsters we fight.”

Selene felt it—the coldness in his voice, the way he dismissed her, shoved her into the category of things that needed to be dealt with.

And yet—

Her stupid, traitorous body still felt the pull. Dean’s anger, his fire—it was familiar. It reminded her of her own rage—her own fight to survive. But she refused to let that pull win.

She forced herself to smirk—but there was no humor in it.

“And what does that make you?”

She stepped closer.

“The vessel for Michael? The man who carried the Mark of Cain? The hunter who tortured souls in Hell?”

Her breath was warm against his skin, dangerously close.

Dean didn’t move.

“If I’m a monster for protecting someone innocent…” Her voice lowered, nearly a whisper now.

“…then what does that make you?”

The air between them crackled, charged with something neither could name.

Chest to chest, eyes locked, breath shallow.

There was something about this stand-off—something in the way Selene challenged him, in the way her gaze burned, making his heart stammer for just a second too long.

Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted to shove her away or pull her closer.

Selene exhaled.

“Stay out of my way,” she murmured, voice steadier now. “And I’ll stay out of yours.”

Dean exhaled sharply.

“Gladly.”

But as he took a step back, every muscle in his body screamed at him to close the distance.

Instead, he turned away.

“Let’s go, Sammy. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sam, ever the spectator, sighed dramatically as he followed.

Dean shoved the Impala’s door open hard, muttering under his breath as he climbed inside.

“Bitchy, know-it-all prude,” he grumbled, gripping the wheel tight as he started the engine.

Selene yanked her Camaro’s door open with equal force, glaring at him as she threw herself into the driver’s seat.

“No-good, piece-of-shit, asshole, man-whore,” she huffed, shutting the door louder than necessary.

Dean exhaled sharply, twisting the key in the ignition with a little too much force.

Selene started her own car—then, as if remembering something, rolled down her window just enough to stick her tongue out at him.

Dean caught the movement.

His glare narrowed for half a second.

Then, without hesitation, he flipped her off in return.

Sam, watching from the passenger seat, sighed dramatically.

“Does this mean you don’t want to sleep with her anymore?”

Dean snapped his head toward him with a glare that could flatten mountains.

Meanwhile, Illiara sighed in Selene’s mind, voice smooth with amusement.

‘Wow,’ she mused. ‘Your mouth says you hate him, but your heart and body? Oh, they want him.’

Selene gritted her teeth.

“Shut up.”

She put the car in gear and sped down the road, her grip too tight on the wheel.

Dean, just behind her, drove with just as much force, his jaw tight, his pulse annoyingly rapid.

Neither of them looked back.

But the pull between them?

It wasn’t going anywhere.

In the shadows of the warehouse—now slick with Minotaur blood—the messenger of the gods let out a low, knowing laugh.

“Looks like things are getting interesting.”

He stepped forward, the moonlight catching on the metallic embroidery of his jacket—a sleek, modern design, yet stitched with wing-like patterns along the sleeves.

The motion was quick, fluid—as if the air itself carried him forward rather than his own steps.

His golden aviator shades gleamed as he glanced upward, tilting his head toward the heavens—as if hearing a voice no mortal could perceive.

A pause.

Then, with quiet amusement, he murmured—

“Understood. I will do as you command.”

With that, he lifted his hand—one ring glinting, inscribed with the caduceus, the mark of his divine purpose.

Then, in an instant—he was gone, vanishing like the wind, leaving nothing but the faint echo of fluttering wings behind.

Chapter 6

He glanced at the screen, then smirked despite himself.

"Jody!" His tone lifted, momentarily relieved to hear a familiar voice. “How are you doing? The girls okay?”

Jody’s voice crackled through the receiver. "Yeah, they’re fine."

Then, a pause.

Something about her tone shifted.

“I’ve got a hunter here at the station,” she continued. “Says he wants to give you guys information. Says it has to do with a Greek Goddess.”

Dean’s amusement faded instantly. His spine straightened, his grip on the phone tightening as he signaled Sam to start packing up his things.

"Really?" His voice dropped slightly, skepticism creeping in. "What’s his name?"

“Says his name is Herman.”

There was something in Jody’s pause. Slight, but just noticeable enough that Dean caught it.

“He knows you guys by reputation,” she continued. “Figured something this big should go to the famous brothers.”

Dean’s jaw ticked.

Something about this felt off—a little too convenient.

“Herman?” Dean echoed, snapping his fingers at Sam, who had already pulled out his phone to call other hunters. “You sure about him?”

Jody sighed, a note of consideration in her tone. "I’ve heard of the guy. Never met him until today. Seems okay. Got to see him in action a while ago—helped me with a ghoul."

Dean hummed, waiting for Sam’s confirmation.

“So Herman just shows up and happens to have intel on a runaway goddess?” His voice was edged with suspicion now. “Not saying I don’t appreciate a lead, but… doesn’t this feel a little too timely?”

“According to Garth, he checks out.” Sam cut in, lifting his phone from his ear.

Dean sighed, tension still coiling in his chest despite the reassurance. "Jody, you trust him?"

“I’m only giving you the message.” Jody’s voice carried a hint of exasperation now. “He said he’d be at the local watering hole—staying at a motel for a few days.”

Dean exhaled, staring at the phone for another beat before pulling on his jacket.

"Guess we’re making a trip."

Jody had set them up in a quiet motel just outside Sioux Falls, far enough from town to keep things discreet but close enough to move fast if needed. The brothers settled in briefly before heading to the bar Jody had directed them toward—a worn-out dive just past the town line, dimly lit, humming with low conversations and clinking glasses.

Dean parked Baby close to the entrance, always preferring a quick getaway.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of whiskey and old leather, the kind of place hunters could talk business without drawing too many eyes. The brothers slid onto the barstools, flagging down the bartender for two beers, choosing to act casual and observe before diving in.

No point walking into a trap blind.

“Think he’s here?” Sam murmured before taking a sip.

Dean stretched his back, rolling his shoulders. “Should be.” His voice was low, guarded. “If not, I’d say this was a distraction—a way to keep us busy while something worse happens.”

Before Sam could reply, a voice came from behind them.

"I can honestly say it isn’t a trap."

Both brothers turned, their movements instinctive, practiced.

The man standing before them was older—sixties, at least, with a scruffy beard and long, thinning gray hair down to his shoulders.

One of his eyes was white, a long scar cutting through the lid, while the other was a sharp golden hazel, flickering with careful observation.

Dean eyed him critically. “How do we know you are who you say you are, Herman?”

He signaled the bartender for whiskey, keeping his movements calm but deliberate.

Herman shrugged, unfazed. “We can move to the corner, test each other if you’d like. How do I know you’re the real Winchesters?”

His voice was smooth—too neutral.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

“Lots of stories floating around. Hell, I know you’ve had monsters take your identities before. We all have to be careful.”

Dean flicked a glance at Sam. The brothers had a brief, silent conversation, a flicker of tension passing between them before they nodded. Fine. They’d play along. They followed Herman to a secluded spot in the bar, where they all went through the usual hunter tests.

Salt, silver, a few well-placed Latin incantations.

He checked out.

Dean settled back, knocking back his whiskey. “Alright. Talk.”

Herman took a sip of his own drink before leaning forward, folding his hands on the table.

“Word is… this Illiara is supposed to bring destruction to Earth.”

Dean observed him carefully. “That’s what you heard through the grapevine?”

Herman sighed. “Found myself listening in on some chatter—people talking about a goddess that the old Greek gods are hunting.”

Sam frowned. “What does that have to do with us?”

His logic was solid—if Zeus and his gods were looking for her, wasn’t that their problem?

“Well,” Herman exhaled, running his fingers through his thinning hair. “If we hunters get to her first, we can use her. Get information. Figure out what makes them tick.”

Dean’s expression barely shifted, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes.

“They’ve been roaming the earth for years.” Herman’s voice was level. “We should find a way to get rid of them.”

Sam scoffed. “We already know how to get rid of Zeus. We’ve got lore for that.”

“But if she’s a big problem for them, let it be their problem,” Sam continued. “If we get involved, we just put a target on our backs.”

Herman leaned in slightly, voice dipping.

“As far as I’ve heard, she’s a weak link. A damaged goddess.”

Dean’s fingers twitched slightly against his glass.

Damaged?

“What makes her damaged?” Sam asked, narrowing his gaze.

Herman paused—not quite hesitating, but choosing his words carefully.

“They didn’t say.”

The air between them shifted—something heavier settling in.

“But all I know is, if we get to her first, it’s better.”

Herman exhaled.

“Maybe she’s nice. Maybe she’s just like the rest of them.”

His fingers dragged across his scruffy beard for a moment before he sat back, sighing.

“All I know is we need to find her before they do. If she’s bad, we take her out first. If not… maybe she can help us get rid of some of them. They’re just as bad as the damn monsters, aren’t they?”

Dean’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he glanced at Sam. The moment their eyes met, Dean knew his brother agreed—at least to some extent. They’d met monsters before. Not all of them were evil. Some were just surviving. Hell, their friend Garth was a damn werewolf with a family. Dean exhaled, thinking over Herman’s words, letting the weight of the offer settle. Then, with a small huff, he knocked back the last of his whiskey.

“Alright.”

He set the glass down.

“We’ll bite.”

His eyes locked onto Herman’s, sharp with decision.

“Where do we start looking for this Illiara bitch?”

Herman leaned in slightly, voice dropping lower—as if the next words weren’t meant for just anyone to hear.

“There’s a spell,” he murmured, “one buried in the replica of the Pantheon. The one in the States.”

Dean frowned. “You mean the Parthenon in Nashville?”

Herman nodded, rolling his glass between his fingers.

“Hidden inside the Athena statue.”

Sam glanced at Dean before turning back to Herman. “And what’s it supposed to do?”

Herman exhaled slowly, tapping the table in thought before speaking.

“No one knows. Or at least—no one living.” His hazel eye flickered with something unreadable. “The spell exists. That much I’m sure of. But it’s locked. Undecipherable.”

Dean scoffed. “So what, you want us to run halfway across the country for something we can’t even read?”

Herman met his gaze, unwavering.

“It’s sealed until Lord Hades himself decides the time is right to unlock it.”

Silence settled over the table.

Sam’s brows furrowed, considering the weight of those words.

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Great. So we’re dealing with Greek destiny now? Just what we needed.”

Herman gave a quiet chuckle, but it lacked real humor.

“If Illiara is as tangled in their affairs as people claim, that spell could be the key to figuring out why Zeus wants her so badly.”

Dean mulled over that for a second—before knocking back another shot and setting the glass down with a decisive clink.

“Fine. We’ll take a look.”

Herman watched as the brothers climbed into their classic ’67 Impala, disappearing into the horizon.

A quiet chuckle left his lips as he exhaled, his form shimmering—golden light rippling across his skin like a mirage breaking reality.

By the time the illusion faded, the scruffy hunter was gone.

In his place stood a man of effortless charm, slick blond hair combed neatly back, his eyes the piercing blue of a summer sky.

His steps were light, buoyant—as if the world itself bent to his momentum. With an easy whistle, he strode toward his car—a sleek red 1950 Porsche 356, polished to perfection. Before he could slide inside, a voice carried from behind him.

“I take it they appreciated the information?”

Hermes didn’t flinch. Instead, he turned smoothly, tilting his head toward the figure looming in the shadows.

“Yes, Lord Hades,” he murmured, bowing his head toward the God of the Underworld. “They are going to track her down.”

He paused for a moment, considering something.

Then, with a flicker of curiosity, he asked—

“If I may be so bold… why send hunters after your daughter? Cerberus could track her in an instant.”

Hades smirked, his dark eyes gleaming.

“If the hunters help us find her, what’s the harm?”

His tone was calm, almost amused—but underneath it lay something colder, more calculated.

“Besides,” he continued, flicking dust off his coat, “someone keeps pulling lost souls from the river Styx. I need Cerberus focused on getting them back.”

The mention of his domain being targeted carried a weight that even Hermes didn’t ignore. Hermes exhaled, his expression sharpening slightly.

“I understand.”

Then, after a pause—

“You know I must report to him.” His golden gaze met Hades’. “Are you truly willing to risk it all?”

Hades hummed, stepping forward, close enough that the night air hummed with power between them.

“Hermes.”

His voice was smooth—dangerously unreadable.

“You are the messenger, are you not?”

Hermes' lips thinned.

“Yes, Lord Hades.”

Hades smiled—but there was a knowing edge to it, a flicker of something Hermes couldn’t place.

“Then relay the message.”

His tone dropped, laced with finality.

“Hades has sent the Hunters on Illiara’s trail. What happens next is up to fate.”

Hermes let out a slow breath, then nodded.

“I will relay the message.”

Without another word, he climbed into his Porsche and sped off, leaving nothing but the sound of tires slicing through the night. Hades watched him go, his smirk lingering, unreadable. Beside him, a husky sat poised, moonlight catching the eerie glow in its eyes—eyes that held far more intelligence than any mere dog’s should. A flicker of power rippled through the air as the creature stirred.

“What do you think, Cerberus?” Hades mused, turning toward him.

The husky gave a low, rumbling bark, his unnatural sharpness barely veiled beneath mortal skin.

Hades chuckled, sweeping toward his own sleek, black Jaguar.

“I think things are about to get very… interesting.”

With that, the god and his loyal beast disappeared into the dark.

Dean stared up at the ceiling, the dim light from his bedside lamp casting long, slanted shadows across the room. His mind reeled, tangled in everything that had happened—the Minotaurs, the altar, the cryptic warnings.

And Herman’s so-called lead.

The Parthenon spell. The idea that a locked prophecy sat untouched in a damn tourist site, waiting for Hades to decide the right moment to reveal it. Dean hated waiting on fate. Hated the idea of something bigger than him dictating the way this hunt would unfold—like the answers were already written, and they just had to play their part in someone else’s damn game.

And then there was her.

Selene.

Even now, hours later, her presence lingered—an irritation he couldn’t quite shake, a splinter lodged deep beneath his skin. She was arrogant, infuriating, and yet—the way she fought, moved, carried herself gnawed at his thoughts. She was too practiced, too precise. She wasn’t just another supernatural creature.

There was something more.

Something dangerous.

And worse—something familiar, like she belonged to a story already written, already woven into his path without his knowing. Dean exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands over his face. The universe was screwing with him. Again. Every time he got close to something that mattered, something he wanted, tragedy followed.

And yet—

The idea of backing off, letting go, ignoring this felt impossible. He wanted to know her. Wanted to figure out what the hell she was hiding. Wanted to be near her. Dean let out a low, frustrated groan, turning onto his side, trying to push the thoughts away. He flicked off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Still—his mind refused to quiet.

And somewhere, deep down, he already knew—

This wasn’t the last time she’d haunt his thoughts.

Selene tightened her grip on the wheel as she drove. She never hated fate more than she did right now. She had spent centuries outrunning Zeus, avoiding prophecy, bending the rules just enough to stay free.

And yet—Dean Winchester existed.

The very fact that she had crossed paths with him, fought beside him, stood in his presence meant she was already slipping into something she hadn’t prepared for. She couldn’t afford that. Illiara was whispering again. This is the way things have always been, Selene.

Selene clenched her jaw.

She would not listen.

She was going to the Fates.

She was going to find proof that she could change this.

She parked just outside the clearing.

Stepping out, she pulled off her necklace—a delicate collarbone ornament—and twisted it in her fingers until it became a blade sharp enough to draw blood. Ancient rituals demanded offerings. And Selene knew how this worked. She inhaled deeply, mustering her true form—the one she had buried for too long. The air shifted, thick with unseen energy—not a roaring storm of divine wrath, but something quieter, restrained.

Her breath came slow, steady, as light rippled across her skin, replacing the muted tones of mortality with something sharper, something just beyond human comprehension.

And yet—it wasn’t whole.

It wasn’t Illiara.

Where Illiara’s true goddess form was radiant, unrelenting, touched by the full force of the Underworld, Selene’s version wavered, flickering like embers struggling against the wind. Her usual dark hair lengthened slightly, strands shifting like silk caught between realms, holding faint iridescence that never quite reached its full shine. Her pupils turned slitted, a trait of the gods of night, yet they lacked the full molten glow of Illiara’s power.

Even her aura—normally nonexistent in mortal disguise—hummed beneath her skin, restrained but present, like an echo of the power she refused to embrace. Her fingertips tingled, the faint burn of unclaimed divinity pulsing beneath them. She was herself, but not fully.

A distorted reflection of who she should be. Selene clenched her fists, breathing deeply, pressing the power back, controlling it. She didn’t need to be Illiara. She only needed enough power. Enough to call the Fates. Enough to get answers. She lifted her chin, her voice stronger now.

“Atropos!”

Torches lit themselves as she stepped inside the cave. The path twisted downward, spiraling deeper, darker—toward something buried, hidden, waiting. Selene had walked this path once before, as a child, clutching her father’s cloak. Back then, she had marveled at the tapestry, at the thin threads that dictated who lived and who died, at the precision of each severed fate.

Now, every step felt heavier.

She was not just an observer anymore. She was woven into it. The loom whispered in the silence.

Then—she saw it.

Her breath hitched.

There—woven into the tapestry—was her image.

Wild hair, glowing eyes. Zeus, cowering before her, fear twisting his face.

And below—

Dean Winchester.

Dead.

Lifeless at her feet.

Selene staggered back, her pulse hammering in her chest. She was being played. And Dean Winchester was caught in the crossfire. Her hands curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms.

“If I avoid the Winchesters, will it change the outcome?”

Lachesis stepped forward, her expression somber, knowing, yet impossibly kind.

“You can try,” she admitted, “but one never truly avoids fate. One can alter it—but never escape it.”

A quiet pause.

Then—softly, reverent:

“I weep for you, Daughter of Hades.”

Selene’s breath caught, the weight of her father’s kindness pressing into her thoughts.

She nodded.

“Thank you.”

She reached for her bag.

“What do I owe as payment?”

The Fates raised their hands.

“Heed our warning,” Atropos murmured.

“Try to change your fate—but do not make us obsolete.”

Selene held their gaze, considering the weight of those words.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

“Never.”

With that, she turned and walked away.

Chapter 7