Donatos sighed, running his fingers along the small amulet now hidden beneath his servant's garb. The Forbidden Time artifact—a trinket he'd pilfered from Nyx's vault during one of his mother's diplomatic visits to the primordial goddess of night. Aphrodite had always maintained cordial relations with the older deities, a political and friendly savvy that her son had inherited and weaponized.
"To think, I stole this believing it useless," he murmured, tracing the strange symbols etched into its surface. "Just another pretty bauble in Goddess Nyx's endless collection."
He remembered how simple it had been—a moment of distraction as his mother and Nyx discussed the politics of divine marriages, a quick sleight of hand born from centuries of battlefield dexterity. Neither goddess had noticed.
Why would they? What could possibly be stolen from a primordial deity that would matter?
This. This mattered.
"Not just worked—it shattered reality itself," Donatos whispered with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "And gave me... this."
He gestured at his unremarkable surroundings, the irony not lost on him. From challenging Olympus to emptying chamber pots—the Fates had a particular cruelty to their humor.
With practiced movements that felt both foreign and familiar, he donned the plain white chiton of a palace servant. The fabric scratched against his skin, a constant reminder of his fallen status. Over this, he tied a simple cord belt, from which hung a small pouch containing cloths for cleaning and a crude wooden token marked with Zeus's thunderbolt—his identification and permission to move through certain areas of the palace.
A bell rang again, more insistent this time. Donatos squared his shoulders and stepped into the corridor, merging with the stream of servants beginning their day.
*
The servant's hall buzzed with quiet efficiency as Donatos collected his morning assignments from Kyrillos, the stone-faced overseer of Zeus's household staff. The man's eyes—one brown, one milky white from some ancient injury—barely flicked over the parchment before thrusting it toward Donatos.
"Late again, boy," Kyrillos growled. "One more time and I'll have you cleaning the Harpy aviary for a month."
Donatos accepted the parchment with a properly contrite bow, swallowing the retort that bubbled in his throat. In another life, he had commanded armies that made the gods themselves tremble. Now, this half-blind mortal threatened him with bird droppings.
"Yes, Master Kyrillos. It won't happen again."
The assignments were exactly what he'd expected—the most degrading tasks available, assigned to the newest and least favored of Zeus's household servants. First, he was to clean the king-god's bathing chambers before Zeus awoke. Next, he would assist in the kitchens, preparing the golden platters that would carry ambrosia to the morning feast.
After that, he would stand attendance in the great hall, invisible but available should any immortal require something menial done.
As he navigated the labyrinthine servants' passages—narrow corridors and hidden staircases that allowed the staff to move throughout Olympus without offending divine eyes—he felt the gazes of female servants lingering on him. Unlike his former self, with beauty that even Apollo admired, this body was merely handsome in a mortal way—strong jaw, clear eyes, thick hair.
Still, among servants, it was enough to turn heads.
A young woman with auburn hair smiled shyly as they passed in a narrow corridor. "Good morning, Donatos."
He nodded politely but kept moving. In his original timeline, he'd had lovers across three continents—nymphs, demigods, even a princess of Sparta who'd launched her own miniature war to win his affection. These bashful servant girls would have been beneath his notice.
Now, they were his equals. The thought was simultaneously humbling and infuriating.
*
Zeus's bathing chamber was a monument to divine excess—a pool the size of a small lake, filled with water that shimmered with enchantments. The liquid wasn't merely water but a mixture of mountain springs, sacred rivers, and divine essences that rejuvenated immortal skin and washed away the residue of godly exertions.
Donatos set about his work methodically, scrubbing marble surfaces already clean enough to eat from, replacing towels woven from golden thread, and arranging oils and unguents in precise patterns that the storm god preferred. Each bottle contained rare substances—cloud condensation from the highest peaks, the morning dew from Aphrodite's sacred roses and the tears of tragic poets.
"My mother's tears are in here somewhere," he muttered, arranging a crystal vial containing pearlescent liquid. "What would she think, seeing her son reduced to this?"
Would Aphrodite even recognize him in this form? Would any of them? The thought brought a grim smile to his face. Invisibility had its advantages.
As he finished polishing the gold fixtures of the bath under the wachful eyes—each shaped like a different conquest of Zeus, their expressions frozen in eternal adoration—a commotion from the adjoining chamber sent him scrambling for the servant's entrance.
Zeus was awake early, and from the girlish giggle that accompanied the heavy footsteps, not alone.
Donatos slipped into the hidden passage just as the main doors swung open, catching a glimpse of Zeus—magnificent and terrible even in his casual splendor—with a slender nymph draped across his arm. The king-god's eyes passed over the servant's doorway without a flicker of interest.
"Perfect timing," Donatos breathed once safely in the passage. "Though seeing him again makes me itch for a blade."
**
The kitchens of Olympus were a chaos of activity that somehow produced perfect order. Dozens of servants worked under the exacting eye of Damaris, the head cook whose mortal family had served the gods for seven generations. Legend claimed she could tell if ambrosia was imperfect by smell alone, and that Zeus had once turned a satyr to stone for suggesting her baklava was too sweet.
"You! New boy!" Damaris snapped her fingers at Donatos. "Those platters won't polish themselves. I want to see my face in them—and if I can't, you'll be peeling onions until your grandchildren smell of them!"
Donatos took the stack of golden platters without complaint, settling at a corner table with polishing cloths and a paste made from crushed diamonds and morning starlight. As he worked, he listened to the chatter around him—servants were the eyes and ears of Olympus, witnessing what the gods themselves forgot in their immortal arrogance.
"...heard Ares is furious about something Aphrodite said..."
"...Hera threw a hydra into another of Zeus's mistress's bedchambers..."
"...Apollo's oracle gave a prophecy so terrible he locked her in her temple..."
Each snippet of gossip was filed away in Donatos's mind, potential weapons for future use. In his previous life, he'd relied on strength and divine heritage. This time, information would be his sword and shield.
A plump kitchen girl placed a wooden bowl beside him, filled with simple porridge sweetened with honey—the servants' breakfast.
"Eat quickly," she whispered with a sympathetic smile. "Damaris pretends not to notice if we eat while working, but don't let her actually catch you."
Donatos nodded gratefully, suddenly aware of his body's very mortal hunger. The porridge was bland compared to the ambrosia and nectar he once consumed, but this body found it satisfying nonetheless.
As he finished the last platter, his reflection stared back at him—unfamiliar yet increasingly his own. In that golden surface, he saw not just Donatos the servant, but the shadow of Alexios the god-killer lurking behind his eyes.
"Careful," he whispered to his reflection. "They may not recognize your face, but they'll know your ambition if you let it show."