The gods’ box had never felt so small.

  Ereshkigal sat very still in her throne, chalice forgotten in her hand. Staring at where Gilgamesh had stood moments before laughing, flexing, basking in centuries of attention. Then there was nothing.

  Not even a flower now.

  Sisyphus’s boulder had taken care of that.

  Her fingers shook. She hid it by setting the chalice down. Wine sloshed onto the floor.

  “Gone,” she whispered. “Truly gone.”

  The gravity of what she lost seeping in. All the souls she bet now lost to her.

  Persephone, who usually kept a studied distance from the other rulers, shifted her weight and came to stand beside her. She looked out over the PITT, where the stone still smoked faintly from the last impact.

  “I know,” Persephone said softly. “It doesn’t matter how inevitable they tell you it is. When it happens, it still feels like a mistake.”

  Ereshkigal huffed, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “He was infuriating. Loud. Reckless. Every time he lost, my staff had to refile three centuries of paperwork. I wanted to wring his neck most days.”

  “And yet,” Persephone said, “you sent him again.”

  Ereshkigal’s eyes shone. “He wanted… more. To climb. To be more than dust and story. I grew fondly of him. I thought if he could just win once, maybe he’d… change.” Her mouth twisted. “Instead I agreed to change the terms and killed him.”

  “Not all the choices we make are without risk,” Persephone said firmly. “You’re grieving, Ereshkigal. Don’t let them file that under ‘performance issue.’”

  A soft rustle and a paper square appeared in front of Ereshkigal’s face.

  A tissue.

  Persephone glanced up.

  Lucifer stood over them, box in one hand, another tissue pinched delicately in his fingers. He’d folded his wings, trying for a smaller profile, but he was still enormous. His eyes were uncharacteristically gentle.

  “Take it,” he said, voice mild. “We leak. All of us. Even gods.”

  Ereshkigal glared at him, then snatched the tissue and dabbed at her eyes anyway. “I don’t need pity.”

  “This isn’t pity,” Lucifer replied. “It’s… mutual aid.”

  Persephone frowned. “Mutual? Nothing is mutual with you.”

  Lucifer’s smile thinned. “You think Upper Management doesn’t measure you? They do. They count everything. Souls, prayers, errors, ‘rebellious attitudes.’ And when their metrics don’t add up, they blame us, Lower Management.”

  He gestured toward the arena. “They trained us to think we are better than mortals. Wiser. Above their petty failures. And yet here we are: cheating, scheming, backstabbing, killing each other’s champions. Exactly like the humans. So what’s the difference, really?”

  Hel snorted from the other end of the box. “We don’t die.”

  Lucifer chuckled. “No, we die internally. In committees.”

  He turned back to Ereshkigal, voice lowering. “You’re hurting because you cared. That’s not a flaw, no matter what the performance review says. Don’t let them convince you your grief is ‘unprofessional.’”

  Ereshkigal looked away. “Spare me your solidarity, Morningstar. We’ve seen what your alliances cost.”

  He inclined his head. “Of course. I’m not asking you to sign anything… yet. I’m just saying: the ones above us built this system. They set us up to fail, then call it justice. That’s not divinity. That’s mismanagement.”

  Persephone’s eyes narrowed. “And your solution is what? Burn everything? Sit on the ruins?”

  “My solution,” Lucifer said, “is change. To stop letting them define what good looks like. You both know something is wrong. You both know the suffering down there” as he nodded toward the PITT, toward the city, toward all the realms, “is not just ‘necessary.’ It’s a feature of a broken model.”

  He smiled, smaller now. “I would love to have women of your power and intelligence on my side when the restructuring comes.”

  Persephone’s jaw tightened. “I want no part of your agenda.”

  “Your agenda and mine are not the same,” Ereshkigal added, regaining some steel. “I will not trade one tyrant for another.”

  Lucifer didn’t flinch. “We’ll see. Grief is a very clarifying teacher. You might feel differently after you see the next contest.”

  Persephone’s eyes flashed. “And why is that?”

  Lucifer just tipped his head toward the arena.

  Lilith’s voice boomed through the dome.

  “LADIES! GENTLEMONSTERS! AND EVERYONE WHO DIED IN BETWEEN INTERMISSION! Our next contestant, sponsored by the Queen of the Underworld herself, she’s lost a city, a husband, a son, and her patience with the gods… give it up for ANDROMACHE OF TROY!”

  In the tunnel, Andromache rolled her shoulders, feeling the weight of Hector’s shield on her arm, Achilles’ sword at her hip. The roar of the crowd vibrated through the stone.

  Deathnibbles sat on a crate nearby, tail wrapped tight around himself. His little paws twisted together, claws tapping a jittery rhythm of nervousness.

  He squeaked a question.

  Andromache glanced down and managed a faint smile. “Don’t worry, little one,” she said. “Trojans are warriors. I won’t lose.”

  He squeaked again more anxious this time.

  Andromache laughed once, humorless. “Thank you.”

  The tunnel gate groaned open. Light poured in.

  Andromache straightened, adjusted her grip on the shield, and stepped out into the PITT.

  The crowd roared. She didn’t flinch.

  She looked up at the gods’ box and raised Hector’s shield in a salute. Persephone, still half-bracing Ereshkigal, met her eyes and dipped her head in return.

  The floor trembled beneath Andromache’s feet.

  Lilith’s voice climbed into a new register. “And for her adversary, chosen by the committee of gods of death. Oh, this is going to be juicy. PLEASE WELCOME…”

  A stone pillar erupted from the center of the arena, splitting the ground. Chained to it, wrists shackled above her head, hung a woman.

  No, something like a woman.

  She was draped in tatters of royal finery, eyes closed, skin marred by faint, glowing sigils that crawled across her like living script. Chains ran through her ribs and spine, fastening her to the stone like a forgotten decree.

  “Inanna,” Ereshkigal breathed, going bloodless.

  On the pillar, the sigils burned brighter. The chains snapped one by one, clattering to the floor. The hanging body fell like a stone and hit the ground with a sickening thud.

  For a long moment she lay still.

  Then she rolled onto her knees and pushed herself up, inch by deliberate inch, like someone remembering how to stand. When she lifted her head, her eyes were full of hate and something more dangerous: freedom.

  She tilted her chin up toward the gods’ box.

  Ereshkigal actually took a step back. Her hand slipped from Persephone’s arm.

  “How can this be?” she whispered.

  Osiris watched with the calm of someone who had seen several thousand coups. “It seems,” he said, “you lost more than a champion when Gilgamesh fell. You lost leverage over your domain.”

  What he didn’t say “And someone is exploiting that slip.” But he thought it, and his gaze slid to Lucifer for a fraction of a second.

  Lucifer said nothing. He just watched the reunion, eyes bright.

  Persephone’s face had gone smooth and cold. “This is not personal,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else as she backed away from Ereshkigal.

  Inanna’s laugh, when it came, was sharp and hoarse. “Hello dear sister and fellow gods of death.”

  Andromache did not wait for more drama.

  She charged.

  She closed the distance between them with brutal efficiency. Shield up, sword low. Inanna barely had time to raise her arms before steel met flesh. The blade cut deep, sending the goddess sprawling. Andromache followed through, shield-slam to the chest, driving her into the dirt.

  For a heartbeat, it looked almost embarrassing.

  In the waiting room, Karna nodded appreciatively. “Good,” he murmured. “No more speeches. Just action.”

  Atsumori exhaled. “End it quickly.”

  Andromache placed the edge of her sword at Inanna’s throat.

  “Is this all?” she asked. “Is this the great goddess who plays with mortals like dice?”

  She didn’t wait for a response. She sliced her throat. Innana’s eyes rolled back and Ancdroamche gazed up at the gods of death and bowed.

  She thought it was over, but a rumble shook the arena.

  The ground cracked. Two figures rose from the fissures like black bubbles from tar. Thin, clay-skinned beings with hollow eyes and long, delicate fingers: the kurgarra and the galatura.

  They glided soundlessly to her side, pressing their hands over her wounds. Light flowed from their fingertips. The gash sealed. The bruises faded. The goddess stood.

  Inanna smiled with bloody teeth as she came back to life. “You’ve got a strong arm,” she rasped. “I’ve been beaten by hands like that before.”

  Andromache’s lip curled. “Fine. Again.”

  She lunged.

  The kurgarra and galatura intercepted her, their bodies soft as wet clay and yet somehow unyielding. Her sword sank into one and came out clean, no blood, no resistance. The being shuddered but did not die. The other slammed into her shield with unexpected force, knocking her back a step.

  Around them, the air shifted.

  Inanna raised one hand and made some sort of symbol with it that was lost to man.

  The arena shook and shifted.

  Flames blossomed encompassing it. Marble turned to sandstone, then to scorched brick. Smoke filled the air, thick with the smell of ash and flesh. The walls of the PITT became the walls of Troy; high, proud, and cracking under the strain of unseen battering rams.

  Screams echoed from every direction. Women, children, and the dying howl of a city realizing it was doomed.

  Andromache froze. Her grip faltered.

  “No,” she whispered. “No, I…”

  Inanna’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere. “Cruel, isn’t it? You were raised to be queen. Wife of Hector, mother of Astyanax. The story could have been simple. Then came desire. Who was that woman? Helen was it?”

  A vision of soldier in Greek armor, faceless, indistinct, ran past Andromache, dragging a woman by the hair. The woman’s voice broke into sobs. The soldier laughed.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Desire,” Inanna continued, “is always followed by loss. That’s the pattern. Want. Take. Break. Then the gods call it ‘fate’ and file it away. But I’ll tell you a little secret..”

  Andromache’s hands trembled. Her two minions, the kurgarra and the galatura, approached in greek gear. She slammed her shield into the nearest minion, sending it flying. Her sword drove straight through its gut. The clay rippled. No blood. No scream. It merely looked at her with those empty eyes.

  “Fight fair,” Andromache snarled. “Come at me yourself.”

  The other minion barreled into her blind side, knocking her off balance. Its fingers clawed at her armor, holding her in place.

  Inanna’s tone softened, almost a whisper in her ear. “The gods write the stories. That's the dirty secret.”

  Inanna continued now louder from all directions, “I descended once too, you know. Went down into a realm that hated me. Stripped, humiliated, killed. They hung my corpse on a hook. Do you know how many wept for me?”

  Andromache gritted her teeth, straining against the grip. “None. Who cares.”

  “Exactly,” Inanna said. “My lovers scattered. My worshippers prayed to the next radiant thing. My own sister left me down there until it threatened her reputation. So tell me, Andromache, when you rage at the gods, are you really raging at us? Or at the emptiness where you thought justice lived?”

  Andromache spat. “We’re nothing alike. I had a husband. A child. You,” she snarled, “were chasing your own glory.”

  Something ugly flickered across Inanna’s face. “You think I never knew love?” she hissed. “They took it from me. Just as they took yours. The only difference is that you still worship the hand that held the knife.”

  Up in the gods’ box, Hel leaned over to Coatlicue. “Pain clarifies purpose,” she murmured. “Look at her. Every strike is pointed.”

  Coatlicue watched the illusions of Troy with eyes that had seen too many cities burn. “Pain begets pain,” she said. “She doesn’t know where to set it down."

  Back in the arena-turned-city, the minions held Andromache fast as Inanna moved closer. They pinned her trying to grab the shield and sword.

  She let go of the shield and one minion fell back then she jumped up throwing her legs arounds its leg in an arm lock position instantly snapping it in half. She grabbed the now loose sword back and thrusted it into the other minion trying to descend on her.

  She then sliced off the hands trying to reach for her. “Stay down!” She said in frustration. She walked over to the shield and kicked it up flogging it back into her hands and she walked toward Innana glaring.

  Inanna shocked, lifted her arm again doing the same incanation symbol.

  The scene shifted.

  They were on the walls of Troy now. The wind whipped dust into Andromache’s eyes. Below, the city was in flames. Above, the sun was blood red from the smoke.

  “Don’t,” Andromache whispered. “Do not show me this.”

  “You weren’t there,” Inanna said softly. “You imagine it every night. Let me give you the courtesy of accuracy.”

  A young boy appeared at the edge of the wall, Astyanax. Small. Bright-eyed. Completely trusting. He held the hand of Neoptolemus, who stood beside him with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  “Stop it,” Andromache choked, struggling to keep her composure. “Stop.”

  Her son laughed at something Neoptolemus said. He leaned forward to see over the edge, fearless.

  “STOP!” Andromache screamed. “NEOPTOLEMUS, I BEG YOU!”

  They did not hear her. They couldn’t. It was only a memory.

  Neoptolemus let go.

  Astyanax fell.

  Andromache’s knees buckled. She would have collapsed but the minions caught her, their hands dug into her arms like anchors.

  “Cruel,” Inanna agreed. “From your angle.”

  She raised her hand again, and the scene zoomed outward.

  Three enormous figures stood further up the wall now: Athena, Poseidon, and Hades, watching like supervisors at a bunch of lower level coworkers acting up.

  “They went too far,” Poseidon was saying. “They were supposed to win, not slaughter indiscriminately.”

  Athena’s jaw was tight. “They were my chosen. I gave them victory. Not… this.”

  “So file a complaint,” Hades said dryly. “Order me to take them down to my office. We can stamp ‘Condemned’ on their folders and call it balance.”

  “You agreed to the war,” Athena snapped. “You took the dead. You profited.”

  “And you cheered every ship that sailed praying to you,” Hades shot back. “Don’t pretend you weren’t thrilled to see them burn a city in your name.”

  They bickered like colleagues assigning blame on a bad project. No one mentioned the baby.

  Up in the gods’ box, Persephone stared, horrified. “How dare she,” she whispered.

  Ereshkigal glanced sideways. Lucifer leaned in to murmur something in Persephone’s ear. Ereshkigal caught only the tail end:

  “See? The battle is lost already, but you can still get your vengence.”

  Inanna’s voice wrapped around Andromache again. “They blame the Greeks, then bless them for their bravery. They blame each other, then shrug. What’s done is down. Your revenge?” She leaned close. “It is your own self-made prison. You pace it like a good employee, calling it duty.”

  Something broke.

  Andromache roared.

  She tore free from the minions with a surge of furious strength. One she grabbed by the head, twisting until its neck snapped with a wet crunch. The other she hacked apart: arm, leg, torso until clay chunks littered the ground.

  The illusions flickered. The walls of Troy blurred, then dropped away. They were back in the PITT, standing on cracked marble, the crowd a deafening ring above them. Inanna tried to raise her hand to change the arena but it wasn’t working.

  The two minions still moved, trying to pull themselves back together. Andromache slammed Hector’s shield down on their pieces, smashing them. She stacked the two heads on top of each other and pinned them with her sword like a shish kabob.

  She marched toward Inanna with her husband’s shield, eyes feral.

  “What are you doing?” Inanna demanded, stepping back. “I told you, your enemy is up there.” She jabbed a finger toward the gods’ box.

  “I don’t care,” Andromache said. Her voice shook. She raised her shield with both hands like an executioner raising an axe.

  She never brought it down.

  A small tug on her cuirass stopped her.

  She looked down.

  A tiny hand clutched her armor.

  “A- Astyanax?”

  She knew this is not illusion. Not memory. His soul flickered with soft light, small and impossibly real.

  “What trick is this?” Andromache whispered, voice breaking.

  Inanna’s eyes were wide. “This is no trick of mine.”

  “Mother?” the boy said, blinking up at her. “Where have you been? Where’s Father?”

  Something inside her rearranged.

  Slowly, Andromache lowered the shield. Her hands shook as she touched his hair. It felt exactly like it had the last time she’d held him.

  She looked up at the gods of death.

  “You had him,” she said hoarsely. “The whole time?”

  Persephone couldn’t meet her eyes.

  “That’s a violation,” Hel muttered. “We weren’t told that soul was in play.”

  Inanna folded her arms. “You were a tool,” she said. “A lever. Your anger useful. Your grief… convenient.”

  Andromache’s gaze cut back to her. “And you?”

  “I was a tool, too,” Inanna said, softer now. “Hanged on a hook until I was politically necessary. The only difference between us was our job title.”

  Andromache looked from Inanna to where the contestants waited, to Glenn, to Deathnibbles clutching the railing with tiny white knuckles.

  “So,” Andromache said slowly, “because Ereshkigal lost, you’re free because she lost domain over her souls. If Persephone wins, she rules.But if she doesn’t, whoever takes this tournament decides what happens to the souls in their domain.”

  Inanna inclined her head. “That seems to be how it is structured, yes.”

  “And if Glenn wins,” Andromache murmured, half to herself, “perhaps that structure cracks.”

  She knelt in front of Astyanax. Her voice went gentle the way it had been before war, before gods, before everything.

  “Can you go back, my heart?” she asked. “Back to where you came from?”

  He frowned. “But I just found you.”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Your father’s there,” she said. “Hector. He’s waiting. You’ll be together. I know it.”

  Astyanax’s eyes lit up. “Really?!”

  She unstrapped Hector’s shield, pressed it into his small hands. The metal is almost the same size as him. “Give him this,” she said. “Tell him I love him. Tell him… I’m done fighting ghosts.”

  He hugged the shield to his chest. “I will!” he said proudly.

  His soul flickered, then dissolved into soft light, drifting upward and then sideways pulled toward some unseen path.

  For the first time since she’d entered the arena, Andromache smiled.

  She turned back to the minions still pinned under her sword. With a grunt, she lifted it and stepped aside, letting them pull themselves together.

  They looked at her, confused.

  She picked up her sword, turned it hilt-first, and held it out to Inanna.

  The goddess stared. “Are you certain?” she asked quietly. “You know you could have won this battle.”

  Andromache looked up at the gods’ box, at Persephone, frozen; at Ereshkigal, hollow-eyed; at Lucifer, watching like he knew all along this is how it would play out.

  “Maybe I could have won this one,” she said. “But not the whole thing. Not this game. Like you said. They write the stories.”

  Her eyes found an orb that projected the battle to the screen where Glenn watched. “I’m entrusting my family to you,” she called, voice carrying unnaturally far. “Rewrite our stories.”

  Glenn’s throat closed. He couldn’t answer.

  Inanna took the sword.

  “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I hate them too.”

  “I know,” Andromache replied.

  The blade went in clean, just under the ribs.

  A breath. A small, surprised sound. Then Andromache sank to her knees, then to her back, staring up at the false sky of the PITT.

  “At least,” she whispered, “I know what happens to me now.”

  Light poured from the wound, unspooling her shape, her scars, her armor. All of it melted into radiance. When it dimmed, only a single Greek soul-flower remained. A small, white flower trembling in a breeze that didn’t exist.

  Inanna looked up at the gods’ box.

  Lucifer’s nod was almost imperceptible.

  The kurgarra and galatura moved without hesitation. They raised their clay fists and brought them down over and over and over on the flower until there was nothing, no petals, no stem, no dust.

  Just a crater.

  The gods murmured.

  “Was that… part of the trial?” Yanluo Wang asked, frowning.

  “She just surrendered,” Hine-nui-te-pō said slowly. “Walked into oblivion. I do not understand these humans.”

  “Then she was not management material,” someone snorted. “No instinct for self-preservation.”

  Persephone said nothing. Her fingers dug into the armrest hard enough to leave dents. Her eyes were wet and bright.

  Osiris watched, one hand steepled under his chin. This isn’t random, he thought. Someone is shaping outcomes in the dark.

  His gaze slid to Lucifer again. Lucifer smiled politely at nothing at all.

  Or could there be more? He glanced at the rest.

  In the contestants’ stand, no one pretended to be unaffected.

  Deathnibbles let out a broken, high-pitched squeak. He pounded his paws against the walls as if he wanted to bust into the arena.

  Glenn grabbed him, scooping him up against his chest. “Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “She’s gone.”

  Deathnibbles thrashed, then sagged, claws digging into Glenn’s cloak. He buried his face in the fabric so no one saw the tears.

  Oba Ifekudu whistled low. “That was… brutal,” he admitted.

  Atsumori stared at the empty spot where the flower had been. “She chose it,” he said quietly. “She walked into the cut.”

  Karna exhaled slowly. “At least we know what they are capable of.”

  Glenn shook his head, numb. “How is this winnable?” he asked. “They’re going to keep twisting things. Rigging the fights. Killing anyone who gets close. Are they just going to manipulate us until none of us are left?”

  Karna looked over at him, eyes tired but clear. “Yes,” he said simply. “They will do everything in their power to keep this structure standing. That’s what management does when challenged. Clamps down. Tightens. Sacrifices anyone near the seams.”

  “Then why are you here?” Glenn demanded. “Why risk… this?” He gestured toward the arena, the absence where Andromache had been. “Oblivion. No afterlife. Nothing.”

  Karna’s smile was sad. “Most of us made peace with that before we stepped onto the stage. We’ve died once already. We would rather not exist at all then go back to what we were.”

  He glanced at the others. “But that doesn’t mean we sink to their level. Or give up. We’re not fighting to be them. We’re fighting to prove they’re not the only option.”

  Glenn stared. “So we just… walk into their grinder one by one and hope someone jams it?”

  Karna shook his head. “Or we stop walking alone.”

  He stepped forward, lifting his voice so the others could hear. “We can’t beat them by pretending this is a fair contest. It isn’t. But if we treat each other as rivals, we’re doing their work for them.”

  He met Glenn’s eyes. “You want to change things? Start here.”

  Glenn swallowed. He looked at each of them in turn. Five of us left.

  He took a breath.

  “If we keep playing solo,” Glenn said, “we all die. That’s where this is headed. So we don’t. Not anymore.”

  They watched him.

  “In the next rounds,” Glenn went on, “we help each other. Hide each other’s weaknesses. Share what the demons are doing. Look for patterns. If we all make it through, they can’t just quietly erase us without showing how rigged this is.”

  Oba snorted. “You think they care how it looks?”

  “I think some of them are willing to do what ever it takes to win,” Glenn said, flicking a glance toward the monitor showing the gods. “And even if they don’t, the others love a good story right?”

  He spread his hands. “So. Who’s in?”

  Karna didn’t hesitate. He held out his hand. “I am.”

  Deathnibbles wriggled free of Glenn’s grip, hopped onto Karna’s arm, and slapped a tiny paw down on his hand. He squeaked something sharp and determined.

  Atsumori hesitated. He looked at Glenn, then at the empty arena, then at his own hands.

  “Everyone you touch dies,” he said softly. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  He stepped forward and placed his hand on the pile. “I’m in. For the youth who never got to choose anything.”

  All eyes turned to Oba Ifekudu.

  He rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust you,” he said frankly. “Any of you.”

  “Good,” Glenn said. “You shouldn’t. That’s how we got here.”

  Oba barked a short laugh despite himself. “But… I want my people’s story told. I want colonizers, conquerors, and gods to choke on it. If helping you keeps me in the game long enough to do that?”

  He slapped his hand onto the pile. “Then I’m in. For now.”

  They stood there, four hands and one paw stacked, the smallest coalition in the largest arena.

  Deathnibbles looked up at Glenn. He squeaked a question.

  Oba asked, “What is this tiny animal saying?”

  Atsumori replied, “I think he said. Are we sure about this?”

  Glenn huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh. “No,” he said. “But I have a plan.”

  The roar of the PITT swelled around them. Lilith’s amplified voice began to call the next name.