Demeter looked up from her research table the moment Hermes appeared in her greenhouse doorway. The scroll in his hands gleamed with official seals. She knew that gleam. She'd spent centuries searching contracts for a loophole that would bring her daughter home for more than half the year, and every official document carried that same cold shine. Hermes crossed the greenhouse without his usual swagger. He stopped beside the glass-domed planter where golden wheat grew alongside mint, its base ringed with ancient designs. His winged sandals settled on the marble floor with a soft click. He held out the scroll. "New terms," he said. "From below." Demeter took the scroll. The parchment felt heavier than it should. She broke the seal and read the first line, then the second. The words didn't make sense at first — eight months instead of six, then a clause about extending the arrangement indefinitely if certain conditions were met. Her fingers tightened on the edges. "This isn't what we agreed." "No," Hermes said quietly. He wouldn't meet her eyes. "It's not." The scroll trembled in her hands. Around them, the greenhouse dimmed as clouds gathered outside the glass dome. The wheat in the planter began to wither, stalks bending as if struck by frost. Demeter felt the earth beneath Olympus respond to her rage, and she didn't try to stop it. The original agreement had been unjust enough. This was something worse.