Demeter heard the familiar sound of wings before she saw him. Hermes descended through the greenhouse ceiling, landing on cracked stone between blackened flowers. He carried a scroll marked with a seal she recognized — dark wax stamped with symbols from below. She took it without speaking. The seal broke under her thumb. The words were short: Persephone would remain in the underworld. Not six months. Not eight. Until he decided otherwise. Demeter let the scroll fall. It curled on the broken floor beside a withered rose. Hermes shifted his weight. He wouldn't meet her eyes. She saw a white feather drift from his sandal and understood — even he knew this violated every agreement. She turned from him and looked through the glass walls at the mortal world spread below. In a place mortals called Central Park, every tree had gone black. Dead grass spread like ash across the ground. Shocked faces stared at branches that had been green yesterday. She could stop now. She could beg Zeus to intervene, accept scraps of compromise, let Hades keep what he had stolen. Or she could show them all what it meant to take from her. Dawn would come soon. Before then, she would choose: bend, or let every living thing wither until they returned what was hers. Her hand closed around her golden torch. The flame inside it turned cold and white.