Demeter stood in her greenhouse when the air shifted. The scent arrived first — sharp wind and distant places. She didn't need to turn to know who had entered. Hermes never knocked. A white feather drifted past her shoulder and landed on the soil. She watched it settle among the shoots she'd been coaxing through the earth. His winged sandals always left a trail. He moved forward, his footsteps quick, and held out a scroll that glowed with golden runes. "From below," Hermes said. His voice carried no apology. "New terms." Demeter took the scroll. The words burned as she read them — months, not weeks. Persephone would stay longer than any season could bear. The scroll slipped from her fingers. Around her feet, the ambrosia flowers blackened and curled. Their petals fell like ash. Roots split the greenhouse floor, cracking stone as they twisted upward. She felt the earth drink her rage, but it wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough.