Hebe lifted the golden pitcher and watched the liquid inside shimmer and darken. The nectar had changed color in the last hour—less gold, more amber, with threads of silver breaking through like cracks in glass. She set it down on the stone table and pressed her palms against the cool surface. She'd chosen the small sanctuary behind the hearth hall for her work—a place no one visited, with high walls and a roof open to the sky. The eternal flame cast warm light through the doorway behind her. On the table sat three bowls: powdered lotus root, crushed myrtle leaves, and the last drops of pure ambrosia she'd stolen from her mother's stores. None of them would stabilize the formula now. The nectar was reversing. A butterfly landed on the pitcher's rim. Hebe watched its wings fold inward, colors bleeding away. Its body thickened and shortened. Within seconds, a green caterpillar inched across the gold surface and dropped onto the stone. She stared at the empty space where the butterfly had been. The nectar's magic was leaking into the air itself, unmaking anything that came too close. She needed something that held transformation without breaking—something that understood both youth and age, life and death. Her fingers trembled as she remembered the glowing fruit Demeter had shown her once, years ago: a pomegranate that pulsed with the rhythm of seasons. Demeter kept it locked away, proof of the bargain that tore her daughter between two worlds. If Hebe could extract even one seed, the nectar might hold. She grabbed the pitcher and ran.