Felix, a lonely Minotaur living on a remote farm in Minnesota, has his quiet life shattered when a goddess arrives with Betsy and her infant son, Apollo.

The voice came from the sky, but the man stepped out of the field.

He looked human at first: tall, dark-haired, dressed in a plain gray coat. Then the clouds moved behind him without wind, and light gathered beneath his skin. Everyone on the porch knew who he was.

Zeus approached the gate.

Betsy held Apollo close. The child stared at the stranger without reaching for him.

“You know his name,” Betsy called. “You could have used it.”

Zeus stopped. “Apollo.”

Months ago, Betsy had wished to hear him say it. Now the sound made her angry.

“You left,” she said.

“I was told he would not survive.”

“He survived because other people stayed.”

Zeus’s gaze shifted to Felix. For a moment, he studied the Minotaur as though recognizing something he had hoped never to see again.

“You have the keeper’s mark.”

Felix stood between Zeus and the steps. “Apollo does.”

“The power belongs to my blood.”

“He’s your son,” Betsy said. “He belongs to himself.”

Zeus’s expression tightened. He looked past her at the gathered townspeople. Mrs. Hart stood near the porch with a hammer still in her hand. Others waited by the road.

“This concerns the gods,” Zeus said. “Leave us.”

Nobody moved.

Zeus raised his hand. Thunder cracked over the empty field, close enough to make the windows shiver. Apollo began to cry. Felix stepped nearer to Betsy, and the baby quieted.

“There is a threshold opening,” Zeus told them. “The child can close it.”

“Where?” Felix asked.

“Beyond the northern ridge. It has been weakening for years.”

“You knew he could help,” Betsy said, “and you left him to die.”

“I knew what awakening the power might do to him. I hoped the prophecy was wrong.”

“You checked for a sign,” she said. “When you saw none, you called him a mistake.”

Zeus did not deny it. His silence carried across the yard.

“I came because the sign is here now,” he said. “I can take him somewhere safe.”

“Who will feed him?” Betsy asked. “Who knows when he’s frightened? Who knows the sound he makes before he falls asleep?”

Zeus looked at Apollo. He had no answer.

“The threshold threatens more than this farm,” he said at last. “Its opening will harm mortals first. You cannot refuse merely because you dislike me.”

Felix thought of the arrows hanging above the yard. Apollo had spent himself to stop them. If there truly was a breach, the child might face a danger much larger than Vale’s soldiers.

“We’ll look at it,” Felix said. “Together.”

Zeus frowned. “The keeper may come. The mother stays behind.”

“No,” Betsy said.

“She is mortal.”

“She’s his mother,” Felix replied.

Zeus took another step. The air pressed against Felix’s chest like a hand.

“I have no time to bargain.”

Felix braced his feet. “Then speak plainly. What do you need Apollo to do?”

“Open his power at the threshold. I can direct it.”

“Have you ever helped him use it?”

Zeus’s eyes flashed. “I understand power.”

“You’ve never held him while he cries.”

Thunder answered. Several townspeople retreated, but Mrs. Hart stayed where she was.

Apollo reached for Felix. Betsy let their hands touch. Gold moved briefly over the child’s fingers, then settled.

Zeus noticed. He looked from Apollo to the stone mark set in Felix’s palm.

“You were chosen for this long ago,” he said.

“My mother told me stories. Nobody told me a child’s life would depend on them.”

“The choice was made before you were born.”

Felix remembered Betsy in the barn, telling him she had tried everything. He remembered Apollo sleeping in his arms and reaching for him again after the arrows fell. Those moments mattered more than any words carved in stone.

“I decide what I do now,” Felix said.

Zeus’s patience broke. The gate swung open under a gust that came from nowhere. He crossed the yard, his eyes on Apollo.