EVENTUALLY, I REACH the top. By then I'm dripping in sweat, the sun high above me. My thighs don't just ache; they burn, shaking from the strain of lifting my body up the cliff twice the size of an oak tree. My arms are numb and largely useless, hanging limp against my side. I want to do nothing more than drop down on the dry, gritty earth and stay there forever. But I need to keep going.

Panting, I wipe the sweat from my brow. You're a hero, I remind myself, a demigoddess, made of the same blood as your legends. This is exactly the kind of thing you were born for, trained your whole life for. Defeating a god against seemingly insurmountable odds. Saving your friends, your mother, and the day.

All I need to do is what's right. And make sure as few people die as possible. So simple. So impossible.

As I start the long trek back to town, all this walking seems unnecessary, and cumbersome. I drag my feet, kicking up dry dirt that sticks to the roof of my mouth.

In America, I'd been spoiled with Dahlia's truck. We almost never had to walk anywhere, and when we did, it was either just around the corner or because we wanted to. But back here on Apollonisi, there are only two ways to get around. Either on foot, or by horse. And I have no horse.

The place that Apollo decided to leave me is on the northern tip of the island, as far from the city center as you could get. He wants to make this as hard for me as possible. But what could I expect from a god? He doesn't understand the limits of mortality, just how far the beach is from where I need to get, how difficult a cliff is to climb. Humans, to gods, are expendable, their emotions meaningless.

Or at least that's what I've come to think.

Used to, I thought they simply wanted to push us to our limits, see what we were capable of becoming.

Now, I'm not so sure it's as innocent as that.

I think the gods really might hate us.

***

I SPEND HOURS walking along the dirt roads back to town before I find the horse. All the while, the sun's beating down on my back, a constant reminder of the god who is going to kill me if I don't prove to him that something that isn't true, is. My legs never stop shaking, my throat is so dry I can't think.

It's grazing in a pasture of wildflowers, its flank white as the cliffs surrounding the island and caked with dried earth. Beside it, a couple of feet away, its owner dozes under an olive tree.

I know that stealing is wrong, but the sun is so hot, and my throat so dry, and town so very far away. If I don't have a horse, it'll take until nightfall to reach. I only have three days. So, in a sense, this one wrong is not necessarily wrong at all, because it's helping me achieve something good. After all, this is the second time I've stolen an animal for the greater good. Remember the goat back in America?

Holding my sword tight to my thigh to prevent it from clanging against its sheath as I move, I tiptoe through the field. The horse lifts its head when I near it, giving off a soft whinny before going back to its grazing. I hold my hand against its nose, letting it take in my scent, before I hoist myself up onto its back.

It came to my attention, back when I was in America, that you heretics use these things called saddles and reins when you ride. We don't. Not unless it's a very long journey, and living on an island, there are not many long journeys to take.

So it's just me and this horse's back, no leather to rest myself on. I can feel her protruding ribs and every twitch that she makes as flies land on her stomach. And a horse's body is so much hotter than you'd imagine, sticky and crusted over with sweat. And there's so much dirt everywhere, practically dancing off of her like that boy in that old cartoon Dahlia's moms sometimes would put on.

Her owner wakes up, jumping to his feet.

I feel a pang of guilt—he's clothed in the coarse wool of the lower class, his cheeks gaunt. He's obviously poor, and his horse was likely all that he had, or at the very least, one of his most prized possessions.

It's for the greater good, I remind myself. All heroes must make difficult decisions.

If I had anything of any value to give him in exchange, I would.

"Stop!" the man yells, reaching for me. "Thief!"

I whip my sword out and hold it against his neck, daring him to try to lay a hand on me. "My name is Antigone Katsaros, daughter of Dionysus. This is for the greater good. My father will give you twice what the horse was worth, in due time." I send up the last part as a hopeful prayer, unsure where my father is or if he's even in the position to grant such requests. But hopefully thinking he's won the good favor of a god will give this poor man peace of mind. It's the least I can offer for him.

He steps back, his hands raised and his eyes wide.

I sheath my sword and ride on.

As Ezra likes to say: yeehaw.