The fire had died down to glowing embers, and the clearing was quieter now—no more boisterous toasts, no more laughter from Hermes juggling wine bottles, no more dramatic retellings from Apollo standing atop tree stumps. Just the lingering buzz of wine in our veins and the slow, steady hum of nighttime forest life.

I was slumped against Dionysus’s side—don’t ask how that happened—head resting against his shoulder, the scent of wild grapes and warm summer still clinging to him like a second skin.

Astronaros was across the fire, cross-legged in the moss, head tipped back against a tree as he stargazed. Always the quiet one. Always watching.

Dionysus was humming something low and ancient under his breath. Something that made the air feel older than it had any right to be.

“Hey,” I mumbled, voice thick and lazy from wine.

He turned his head slightly, curls brushing against my temple. “Mmm?”

I looked up at him blearily. “Do… demigods live forever?”

The words just came out. Like they’d been trapped in my chest for weeks, maybe years. The kind of question you don’t ask unless you’re a little drunk and a little afraid.

Dionysus didn’t answer right away.

The air around us shifted, subtly but sharply. His hum stopped. His body stilled.

And then—he laughed, softly. But it wasn’t the usual laugh. Not sharp and teasing. Not flirty. It was something bitter under the surface. Something old.

He exhaled through his nose, fingers curling slightly in the moss beneath him.

“No,” he said.

Just that. Quiet. Final.

I blinked. “Oh.”

“No, we don’t,” he added, voice low. “You burn bright, all of you. Brighter than mortals, brighter than most stars. But not forever.”

There was silence, broken only by the pop of a lone ember in the fire.

“I’ve seen so many of you come and go,” he said, almost to himself. “Heroes and fools. Lovers and liars. Some of them died in glory. Some… quietly, far from the stories. And some I loved.”

My breath caught. I wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the way he said loved.

Astronaros was watching us now, silent, unreadable.

Dionysus didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes on the fire, on the way it devoured wood and turned it to ash.

“You don’t get forever,” he said, quieter now. “Even you, Pneumeros. Time won’t save you from that.”

“But I’m the demigod of time,” I whispered. “Shouldn’t I be able to stop it? Escape it?”

He turned then, looking me in the eyes. His expression was softer than I’d ever seen it. No smirk. No mask.

“That’s the trick,” he said. “Time belongs to you. But not forever. Even time runs out.”

I felt the truth of it settle in my bones like cold water.

Dionysus leaned back, lifting his cup again. “It’s why I live like this. Why I laugh and dance and flirt. Because it hurts less than remembering.”

I stared at him. “But you’re a god.”

His smile was small. “Even gods grieve.”

Silence fell again.

I felt small. Human. For all my magic, for all my power—I was still temporary.

Astronaros stood slowly and crossed the space between us, kneeling beside me. His hand found mine. Warm. Real.

“We don’t have forever,” he said, voice steady. “But we have now.”

Dionysus glanced up at him, and for once, didn’t say something outrageous. He just nodded.

“I’m tired,” I murmured, my voice cracking with something I couldn’t name.

“Sleep,” Astronaros said gently.

I closed my eyes, head still against Dionysus’s shoulder. He didn’t move away.

And somewhere, deep in the forest, the night kept moving—unbothered by gods or grief, forever turning.