I Time-Traveled To Marry the God of War

Chapter 3: Demigods and Divine Miracles

“Greetings, Princess of Sparta. My name is Alastair. I am here to collect you.”

A young man in a sweeping red cloak bowed respectfully before me. He had dark, striking features and a head of unruly black hair. Dressed like a hardened Greek warrior, he wore form-fitting leather pants and a sleeveless tunic that showed off his arms. He carried a lethal-looking bow and a quiver of arrows, along with a short sword sheathed in pale deerhide at his hip.

He hadn’t come alone. Alastair brought two massive horse-drawn carriages overflowing with treasure: bolts of the finest Libyan silk, masterfully forged swords and daggers inlaid with heavy gemstones, exquisite jewelry, mountains of gold coins, and even several pristine marble statues. A literal king's ransom. These were the extravagant wedding gifts from the God of War to the King of Sparta.

I offered Alastair a measured, graceful bow—playing the part of Portia perfectly. But out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of my new 'brothers and sisters.' They couldn't even pretend to hide their greedy delight at the mountain of wealth. They giggled and whispered, some of them shamelessly marching right up to the carriages to inspect the loot like kids in a candy store.

“Mind your manners—they are the God of War’s envoys!” the King of Sparta hissed, his voice trembling. He didn't spare a single glance for the unimaginable wealth. His tear-filled eyes were locked entirely on me. It was tragically clear that no amount of gold would ever replace his beloved daughter.

“What exactly is your connection to the God of War? I assumed he would come to fetch me himself,” I asked, letting Portia's sweet, innocent tone mask my irritation. I mean, if you're forcing a girl into an arranged marriage and dragging her away from her home, the least you could do is show up in person. Sending an errand boy was just rude.

The Queen of Sparta panicked, hurriedly yanking on my silk sleeve.

“Watch your words, my child. We are speaking to Ares's messenger. The Lord of Battle is an Olympian god; he would never lower his divine status or set his majestic foot on mortal soil,” she hissed under her breath, terrified of the insult.

“I am a demigod, a blood relative of the Great God Ares. I am his loyal follower and his soldier,” Alastair declared smoothly. He very deliberately ignored my pointed question about his boss's absence.

*A demigod,* I thought. I immediately recalled the chaotic, boundary-less nature of the Olympian gods. The myths were full of them sowing their wild oats absolutely everywhere—with fellow deities and unsuspecting mortals alike. The children born from those divine hookups were the demigods.

I knew the A-listers, of course: Hercules, Perseus. Alastair was probably a C-list demigod, someone whose role wasn't quite heroic enough to make the final cut in the poets’ epic verses.

The gods basically took whatever—and whoever—they wanted. Surprisingly, the women who gave birth to these divine bastards weren't exactly shunned. Quite a few of those illegitimate kids grew up to be legendary kings, powerful queens, or unstoppable war heroes.

But thinking about Ares’s notoriously brutal and heartless reputation in the ancient texts, this whole formal arrangement felt entirely off-script. The God of War could have just swooped in, kidnapped me, and used me however he pleased. Then, once I was pregnant or he simply got bored, he could have tossed me out like trash.

He was a god, after all. Mortals didn't get to defy a god's will or put them on trial for their morality. And even though Ares was arguably the most hated deity in the pantheon, he was still one of the twelve almighty rulers of Olympus.

I couldn't stop racking my brain. What possible reason would drive the Lord of Battle to court Portia in such a highly traditional, respectable manner? Sure, she was Greece's reigning beauty queen, but that didn't seem like enough to make a savage god settle down.

Looking at this so-called divine envoy standing in the Spartan throne room, a sharp wave of skepticism hit me. Were these guys actually sent by Ares? What if this was an elaborate con pulled by some bitter mortal king or rejected prince? Portia's father had turned down practically every eligible bachelor in the Mediterranean. It would be a genius move to fake a divine mandate, knowing damn well the King of Sparta would never dare defy the gods.

“Prove it,” I challenged, staring dead into Alastair’s dark eyes. “Prove that you are truly the envoys of the god Ares, and not just emissaries from some king or prince of another realm.”

Alastair’s handsome face hardened into a mask of pure ice. He clearly did not appreciate a sheltered Spartan princess questioning his authority. But I had to push him. I refused to end up in the bed of some C-list nobleman playing dress-up who wasn't a suitable match for Portia.

Without breaking eye contact, Alastair slowly raised his right hand. A heavy fluttering sound echoed through the hall, and a massive, ugly vulture swooped in from behind the entourage, landing directly at my feet. Alastair reached into his pouch and pulled out a strange, glowing purple fruit that looked like a mutated strawberry. He tossed it to the scavenger, which swallowed it whole in a single gulp.

What happened next made my jaw drop. The entire palace hall bore witness to an impossible spectacle. The vulture began to violently tremble, throwing its dark wings wide. It unleashed an ear-piercing screech, looking like it had just been injected with a lethal dose of adrenaline. Thick, pulsating cords of muscle and swollen veins ripped through its skin, highly visible even beneath its coarse feathers. Right before our eyes, the creature’s body rapidly ballooned, mutating until it was nearly the size of a fully grown horse.

The vulture, now an absolute giant, shrieked again. It haughtily snapped its massive wings, generating a localized hurricane that sent objects flying across the room. Satisfied with the chaos, the beast hopped back to Alastair's side, its beady, lethal eyes locked onto me like I was its next meal.

The Spartans were utterly paralyzed by shock. They had just witnessed a literal divine miracle. Within seconds, every single person in the hall dropped to their knees in trembling worship. I knew from my research that the vulture was one of Ares’s sacred pets. Watching this impossible, monstrous transformation, I finally had to concede: they weren't fakes. They truly were Ares’s messengers.

Back in New York, I was about as close to an atheist as you could get. I usually identified as an agnostic, perfectly content not believing in any religion. To me, the sprawling epics of ancient Greek mythology were nothing more than pure nonsense. But having my soul miraculously shoved into the body of a Spartan girl named Portia had inevitably forced a major re-evaluation of my worldview. And now, I had just watched a bird turn into a giant with my own two eyes—a phenomenon I couldn't logically explain. Was this what they called magic?

*I’ll prove for myself whether the Olympians are real gods or not.*

My resolve hardened as I reached out to take Alastair’s waiting hand, letting him guide me toward the carriage.

As I walked, I couldn't stop the skepticism from creeping back in. Back in my own era, we had master illusionists. I had literally seen David Copperfield’s show firsthand, watching the man fly around a theater inside a bubble without a single safety harness. This whole giant vulture thing? It could very well be an incredibly sophisticated magic trick.

To these ancient Greeks, a flashy parlor trick or two was easily enough to amaze them, making them worship the magician as a deity. But it wasn’t going to be that simple for me.

Pausing, I flashed my best, most perfectly cinematic smile at Portia’s parents and family one last time. Then, I stepped up into the dark, heavily carved agarwood horse-drawn carriage.

The God of War’s massive, mighty horses instantly broke into a thunderous gallop, tearing away from the palace grounds. They moved with terrifying, impossible speed. By the time the King of Sparta and his troops snapped out of their stupor and tried to give chase, Ares’s entourage had already vanished without a trace.