The two days before his departure unfolded like an elaborate divine test of Donatos's resolve. Coincidence—if such a concept truly existed in the realm of gods—seemed determined to place him repeatedly in the path of the two goddesses who posed the greatest threat to his carefully constructed façade.
Morning found him polishing ceremonial spears in the eastern armory when the air shimmered with the distinctive silver glow that heralded Athena's arrival.
*
The Goddess of Wisdom materialized with characteristic precision, her form coalescing from motes of light that arranged themselves into perfect order—much like her thoughts, Donatos mused silently.
"Donatos," she acknowledged, her storm-gray eyes assessing him with unsettling thoroughness. "Your preparations for departure proceed as instructed?"
He bowed with practiced deference, careful to maintain every aspect of his servant's illusion. "Yes, Goddess Athena. I have arranged for my duties to be reassigned and packed my modest possessions."
She circled him slowly, her divine presence raising the fine hairs on his arms despite his growing power. Even in his former glory as Alexios, Athena had been a formidable entity—her intelligence often more dangerous than Zeus's raw power.
"You seem... composed for one whose life is about to change so dramatically," she observed, her tone neutral yet probing. "Most mortals would display more visible excitement."
Donatos offered a carefully calibrated smile—humble yet not servile. "I confess to internal exhilaration, Goddess. But I was taught that excessive display of emotion is unseemly in the presence of divinity."
"Taught by whom, I wonder?" Athena mused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Your mysterious scholar father, perhaps?"
The question carried subtle barbs. She was testing his fabricated background, probing for inconsistencies. Donatos maintained his calm expression while mentally reinforcing the details of his cover story.
"He quoted the philosopher Heraclitus often," Donatos replied, neither confirming nor denying her supposition directly. "That true wisdom lies in emotional restraint."
"Heraclitus." Athena's lips curved in the ghost of a smile. "A mortal who came closer than most to understanding divine perspective. 'Character is fate,' he once wrote."
"And 'The only constant is change,'" Donatos added before he could stop himself.
That penetrating gaze intensified. "You speak his words with surprising familiarity for a servant."
"Forgive me, Goddess. I overstep."
"No." Athena shook her head slightly. "You intrigue. Continue your preparations, Donatos. I suspect the Academy will prove... illuminating for us both."
With that cryptic statement, she departed—not in a dramatic flash but a gradual dissolution, as though reality itself were reluctant to release her presence.
Donatos exhaled slowly once she had fully vanished. Each interaction with Athena left him increasingly convinced that she suspected something—though what precisely, he couldn't determine. Her interest was too pointed, her questions too precisely targeted to be mere coincidence.
"She knows something," he murmured to the now-empty room. "But not everything. Not yet."
*
That afternoon brought an even more dangerous encounter. Assigned to arrange fresh flowers in the Hall of Reflection—a space where gods sometimes retreated for contemplation—Donatos worked methodically, organizing divine blooms according to their symbolic meanings and natural energies.
The scent reached him before her footsteps—roses intertwined with sea-foam, ancient and new simultaneously. His hands stilled momentarily on the stem of a golden narcissus.
"Aphrodite," he whispered to himself, reinforce my disguise.
He didn't turn as she entered, maintaining the proper protocol of a servant not acknowledging divine presence unless directly addressed.
But he felt her—oh, how he felt her. The maternal connection that transcended time and space tugged at something fundamental within him, threatening to unravel his careful deception through sheer emotional force.
"You again," the Goddess of Beauty observed, her voice carrying notes that stirred the flowers themselves to more vibrant color. "The servant from the archives. Donatos, was it not?"
He turned and bowed low, keeping his eyes downcast. "Yes, Divine Goddess. I am honored you remember a humble servant's name."
Aphrodite moved closer, her perfect features arranged in an expression of puzzled curiosity. Unlike Athena's calculated assessment, her scrutiny carried emotional weight—the instinctive recognition that preceded rational understanding.
"There is something about you..." she began, then shook her head slightly. "It eludes me, like a melody heard in dreams."
Donatos focused on arranging white lilies, keeping his movements steady despite his internal turmoil.
Every filament of his being yearned to reveal himself, to ease the sorrow that had shadowed her immortal radiance for seventeen years. To say, "Mother, I have returned."
"The flowers are particularly vibrant today," he commented instead, desperate to direct her attention elsewhere. "Perhaps responding to your divine presence."
"Perhaps." Her gaze remained fixed on him, searching. "Or perhaps responding to something in you."
The statement sent a chill through him. Divine flowers often recognized divine essence, regardless of concealment. Had his transformation progressed to the point where even plants betrayed his true nature?
"In me, Divine Goddess? I am merely a mortal servant."
Aphrodite reached past him, her fingers brushing a rose that instantly bloomed more fully at her touch. "Are you?" she asked softly.
"Curious, then, that these roses turn toward you as they do toward divine beings."
Panic flared briefly before Donatos mastered it. "Perhaps they merely seek the light from the window behind me."
"Perhaps." She didn't sound convinced. Her hand rose, hovering near his face without touching—a gesture so maternal it physically pained him to remain impassive. "You remind me of... but that's impossible."
"Divine Goddess?" he prompted when she fell silent, her expression distant with memory.
Aphrodite withdrew her hand, composing herself with visible effort. "Nothing of consequence to a servant. You will continue your duties elsewhere soon, I understand. Athena has claimed you for her Academy."
"Yes, Divine Goddess. I depart tomorrow."
Something flickered across her perfect features—disappointment? "I see. The Academy is... selective in its servants. You must possess qualities beyond the ordinary."
"I cannot claim to understand divine decisions," Donatos replied diplomatically.
"No." Her smile contained infinite sadness. "None of us truly can, even the divine ourselves."
She turned to leave but paused at the threshold. Without looking back, she added, "Should you ever feel... drawn to my temple on the eastern shore, you would be welcome. Some connections defy explanation, servant Donatos."
Then she was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of roses and painful memories.
Donatos released a shuddering breath, his illusion wavering briefly before he reasserted control. The encounter had taxed his restraint beyond measure. To stand before her, to see her recognition struggling against impossibility, to witness her maternal instinct reaching toward him despite all logic—it was exquisite torture.
"One day," he promised quietly. "One day when I'm strong enough to protect you, Mother. But not yet. Not when the truth would only endanger us both."