Mid-Siege, the Son of Ares Drained Our Sacred Fire for His Mistress

I died once already — hands and feet hacked off, thrown to the beasts of Tartarus by the God I married. Now the Moirai have spun my thread back to the morning it all begins. The monsters are clawing at our gates, and Hestia's sacred fire is the only thing that can burn them back. But my husband — king of this polis, son of Ares — has drained every spark of it to light starfire across the sky for his mistress's name-day. He won't hear me. He won't believe his own mother screaming for him at the wards. This time, I know exactly how everyone dies. This time, I'll make him watch what her fireworks cost.