The Tyrant's Tomb

O insert name here
Please hear us and fill in blank
What is this, Mad Libs?
TYSON AND ELLA WERE not good at waiting.
We found them at the steps of Jupiter’s temple, Ella pacing and wringing
her hands, Tyson bouncing up and down in excitement like a boxer ready for
round one.
The heavy burlap bags hanging from a belt around Ella’s waist swung
and clunked together, reminding me of Hephaestus’s office desk toy—the
one with the ball bearings that bounced against each other. (I hated visiting
Hephaestus’s office. His desk toys were so mesmerizing I found myself
staring at them for hours, sometimes decades. I missed the entire 1480s that
way.)
Tyson’s bare chest was now completely covered with tattooed lines of
prophecy. When he saw us, he broke into a grin.
“Yay!” he exclaimed. “Zoom Pony!”
I was not surprised Tyson had dubbed Arion “Zoom Pony,” or that he
seemed happier to see the horse than me. I was surprised that Arion, despite
some resentful snorting, allowed the Cyclops to pet his snout. Arion had
never struck me as the cuddly type. Then, again, Tyson and Arion were both
related through Poseidon, which made them brothers of a sort, and…You
know what? I’m going to stop thinking about this before my brain melts.
Ella scuttled over. “Late. Very late. Come on, Apollo. You’re late.”