Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was nearly the end of October, and Colorado wore autumn like a fading memory—amber leaves clinging to thin branches, wind whispering secrets across frost-stained fields. I pulled my hoodie tighter as I stepped off the trail and into the town of Navajo, a quiet speck tucked between pine-covered slopes and the snow-capped crests of Indian Peaks Wilderness.

I had left Camp Half-Blood weeks ago. No monsters had chased me this time. No flying horse. No prophecy hanging in the air like an axe above my head. Just... a name I couldn’t quite remember and a place that called to something in me, like a song I used to hum but couldn’t place the lyrics.

The streets were lined with faded storefronts—wooden beams sun-bleached and bowed with age. A diner sat on the corner, its windows fogged from warmth and time. A bead shop offered handmade turquoise jewelry in the display, and a weathered sign read “Four Winds General” across the local supply store.

It was the kind of town that made you feel like a stranger, even if you were coming home.

I didn’t remember much from when I was young. But something about this place pulled at me. The way the air smelled like sagebrush and pine. The way the mountains wrapped the town like a secret. A woman at a corner store smiled at me like she’d seen me before. I smiled back out of politeness, but it lingered longer than it should have.

I remembered lungs. Or maybe just breathing. Shallow, rapid. I remembered snow melting on my cheeks. Hands—soft, warm, small—reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

Had I been here before? Or was that memory a lie my brain stitched together from dreams?

I walked past an old community bulletin board with yellowed flyers and a hand-drawn map of the area. One corner was curled, and a red dot marked “You are here.” I wasn’t sure I believed it.

Maybe this town was where it all started. Maybe this was where she—my mother, the hunter who broke her oath—had come when she left Artemis. Maybe my father was still out there, a ghost among the pine trees, unaware he had a daughter. Or maybe he knew... and didn’t care.

The wind picked up again, brushing fallen leaves around my feet in circles. The bow slung across my shoulder felt heavier than usual, like it, too, remembered something I didn’t.

I had left Camp Half-Blood to find him. To find something. To prove I wasn’t just the girl my parents left behind.

I kept walking.

Somewhere in the distance, a crow called once—sharp and lonely.

And I followed it deeper into the town.

Colorado’s autumn bit like a quiet wolf—sharp in the early morning, but gentler under the midday sun. The air tasted like pine and old ash, and the wind carried the dry crunch of fallen leaves. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and kept walking through the small town nestled near Indian Peaks Wilderness. The main street looked like it had barely changed since the 1950s—wooden storefronts, a sleepy diner, and a gas station with an old rotary sign that squeaked when it turned.

It was the kind of place you didn’t just pass through—you either lived here your whole life or you forgot it existed. But I hadn’t forgotten. Not really.

I didn’t come here for the scenery. I came because something tugged me here. A feeling. A memory.

My boots crunched along a gravel path behind the town, near an old elementary school. The playground out back was rusted and worn—the kind with metal slides that burned your skin in the summer and wooden swing sets missing half their chains. But my feet moved on their own, taking me past the chain-link fence, right up to the patch of mulch under the climbing bars.

I stood there, still as a statue.

This place… I had slept here once. Maybe more than once. I could remember curling up under the platform where the kids used to play pirates, trying to keep warm with nothing but a worn hoodie. I must have been five? Six? There was a bitter chill even back then, but somehow the woodchips felt safer than the streets.

And I was alone.

Well… mostly.

The name came to me like a whisper in the wind, Silverpine.

That’s right. My name.

Not just Lyssa. Lyssa Silverpine. I hadn’t thought of that in years. I never used it at camp. Most demigods just used first names—less to lose that way. But hearing it now, it felt like it belonged to this town. Or maybe this town belonged to it.

I found a coffee shop on Main Street—one of those mom-and-pop places with yellowed blinds and mugs that never matched. I stepped inside, the bell chiming overhead as a couple of older folks looked up from their crossword puzzles.

The woman behind the counter had silver curls and kind eyes. She smiled, but her eyes narrowed a little as she studied me.

“Can I help you, hon?” she asked.

I cleared my throat, suddenly unsure if I even sounded confident. “Um. Do you… know anyone in town with the name Silverpine?”

The room went quiet. Even the radio crackling in the corner seemed to pause for a beat.

The woman’s smile faltered, just slightly. “That’s not a name I’ve heard in a long time.”

My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.

She leaned in, her voice lower now. “You one of his?”

I blinked. “One of whose?”

She didn’t answer. Just glanced at the back, toward a dusty hallway lined with old photographs and a door I suddenly felt very drawn to.

The woman didn't speak right away. She just turned and gestured for me to follow her. Her name tag said Marge. She walked slowly, like someone who carried more memories than muscle in her bones.

Down the narrow hallway behind the counter, the walls were lined with old photographs. Most were black and white, curling slightly at the edges, protected behind dusty frames. Families posing in front of cabins. Snow-blanketed streets from winters long gone. Smiling couples on porches. And in the center of it all—one photo stopped me in my tracks.

“That’s him,” Marge said softly, coming to stand beside me. “Christopher Silverpine.”

He looked like someone from a storybook—warm smile, kind eyes. Wavy dark hair, rolled-up sleeves, holding a toolbox in one hand and a child on his hip in the other. Something about him felt familiar, but distant, like remembering a voice from a half-forgotten dream.

“He wasn’t from here, not originally,” Marge went on. “Came through the mountains sometime in the sixties. Folk said he was a drifter, but he settled fast. Fixed roofs in the winter. Repaired radios. Volunteered with the fire watch. Took in strays—people and animals both.”

Her voice softened with something that sounded like awe.

“He helped everyone, whether they could pay or not. You needed food, he shared his pantry. If your truck died in a snowstorm, he'd hike five miles to pull it out. There was this calm to him. Like nothing ever rattled him. Never raised his voice. Never asked for anything in return.”

I kept staring at the photo. I felt something in my chest tighten.

“What happened to him?” I asked.

Marge’s expression darkened. “He was too good. And people don’t always like being shown who they aren’t. There was a man—Harlan Ditcher. Ran a logging crew back then. Rough sort. Had a mean streak. Christopher tried to get him to stop dumping waste in the river. Said the fish were dying, that the animals would suffer.”

She paused. “Next thing we knew, Christopher’s workshop caught fire one night. People said it was an accident, but everyone knew it wasn’t. Someone found Christopher’s coat out by the river two days later. Blood on the collar. No body, but… we all knew.”

I swallowed hard, staring at the warm eyes in the photo. “Was he married?”

Marge shook her head. “No, never. But he had a daughter. Sweet thing. Quiet. Always had her nose in books, or tried to climb trees twice her size. She couldn’t have been more than three when…”

She trailed off and pointed to another frame. It showed Christopher again, but this time, he was crouched in the grass beside a small girl with dark straight hair and a gap-toothed grin. She wore overalls and a red sweater. There was dirt on her cheeks, and she looked like she’d just tried to eat a pinecone for fun.

My throat dried. That was me.

I didn’t just look like her.

That was me.

Marge gave me a strange look. “She vanished the same night Christopher died. Some thought she ran off. Others said she was taken. Search parties went out for weeks. We never found a trace.”

I stared at the picture, my own face smiling back at me through time.

Christopher Silverpine.

My father.

Marge tilted her head, concern flickering in her eyes. “Why are you asking, sweetheart? Were you friends of his?”

I hesitated, then lied. “I think... I think he might’ve been my cousin. My mom didn’t talk much about our family.”

It sounded flimsy even to my own ears, but Marge seemed to accept it with a quiet nod.

“Christopher was a good man,” she said softly, almost reverently. “He deserved a long, happy life, not... what he got.”

I forced a small smile, though my chest felt like it was shrinking. “Do you—uh—know where the restroom is?”

She pointed toward the back hallway. “Down that way, last door on the left.”

I murmured a thanks and walked quickly, the weight behind my ribs growing heavier with each step. The hallway was dim, the sound of the creaky floorboards under my boots too loud in the silence. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The mirror greeted me with a face I barely recognized. My own eyes stared back, too wide, too tired. I turned on the faucet and splashed warm water over my face, but the heat only brought the tears closer.

I gripped the sides of the sink, knuckles pale, and the sobs came without warning—raw and silent. I didn’t want to make a sound, but it felt like something deep in me had cracked open. The image of the little girl in the photo flashed in my mind—my face, unmistakable, frozen in time beside a man I never got to know.

He didn’t abandon me. He didn’t leave. He was taken.

And I’d spent my whole life believing I wasn’t wanted.

I slid down the wall and buried my face in my knees. No thunder, no storm, just grief—ancient and fresh all at once.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. Eventually, I rose and washed my face again, letting the warm water rinse the tears away. I stared into the mirror a second time.

“Get it together,” I whispered.

I smoothed my jacket, tucked my hair behind my ears, and stepped out of the restroom, my heart still trembling—but quieter now.

Something had changed. I wasn’t just chasing a forgotten past anymore. I was reclaiming it.

I turned from the sink, ready to head back down the hallway, when something flickered in the mirror.

At first I thought it was just leftover tears warping my vision. But no—light shimmered along the edges of the glass, a faint iridescent hue, like sunlight catching the surface of a soap bubble. Then a golden streak arced across the mirror, forming a watery curtain.

An Iris Message.

I’d only seen one once before. It was a form of magical communication, sent by offering a drachma and calling to Iris, the goddess of the rainbow. Campers used it when they had no other way to send news.

The image crackled, static along the edges, then cleared.

Andros.

He was standing in front of the Big House back at camp, his expression tight with worry. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

“Lyssa?” His voice came through as if underwater. “Gods, please let this work. If you see this—”

I stepped closer. “I’m here,” I whispered.

Andros looked directly into the mirror, like he could see me. “Eli’s gone.”

I froze.

“What?”

“He disappeared two months ago. After... after everything with the gods, he left his cabin. We thought maybe he was just clearing his head, but—he never came back. Not to breakfast, not even to the woods...” His jaw clenched. “This time feels different.”

My breath caught in my throat. Eli—gone?

“He just vanished,” Andros continued, glancing over his shoulder. “No one knows where he is. Chiron’s worried. So am I.”

He hesitated, then added, “You’re the only one he trusted completely. If you’ve heard from him, or if you have any idea where he might be... please. Come back. Or tell us what to do.”

The rainbow shimmer flickered, the edges of the image unraveling into mist.

“Please,” he said one last time.

The mirror cleared.

And I stood there in the silence of the bathroom, staring at myself, the tears having dried but my chest now heavier than ever.

I wasn’t ready to go back.

But maybe the world didn’t care what I was ready for.

Chapter Text

The train hummed gently beneath me as Colorado faded into shadowed ridgelines and memory. I watched the landscape roll by—golden plains folding into rust-colored hills, the edges of the trees tinged with fire.

Autumn was dying. Leaves clung stubbornly to their branches, holding out against the inevitable. It reminded me of the way I held onto the name Christopher Silverpine, like it was something fragile and flammable I didn’t yet deserve to own.

He didn’t abandon me. That truth settled heavy in my chest like a weight and a gift all at once. The lie I’d told Marge—“I think we’re cousins”—still hung on my tongue like frost. But the truth was simpler. And crueler. He died before I ever got to remember him. And someone had made sure I forgot.

The windows fogged slightly as the train cut through New Jersey. No monsters. No monsters for once. Just quiet, yellowed skies and the smell of distant rain. I almost felt guilty for how peaceful it was. Like I was stealing silence that belonged to someone else.

By the time we pulled into New York, the city was already cloaked in gray. It wasn’t snowing, not yet, but there was that strange hush in the air that warned you winter was watching. I stepped off the train into the cold kiss of the platform lights, and there he was—Argus, impossible to miss, with his wide build and eyes covering every inch of his skin like constellations on flesh.

He didn’t speak. He never did. But he nodded once, slow and grave, like he somehow knew what I’d lost.

His car was the same as I remembered—an old green-and-white Chrysler station wagon, reliable, with a faint scent of leather and cedar, the inside lined with wards and faded seatbelts. As we drove, I leaned against the cold window. The city gave way to roads lined with skeletal trees and sleeping fields. It wasn’t long before the pine scent sharpened—the telltale boundary of Camp Half-Blood drawing near.

The barrier shimmered faintly, almost invisible unless you knew how to look. Argus pulled to a stop at the gravel road, and I stepped out, boots crunching over fallen needles. Camp smelled the same—like earth, and smoke, and something older than names. The trees bowed slightly as if in greeting. Or warning.

I stood there for a moment. Watching. Listening.

Camp was home. Even when it didn’t always feel like it. The scent of the strawberry fields hadn’t changed. Nor had the sound of distant laughter from the cabins—though thinner now, like a memory that forgot how to be whole.

I passed the training fields, the cabins, the Forge glowing dimly in the distance. The Big House loomed ahead like a lighthouse—part mansion, part mystery, wrapped in blue paint and ancient ivy. It looked older this time. Or maybe I just saw it differently now that I knew where I came from. Or where I didn’t.

The porch groaned softly under my boots. Chiron was already waiting by the door in wheelchair form, his tweed jacket worn at the elbows, his smile gentle and knowing. Mr. D sat beside him at a small table with a Diet Coke and an annoyed expression, flicking a playing card through the air as if it insulted him.

“Ah, Lyssa,” Chiron said warmly. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, offering a small nod. “Train ran late.”

“Of course,” Mr. D drawled, not looking up. “Mortals and their love of iron tubes. Delightful.”

I ignored him. I always did. If I let every jab he made get to me, I’d already be a pile of rage in Cabin Twelve.

“Do you ever smile, Mr. D?” I asked with a tight-lipped glare, mostly to myself.

“Do you ever go away?” he replied, barely glancing at me.

I said nothing back. I didn’t need to. He thrived on reaction, and I wasn’t in the mood to be his puppet. I simply crossed my arms and turned to Chiron, whose eyes were kind but concerned.

“They’re waiting in the rec room,” he said. “Go on.”

Inside, the air felt warmer. Familiar. The old wooden floors creaked underfoot as I made my way through the Big House, past framed sepia photos of campers and heroes who’d come before. The smell of parchment and old fireplace smoke clung to the walls.

Andros was the first to see me.

“Lyssa!” he stood quickly from the worn couch and rushed toward me.

He hugged me without asking, his strong arms folding around my shoulders. For a moment, I let him. It felt... grounding.

“You made it,” he said, voice softer than usual.

“Of course,” I murmured. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to get dragged into more prophecies.”

“Same,” Dorian chimed in from across the room, tossing his jacket onto the back of a chair. His black curls were windswept, his usual smugness dulled. “I flew in this morning. Took the earliest flight I could.”

“From California?” I raised an eyebrow.

He gave me a sheepish grin. “Woke up to an Iris message from Andros. Didn’t even pack a coat.”

Andros chuckled. “He looked like a tourist on the walk up.”

The laughter faded too quickly.

Then there was silence.

“So,” I said slowly. “Any news?”

Both boys exchanged a glance. Dorian rubbed the back of his neck.

“Nothing,” Andros finally admitted. “We haven’t heard from Eli since... since he left at the end of summer. Not a single Iris message. Not even a dream.”

Dorian nodded grimly. “Chiron’s tried to reach him. Even tried tracking. But it’s like he’s just... not on the map anymore.”

I sat down slowly, the weight of it hitting me harder than I expected.

Gone.

Just gone.

Like the last flicker of a campfire after midnight.

The room felt colder than before. Or maybe that was just me.

We all sat in a rough circle now. The fireplace crackled in the corner, the only sound for a moment besides the ticking grandfather clock. Dorian’s expression had changed—his usual cocky, Aphrodite-born smirk had vanished, replaced by something far more human.

He looked like he hadn’t slept.

“He’s been gone two months,” Andros finally said, voice low.

I blinked, turning to him sharply. “Two months?”

Andros nodded.

“Wait—what?” My voice came out sharper than I meant. “Why am I just hearing about this now?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Because we didn’t know. Not until this morning.”

Dorian leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms together like he could scrub away his nerves. “Chiron got a message early—really early. From Maria. Eli’s mom.”

My throat tightened at the name.

Andros continued, “She showed up near the camp border. She looked... worn. Desperate.”

“She said Eli disappeared the night he came home,” Dorian added softly. “They had dinner together—his favorite, roasted potatoes and grilled cheese. Everything seemed normal. But the next morning, when Maria checked his room... he was gone.”

I felt my chest tighten.

I stood, pacing. My hands clenched at my sides. “But that was two months ago. Why didn’t she come sooner? Why didn’t she tell us?”

“She’s been looking for him every day since,” Andros said, standing too, but keeping his tone calm. “She called the police, she went to the media, she searched hospitals. Chiron said it’s even been in the local papers—missing teenager, last seen wearing camp jewelry. But no one connected it. Not until she came here.”

I stared at the floorboards. The edges of my boots looked blurry.

Dorian’s voice cracked. “Chiron even sent out Thistlebranch.”

I blinked. “Who?”

“He’s new,” Andros answered. “A Satyr. He was assigned to help Eli when he returned home. But...” he hesitated. “Even Thistlebranch can’t find him. It’s like he vanished without a trail.”

Dorian stood now too. His eyes glistened, but he was holding it together in the only way Aphrodite kids knew how, tightly and beautifully. “Eli’s my boyfriend, Lyssa.”

“I know,” I whispered.

“He always finds light in things that scare the rest of us. He jokes about doom and monsters like they’re bedtime stories. And now he’s just gone. I don’t know how to handle that.”

A lump caught in my throat. I looked at both of them—Andros, with his steady eyes and responsible aura. Dorian, barely holding it together.

And then there was me.

“I judged her,” I muttered.

“What?” Andros asked gently.

“Maria. I thought she abandoned him. I thought she was one of those mortal parents who didn’t understand and didn’t want to. But she was... searching. All this time. She must be... losing her mind with worry.”

The guilt landed in my chest like a lead weight.

“She looked it,” Andros admitted. “She didn’t even care about Camp, or us. Just wanted to know if we’d seen him. If we could find him.”

Dorian turned toward the fire, staring into the flickering flames. “I don’t think he would’ve run. Not without telling someone. He loved his mom.”

I nodded slowly. “And us.”

The quiet returned, but now it was heavier. The kind that wraps itself around your ribs and doesn’t let go.

Andros finally said, “We’ll find him. We will. We’ve done impossible things before. We faced Lamia. The Cercopes. The Kers. You guys even made it through those damn Trials.”

“Barely,” I said under my breath.

“But we did,” Dorian added, straightening. “Eli believed in fate, even when it felt unfair. So now we believe in him.”

We all stood there, letting the silence sit a little longer. Not as strangers. Not as just demigods. But as people bound by something unspoken. Something sacred.

We weren’t just Eli’s friends.

We were the ones he trusted to carry his story when he couldn’t speak.

And right now, that silence was screaming.

“I think we need a quest,” I said. My voice didn’t shake, but it landed in the air like a stone dropped into a quiet lake—sharp, certain, and impossible to ignore.

Dorian glanced up from where he sat, his brows pinched with worry. Andros, standing by the window, didn’t turn around. The golden light from the late afternoon poured over his shoulders, and for a second, he looked like he’d aged ten years since I last saw him.

“Lyssa…” Andros finally said, still facing the window. “We can’t just go. We’re both unclaimed.”

I clenched my hands. “So? Since when has that ever meant we’re incapable?”

Andros turned then, eyes tired. “Since forever. You know the rules. Only claimed demigods get to lead a quests. Otherwise, we'd all be running off to fight monsters and disappear.”

“But Eli did it with us,” Dorian said, sitting up straighter. “Last summer. He was unclaimed at the time, too.”

Andros hesitated. “That was… an exception. The Oracle of Delphi spoke to him directly. A real prophecy. That’s what made it official.”

I stood up so fast my chair scraped against the wooden floor. “Then let’s talk to her.”

They both blinked.

“The Oracle,” I said again. “Let’s go to her. If she gave Eli a prophecy, maybe she’ll give us one, too. Maybe she knows where he is—maybe she’s waiting for us.”

“Lyssa…” Dorian whispered.

But I didn’t stop. “You know it’s true. We can’t just sit here, knowing Eli’s missing—knowing he might be in danger—and do nothing. I don’t care about the rules. If the gods won’t help, then we help each other. Like last time.”

A heavy silence followed, but not empty. It was full of weight—memory, fear, loyalty.

Andros stepped toward me. “We’ll talk to Chiron first,” he said calmly, the way a leader steadies a ship in stormy water. “He’ll know if the Oracle is even awake. We’ll tell him everything. If anyone can help us make this right, it’s him.”

I nodded, slowly sinking back into my chair. My chest still felt tight, like there was smoke trapped inside that couldn’t rise.

But at least we were moving again.

We weren’t giving up on him.

Not now. Not ever.

We didn’t wait.

The moment Andros gave the word, the three of us pushed open the Big House door and ran down the steps, our shoes crunching over fallen pine needles. The sky was the kind of dull gray that made everything look faded—like the world had been drained of color. Autumn in Camp Half-Blood had always been quieter than summer, but today it felt abandoned.

Chiron stood near the archery range, speaking with Mr. D, who was holding a Diet Coke like it was a glass of vintage wine. The god looked as bored as ever, but when he saw us running toward them, his eyebrows actually rose.

Chiron turned too, his expression already shifting to concern. “What is it?”

“We need to speak to the Oracle,” I said without preamble. My voice had an edge I couldn’t soften, not now.

Chiron’s brows knit together. “Lyssa…”

“No,” I said. “Please. We need a prophecy. Eli’s missing. We can’t just wait around.”

Dorian stepped up beside me, his jaw set. “We know the rules. But Eli was unclaimed last summer and the Oracle still gave him one.”

Andros, calm as ever, added, “We’re willing to take the risk. We need to try.”

Mr. D took a sip from his can and snorted. “Lovely. Another batch of children throwing themselves into danger for a friend who probably just forgot to call home.” He gave us a dry look. “You demigods are so dramatic.”

Chiron sighed. “Children, the Oracle does not work that way. You cannot demand a prophecy. The spirit of Delphi speaks to those it chooses, not those who choose it.”

I clenched my fists. “Then we’ll go stand in the attic until she notices us.”

Mr. D narrowed his eyes. “Oh, brilliant idea. Why not throw in a dance number while you're at it? Maybe that’ll summon Apollo too. He loves attention.”

“You don’t understand,” I snapped before I could stop myself. “We’ll do anything to save our friend. He matters more than your rules. He matters more than your sarcasm.”

Mr. D went still.

For a moment, the air felt like it dropped ten degrees.

Chiron shifted uneasily, but didn’t interrupt.

The look Mr. D gave me was different from his usual laziness. It was sharper. Dangerous. “Watch your tone, girl.”

I didn’t back down. My chest heaved, and I felt the heat of my anger rise into my throat, but I swallowed it like fire.

“He’s our friend,” I said, quieter this time but no less fierce. “You may be a god, but we’re the ones who bleed for this camp. For this world. And we’re not going to sit around while one of our own disappears.”

Thunder didn’t roll—but it felt like it should have. Mr. D’s gaze darkened. For a heartbeat, I saw something ancient and cruel behind his eyes, like ivy growing around a gravestone.

And then—

A burst of green light exploded from the attic window of the Big House. It shimmered through the glass panes and spilled over the porch roof like emerald fire.

All of us turned.

Chiron looked startled. “That’s…”

“The attic,” Andros breathed.

“The Oracle,” Dorian said, eyes wide.

Mr. D let out a long, very unamused sigh. “Oh, great. Now you’ve annoyed her.”

Chiron was already moving. “Come. Now.”

We followed him up the steps, two at a time, hearts pounding.

“I thought you said she chooses who she speaks to,” I whispered.

“She does,” Chiron said. “And apparently… she’s chosen you.”

Chapter Text

Dorian, Andros, and Chiron waited below. The stairwell groaned under my footsteps as I climbed toward the attic, each step slower than the last. The air thinned. I could already feel it — the charge of something ancient pressing against my skin, like the weight of time itself was trying to keep me out. My hand hovered for a moment before I pushed the trapdoor open.

It wasn’t a room. Not anymore.

It was a memory.

Dust hung like cobwebs in the air, but nothing moved. The space was cramped, but the moment I stepped inside, it felt endless. Faded drapes covered boarded windows. Old books and relics lined the walls — forgotten offerings to forgotten truths. And in the center, she sat.

The Oracle of Delphi.

Her frame was slight, cloaked in layers of threadbare silk that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Her eyes, though milk-white, looked straight through me, as if I were already a story she had read long ago.

Then the green mist began to rise.

It seeped from the cracks in the floor, coiling around her chair like vines awakening after centuries of sleep. The scent of smoke and myrrh filled my nose. My pulse quickened. The air changed — it was no longer the attic of Camp Half-Blood. It was Delphi. It was every prophecy ever spoken. Every doom ever whispered.

The mist pulsed, growing brighter, thicker, until—

I gasped.

The mist twisted upward, forming a shape — no, a figure. A face I have seen this morning.

“Dad?” I choked.

He looked exactly as I remembered, tall, sun-worn, the corners of his eyes soft with laughter that never fully reached his mouth. My chest tightened. Tears stung my eyes before I could stop them. I wanted to run to him, but I couldn't move.

This wasn’t really him.

It was the mist, just a puppet pulled from my grief.

But when he spoke, it was his voice, I suddenly remembered. “To the Underworld you must go, with power and healing to rescue the flame.”

Eli. He was still alive. Somewhere in that cursed place.

“A lurking danger waits below, but not the foe you think you know.”

I flinched. My breath caught.

My mind instantly went to Hades, the Lord of the Dead. But no—that was too easy.

“A mirrored fate the gods may give, yet the veiled one won't let you live.”

Mirrored fate. My gut twisted. Eli had been spared. Given a second chance. Was this warning me that I might be offered the same?

Or that I wouldn’t?

The veiled one.

Kerostes.

The mist began to fade. My father’s eyes met mine one last time. There was no smile. No goodbye. Only sorrow.

“Wait—” I whispered.

But he was already gone, dissolving into the mist like breath in cold air.

The Oracle slumped forward, her task complete. Silence settled like snow.

I stood frozen, the attic spinning gently around me.

Then I whispered the words again, tasting their weight for the first time.

“To the Underworld you must go, with power and healing to rescue the flame. A lurking danger waits below, but not the foe you think you know. A mirrored fate the gods may give, yet the veiled one won't let you live.”

They echoed off the attic walls like an oath — not just a warning, but a beginning.

I turned back toward the stairs.

Chiron stood at the bottom of the attic steps, flanked by Andros and Dorian. The three of them looked up as I approached, the air heavy with what none of us were saying.

I didn’t stop walking.

Andros didn’t ask where I was going. Dorian didn’t make a joke to lighten the tension. They both stepped aside, quiet, like they understood this was something I had to say to Chiron alone.

Then I said the prophecy.

His eyes didn’t widen. He simply nodded, like a chess player moving a piece they knew they’d sacrifice. When I told him I had already chosen my companions — Andros and Callie — he said nothing at first.

Then, softly, “You trust them.”

“I do,” I said. “Even if I don’t trust where we’re going.”

There was no need for a formal announcement. Most campers had already left for school. Only a few lingered — the year-rounders, the ones with nowhere else to go. There would be no camp-wide attention.

Just a quiet choice. And a ticking clock.

I didn’t speak to anyone the rest of the afternoon. Not even Andros or Dorian. Especially not Dorian.

I watched the sun dip behind the trees from Cabin Twelve's porch, feeling the shadows grow longer in my chest.

That evening, the dinner fire blazed in the center of the pavilion, golden and warm. The long tables were nearly empty, the soft clatter of plates against wood quieter than it had been all summer. Campers sat scattered like fallen leaves, speaking in low murmurs. The sky above shimmered in a deep indigo, stars beginning to blink into place.

As tradition demanded, I scraped a portion of my food into the brazier — warm lentil stew and a crisp apple wedge — and whispered, “For you, whoever you are.” The smoke curled upward into the sky, the scent sweet and smoky.

Then I sat.

I didn’t eat much.

Andros sat beside me, eyes flicking sideways, waiting. He didn’t ask anything until the offerings were done, until the embers danced low and only the faintest chatter echoed across the tables.

"You're really not gonna tell me what's going on?" he said finally.

I exhaled. “I need you.”

He blinked. “You… what?”

I turned toward him, the words slow. “You’re the one with power. That prophecy—it was clear. I need you and Callie. Eli… he's in the Underworld. He's alive. But he’s trapped.”

A muscle moved in his jaw. “Then let's save our brother.”

I nodded once. Eli, Andros and I are not technically siblings. We are bunkmates at the Hermes cabin. A bunch of unclaimed and forbidden half-bloods.

He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. He just leaned back and stared into the fire.

Across the pavilion, Dorian sat at the Aphrodite table. Alone.

His siblings were all gone—swept away to their modeling gigs, private schools, or whatever drama-filled prep academies their mortal parents enrolled them in. The table sparkled with polished silver and rose-scented perfume mist, but no one sat beside him.

He poked at his food like it had personally offended him, then glanced over at us.

If looks could kill…

He looked like he was seconds away from throwing his goblet across the pavilion. It would’ve been dramatic—very Heathers of him. I could practically hear the movie trailer voice, “In a world full of pastel sweaters and high school cliques… one boy just wants a sword and a boyfriend.”

I didn’t even know what Heathers really was. Most of the outside world still felt like a blur of static to me. But Brian Swift from Cabin Twelve had explained the movie to me once, in between flirting and sharpening a dagger. He always talked like a voice-over for a commercial, full of exaggerated suspense and sparkle. I never fully followed the plot, but I remembered the feeling — all that sarcasm wrapped around something dark. Somehow, it made sense now.

I looked away before Dorian caught me staring.

Tomorrow, I’d have to tell him too.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I needed silence.

The night passed faster than I expected.

No strange dreams. No visions clawing at the edges of my sleep. Just a quiet, aching kind of peace—a memory, not a warning.

Eli, Dorian, and I, last summer. Hiking through a pine trail. I remembered how Eli had pointed out every mushroom we passed like it was some kind of divine relic. Dorian groaned the whole way, but he never walked more than a step behind him. I just trailed behind them both, pretending not to smile. Pretending I didn’t feel completely… safe.

When I opened my eyes, morning had already settled over camp.

Everything felt still. A calm kind of quiet—the kind you don’t want to breathe too loud in, or it might disappear.

Birdsong echoed gently through the trees, light and scattered. Somewhere in the strawberry fields, I could hear a satyr humming softly to the plants, his voice drifting up like steam from a cup of tea. The strawberries always responded to music that was one of the first things I’d learned at camp. Not how to fight. Not how to aim. But how to listen.

I stayed in bed for a moment longer, watching the light stretch across the ceiling of the Hermes cabin.

Today, everything changed.

The rest of the morning passed in silence, at least for me.

I packed what I needed, a hunting knife, my bow and arrow, a canteen, ambrosia squares tucked in wax paper, and the small pouch of lavender Eli gave me last summer. I didn’t cry. Not when I zipped up the old leather satchel, not when I checked the sword I barely knew how to use. I didn’t cry because I had already done that last night—alone, where no one could see.

By the time the sun reached the top of the sky, the campers were already gathering near the Big House. Less than thirty of them now, scattered and quiet, lined up on either side of the path. It felt wrong, how small we were. Camp used to be louder—fuller. But with most of the demigods pulled back into the mortal world, all that was left were the ones who didn’t fit cleanly into the world outside.

I stepped forward, my boots crunching the path.

“It’s time,” I said, clearing my throat. “The Oracle gave me a prophecy yesterday.”

A few murmurs passed through the crowd. Chiron stood off to the side, arms crossed solemnly, watching.

I took a breath and spoke the prophecy the Oracle said last night.

I let the silence hang for a moment before continuing.

“I choose Andros Heron,” I said, meeting his gaze. “He carries the strength we’ll need.”

A couple of smirks broke out near the Ares cabin line. Someone coughed something that sounded like, “Momma’s boy,” but Andros didn’t flinch.

“And I choose Callie from Apollo cabin,” I added. “I need a healer.”

Callie raised her hand like she was in school. “Finally. My moment. Please tell me this quest doesn’t involve swamps—my hair can't handle that again.”

A few campers chuckled softly. Even I allowed a ghost of a smile.

Then I looked at Dorian.

His face was stone. Not angry—yet. Just waiting.

“The rest of you are dismissed,” Chiron said gently.

The crowd began to dissolve. People whispered, footsteps trailed off, and before I could escape down the path back to Hermes cabin, I felt a hand grab my wrist—tight, urgent.

“Lyssa,” Dorian hissed, pulling me behind the Big House, out of view.

His eyes burned. “You’re going to the Underworld. And you didn’t pick me?”

“I—”

“You know Eli is—he’s—” He stopped himself, voice cracking. “He’s mine. And you’re leaving me behind.”

“I’m following the prophecy, Dorian.” My voice was level, but it hurt. “I didn’t choose this. The Oracle—”

“Screw the Oracle!” he snapped. “What has prophecy ever done but ruin us?”

I looked away. “I chose Andros because he’s power. I chose Callie because she’s the only healer here. That’s what the prophecy said.”

“And me?” His voice dropped. “What am I, Lyssa? Just the angry boyfriend?”

“You’re—” I swallowed. “You’re the one who would walk through Tartarus barefoot to save Eli. And that’s why I can’t bring you.”

His face twisted. “That makes no damn sense.”

“Yes, it does,” I whispered. “If you came, and something happened to him before we got there… You’d tear the Underworld apart. You’d get yourself killed.”

He looked like he wanted to scream, but instead his fists just trembled.

“You cried last night,” I said gently. “When you thought no one was watching. I saw you on the hill. And you love him more than anyone ever could. That’s why we’ll bring him home—for you.”

Dorian’s lip quivered. He looked away. “I should be there.”

“I know.”

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, finally, he breathed out, slow and tight. “Bring him back. Promise me.”

I stepped forward and hugged him. For once, he didn’t pull away.

“I promise,” I whispered. “We’ll bring him back. I swear it on the Styx.”

He let go first, wiping at his face quickly, pretending it was nothing. “You better,” he muttered. “Tell Callie if she lets you die, I’ll never heal her acne again.”

A tight smile passed between us. “We’ll be back before dinner,” I lied.

“Yeah,” he said, voice almost steady now. “Bring him home, Lyssa. Bring him home or don’t bother coming back.”

We left after lunch.

There was no dramatic send-off, no fireworks or crowd of well-wishers. Just a few quiet nods from the campers who remained, and Chiron watching from the porch of the Big House, arms folded and gaze heavy.

Andros walked beside me, his bronze shield strapped to his back, his mouth set in a line. He hadn’t spoken much since the announcement—not out of protest, but out of focus. He always moved like a storm brewing—silent, controlled, but never still.

Callie trailed a step behind us, dragging a beat-up duffel patched with Apollo sunbursts and what looked suspiciously like a Ghostbusters pin.

“I just want it noted,” she said, shifting the strap over her shoulder, “that I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart and not because I’ve been bored out of my mind watching sword practice while the camp radio loops The Final Countdown.”

Andros huffed softly. “You’re very generous.”

“I know,” Callie said, grinning. “I also brought some ambrosia, duct tape, bandages, and Sweet Valley High number 14. Just in case one of you gets impaled and I need to read something while you’re unconscious.”

I almost smiled. Almost.

We walked past the strawberry fields and the border trees, the scent of pine and summer growing thicker with every step. The road stretched ahead like a promise—one we couldn’t break, even if we wanted to.

I stopped.

“We need to visit someone first,” I said quietly.

Then I kept walking.

Chapter Text

Argus dropped us off just outside Grand Central Terminal, his hundred eyes blinking in slow farewell like a glitching neon sign. As he pulled away, the silence settled over us like thick fog—tangible, reluctant, uncomfortable.

“Well,” Callie broke it with a sigh, hoisting her bag over one shoulder, “nothing screams ‘epic quest’ like Manhattan traffic fumes and a full day of walking before 2 p.m.”

Andros adjusted the strap of his pack, his expression unreadable. “This isn’t a sightseeing trip.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t important,” Callie retorted. “I’m just saying if I don’t get a pretzel or a postcard, I’m filing a complaint with Olympus HR.”

He frowned. “That’s not a thing.”

“That’s not a thing.” she said mockingly.

I stayed quiet. Their banter helped—made things feel almost normal—but it didn’t change the weight in my chest. I was focused. The address Chiron gave me was burned into my mind.

The train to Poughkeepsie rattled like it might fall apart, but it got us there. We didn’t talk much on the ride, not after the first few stops. I kept replaying how I would explain it—how I would tell a mother her son was in the Underworld, but not dead. I wondered what she would see in our faces: hope, fear, or a promise we might not be able to keep.

Callie, never one for long silences, tapped her fingers on the seat edge. “So, uh… no one’s going to ask what happens if we knock on this lady’s door and she calls the cops?”

“She won’t,” I murmured.

Andros looked at me from the window seat, brow raised. “You’re sure?”

I nodded. “I have a feeling.”

Callie smirked. “Well, that’s reassuring. A feeling. Definitely won’t end in handcuffs and pepper spray.”

“I’ll talk to her,” I said. “Alone, at first.”

“Just… maybe don’t say the phrase ‘Underworld’ right away,” Callie offered. “Ease her in. Like, ‘Hi, your son’s not exactly dead—he’s in the mythological DMV.’”

Andros let out a soft exhale—almost a laugh. Almost.

“I’m serious,” she said, poking him lightly. “You think mortals just take ‘Underworld quest’ in stride?”

Andros shifted his gaze back to the window. “No. I think it’s hard enough being told your kid’s missing. We should be honest, but careful.”

I appreciated that. Underneath his battle-hardened vibe, he got it.

When the train pulled into Poughkeepsie, the afternoon sun cast long shadows over the quiet streets. The town was quieter than I expected—quaint even. A little tired.

We walked past a gas station and a small grocery store, then through a block of brick apartment buildings, until we turned onto a residential street.

“She lives here?” Callie asked, looking around. “This is… way more normal than I imagined.”

“She works at a diner,” I said. “Or did. Chiron said she stopped going in after Eli went missing.”

Two months. That was how long it had been since Eli vanished. Two months without a word, a clue, a goodbye.

The silence that followed that hit like a dropped stone.

Finally, we turned the corner, and there it was—a squat, aging building with ivy crawling up its outer walls and a dented mailbox that read “Stavros, Apt. 2C.”

I stopped at the foot of the steps.

“Well,” Callie said, her voice softening, “no turning back now.”

Andros looked at me. “You’re sure you want to do this alone?”

I nodded. “Just the first few minutes.”

I reached into my pocket and gripped the paper with her name and address—creased now from being held so tight. My other hand rested on the railing.

“I owe her the truth,” I whispered. “And she deserves to know her son hasn’t been forgotten.”

The three of us stood still for a beat at the foot of the building, the sky beginning to bruise into evening, the streetlight buzzing quietly.

Then, I took the first step.

I buzzed the intercom button—the one labeled 2C Stavros—and stepped back, my heart thudding harder than it had any right to.

There was a faint click and the door creaked open.

A woman stood in the narrow entryway, cradling something on her hip. At first, I thought it was a bundled toddler. Then I saw the tiny hooves and stubbed horns peeking from beneath a crocheted shawl.

A baby satyr.

The woman’s eyes locked on mine. They were soft brown, but rimmed with exhaustion. I recognized them immediately. I’d seen those eyes before—on Eli. Hers were older, wearier, but held the same gentle steadiness. Her hair was a curtain of long, dark curls, a grown version of his wild mop.

“Yes?” she asked cautiously, still rocking the satyr.

“You must be Mrs. Stavros?” I asked.

Her brows knit together, uncertain. She shifted the satyr against her shoulder.

“Are you looking for an apartment?” she asked. “You seem young. Thirteen?”

“Twelve,” I confirmed.

She glanced back down the hallway, then opened the door wider. “The landlord’s unit is at the end of the hall. Apartment 1E. Come on, follow me, we can discuss the available units upstairs.”

Before I could explain, she was already walking, and I followed.

We moved through the dim, echoing corridor of the first floor. The wallpaper was faded rose, peeling in some corners, and the ceiling lights flickered like they hadn’t been replaced since the '70s.

She stopped in front of 1E—the apartment on the corner—and adjusted the baby satyr again. “It used to belong to Kreon,” she said offhandedly, not turning to face me. “Now it’s from our new landlord, Mr. Thistlebranch but he’s on a business trip.”

She was about to open the door, then paused as I finally found my voice.

“Mrs. Stavros… I’m not here to rent a place.”

She turned slowly.

I drew a breath. “I’m a friend of Eli’s. From Camp Half-Blood.”

There it was—the moment. Her eyes widened, but not in disbelief. There was something else there. Stillness. Fragility.

She stared at me, lips parting like she might speak. But instead, she stepped back from the door of 1E and gestured wordlessly toward the stairwell.

Without a sound, we went up one flight and down the hall to 2C.

She unlocked it with trembling fingers and let me inside.

The apartment was modest. Clean, but worn. A tiny living room folded into a kitchen nook. A couch covered in an old plaid blanket. Framed pictures on the wall—a younger Eli grinning with a smudged face, a snapshot of Kreon mid-laugh, a photo I guessed was from Eli’s first day at school.

On the coffee table sat a chipped mug with cold tea.

She placed the satyr down on a cushioned basket by the couch and turned to me.

“Tell me,” she said simply.

And I did.

I told her everything—the prophecy, the train, the attack, the cursed hotel. About Kreon. About Kerostes. About how Eli wasn’t gone but trapped. Somewhere deep in the Underworld, past where any of us had dared go.

I told her about the plan to reach him. That we weren’t giving up.

She didn’t interrupt. She just listened, her expression unreadable.

When I finally paused, her voice was soft. “And you believe you can reach him?”

“Yes,” I said. “We will reach him. But we need help. Anything you might have. Something Eli left behind. A journal. A drawing. A dream he told you about. Something only a mother might’ve noticed.”

She moved slowly, crossing to a shelf above the television. From a small wooden box, she pulled out a folded orange T-shirt, faded from washing. A camp necklace with one bead. Kharma, Eli’s weapon.

She handed me the necklace. “I always knew the camp was real,” she whispered. “Kreon told me—just enough to keep Eli safe. He said there was a place for children like him, if the time ever came.”

She sat down, cradling the box in her lap.

“Eli talked about strange things when he was little. Powers he didn’t understand. Then he stopped. Got quieter. But I’d still find signs—scorched patches of grass in the yard, cracked stones like something had exploded. He never knew why. Never knew her.” Her voice caught. “I did. I didn’t tell him Hestia watched over us.”

I turned to her slowly.

“She came to me,” Maria said. “When I had nothing left. She didn’t speak like a goddess. Just... like a woman with a question. She asked if I wanted a child. I said yes. And not long after… Eli was there. Inside me.”

“It wasn’t just poetic,” I said softly. “She’s his mother.”

Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t drop the box. She let out a breath that sounded like it had been caught in her chest for weeks.

“Do you need me to come?”

“No,” I said gently. “But your strength helps more than you know.”

She nodded, silent.

The baby satyr stirred and yawned. She glanced toward him and smoothed the curls from his forehead.

“This is Grover,” she said softly. “Thistlebranch’s son. It was his first day as Eli’s guide. Poor thing didn’t even get to settle in before everything went wrong.”

She let out a breath, eyes distant. “It happened so fast. Eli disappeared, and Thistlebranch… he went looking for him.” Her voice caught. “Said he had to. That the camp has to know. That someone needed to follow the signs. He left Grover with me—just handed him over, like he knew he wouldn’t be back anytime soon.”

She tucked Grover’s blanket around him as he let out a sleepy bleat.

“I told him I’d keep the little one safe. And I called the police. Filed a report. It’s all over the local news now—missing boy, vanished. No leads. No explanation.”

She looked up, dark circles under her eyes. “But I knew. I knew it wasn’t something normal. Not with Eli. Not after everything.”

Grover stirred again, nuzzling into her shoulder.

“Thistlebranch hasn’t come back yet either,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper. “And the camp only found out yesterday when I went there. I thought Thistlebranch already informed them, but he might be in trouble like Eli.”

My throat tightened. “We’re going after him… them,” I said gently. “Eli and Thistlebranch. We’re going to find them and bring them home.”

“I’ll pray for you,” she murmured. “To whoever still listens.”

I stood. “We’ll bring him back. I promise.”

She followed me to the door, resting her hand briefly on my shoulder. Her touch was light, but firm.

“You’re brave,” she said. “He needed someone like that in his life.”

Outside, the dusk had deepened into night.

I stepped back outside Maria’s apartment, the late afternoon sun filtering through the branches of a tired oak tree just beyond the sidewalk. The camp necklace Maria had given me—a simple leather cord with one bead threaded through it—hung in my hand. The bead was painted with a tiny flickering hearth, the symbol of his first and only summer at Camp Half-Blood.

It was warm from my grip, like it remembered him.

Andros and Callie sat on the front steps of the building, each nursing a bottle of flat soda we’d picked up at a corner store vending machine. Callie looked up first, her brows lifting with her usual half-curious, half-concerned expression.

“Was she okay?” she asked. “I mean, relatively speaking.”

I nodded once, then sat down beside them. “She’s strong. Tired. Scared, but… strong.”

Andros didn’t look at me, just stared out at the cracked sidewalk. “Did she believe you?”

“She did,” I said quietly. “She already knew about Hestia. About Camp. She didn’t say much, but... she was chosen, in a way. Hestia offered her a child. A soul. That’s how Eli came to be.”

Callie blinked, leaning forward slightly. “Wait, like... offered her a kid? Like a divine adoption pamphlet? That’s so intense. I thought Eli was just—well, not normal, obviously, but—”

“It wasn’t normal,” I said. “It was something more. Something dangerous to the gods.”

I let that settle before continuing. “Thistlebranch, the new satyr assigned to him. He’s missing too.”

That made Andros turn his head. His jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “Missing?”

“He went looking for Eli when he disappeared. Left his son—Grover—with Maria. Said he had to follow the signs.”

Callie made a low sound in her throat. “So now we’re one demigods and one satyr short. Love that for us.”

“This could be connected,” I said. “Hades and the Underworld. If he knew Eli’s identity early, if he wanted to isolate him... taking Thistlebranch out of the equation makes sense. But why?”

“I don’t like it,” Andros muttered. “Too many moving pieces. Too many gaps.”

“Yeah,” Callie said, pulling her knees up to her chest. “I mean, what kind of villain messes with the interns? It’s not like Thistlebranch was armed to the teeth.”

“He might’ve been,” Andros said. “Satyrs have their ways.”

“Still,” Callie said, nudging a pebble with her sneaker. “This is officially less ‘epic quest’ and more ‘divine missing persons report.’”

I looked at the bead again. It caught the light—just faintly—as if the painted flame still burned. I suddenly wished it were a compass. Or a portal. Or something that could tell me how close we were to him.

“I don’t think we can afford to go back to camp,” I said. “Not yet. We need to follow the trail while it’s warm.”

Andros nodded, eyes narrowing in focus. “Where to next?”

“We need to find the entrance to the Underworld,” I said, fingers closing tighter around the bead in my hand.

Andros didn’t move. He stood by the window of the building, arms folded, his reflection lost in the glass. “Assuming that’s even possible. Where do we find it?”

Callie made a face. “I mean, we could try asking the next skeleton we see for directions. Preferably one that doesn’t want to eat us.”

I shot her a look, but it wasn’t sharp. Her humor kept the air from collapsing in on us. Still, the truth pressed in heavy.

We didn’t know where Eli was. We didn’t know what had taken him or how. Only that he was gone. And none of us were willing to believe that meant gone.

The silence that followed was thin and brittle.

Then it hit us—the smell.

A sudden breeze drifted in through the air. Rich. Spiced. Smoky. Something was cooking—heavily seasoned meat, citrus, something almost floral. I blinked, startled.

Callie’s head turned like a bloodhound catching a scent trail.

“Okay, I know this is serious,” she said, standing. “But if we are about to try and descend into the land of the dead, I at least want to do it after I’ve had a good plate of fries. I will not face Hades on an empty stomach.”

Andros raised a brow. “You’re thinking about food now?”

“Have you met me?” Callie grinned, already heading toward the corner of the streets. “Also, that smell is divine.”

I exhaled and followed. We had no answers—no leads. But we had our feet, and we had a scent trail that was weirdly hard to ignore.

We walked down the street, past rows of dim buildings and flickering streetlights. The scent got stronger—ribs? Whatever it was, it curled into our noses and tugged us forward. Even Andros looked a little curious now.

Then we saw it.

A diner stood at the corner, glowing in the fog like a bad omen and a promise. Neon lights buzzed in pale pink and acid green, casting eerie shadows on the sidewalk. The sign overhead said:

THE UNDERWORLD GRILL

“Food So Good, It’ll Kill Ya!”

Beneath it, a cracked vinyl logo—a juicy pomegranate split wide open, its seeds spilling red onto a white ceramic plate shaped like a gravestone.

I stared.          

“…Are you kidding me?”

Chapter Text

We crossed the street under a flickering lamplight, the neon sign buzzing above like it was trying to warn us. Callie stopped just to read the tagline out loud and let out a giggle-snort. Andros didn’t even flinch.

I peeked through the window, expecting cobwebs and skeleton waiters or, I don’t know, something infernal. But it was... sleek. Modern. It had the vibe of a restaurant that charged extra for butter. There were velvet booths, real candles, and menus that looked like they were printed on pressed leather. What kind of death-themed diner had a wine list?

I pushed open the door where it has something written on it—“Souls Accepted”, and that’s when we saw him.

A man stood behind a polished mahogany podium, back straight like a dagger. His suit sparkled faintly under the dim lights—a fully sequined Versace jacket, no less, catching every candle flicker like stardust. His sunglasses were Cartier—yes, sunglasses. At night. Indoors. Because of course.

He smiled the way snakes might smile, all teeth and charm.

“Welcome to the Underworld Grill,” he said, voice smooth as a vinyl record. “Where food’s so good, it’ll kill ya. I’m your host for the evening. Table for how man—”

He paused, tilted his glasses down the bridge of his nose, and looked at us fully.

“Ugh. Demigods.”

Andros tensed beside me.

“What do you want?” the man asked, all patience suddenly vanished.

Callie leaned in. “Are you, like… Hades?”

The man looked positively offended. He placed a glittery hand on his chest and said, in the most theatrical deadpan I’d ever heard,

“Girl, do you think I’m the Lord of the Underworld? Me? In a sparkly Versace jacket?”

Andros stepped forward, arms crossed. “How did you know we’re demigods?”

The man—Charon, apparently—raised a perfectly groomed brow above his sunglasses and sniffed with theatrical flair.

“I caught a whiff,” he said, waving a hand in the air like it offended him. “Same scent as the guy in—”

He paused, lips twitching, as if realizing he’d said too much.

“Never mind. Probably not important.”

I narrowed my eyes. “The guy in what, exactly?”

He smiled, too glossy and rehearsed. “Sweetheart, there are things you don’t want to know before dessert.”

I folded my arms. “If you’re not Hades, then who are you?”

With a dramatic sigh, he stepped back and gestured with both hands, like we were supposed to know.

“My name is Charon. C-H-A-R-O-N,” he said, spelling it out like a teacher calling roll.

“Pronounced KARE-on. Not ‘Sharon.’ Not ‘Karen.’ Not ‘Chiron’, I’m not a centaur.”

Callie tilted her head. “Wait… the Charon? Like the boat guy? River Styx? Ferryman of the dead?”

Charon gave a modest bow. “Yes, darling. The original travel agent for souls. One-way trips only.”

“But… what are you doing here?” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be down in the Underworld, you know… ferrying?”

Charon huffed, adjusting the collar of his shimmering Versace jacket. “It’s almost Halloween, missy. And this time of year, things get… complicated.”

“Complicated?” Andros repeated.

“Oh, yes.” Charon twirled his finger in a slow circle. “The barrier between worlds gets thinner. Spirits get restless. The usual nonsense. I just came up early to prepare. Also, I like the coffee in this part of town.”

Callie raised an eyebrow, pointing at the flashing sign outside. “That sign’s not exactly low-key. Neon pomegranates? The tagline literally says ‘So good it’ll kill you.’”

Charon gave a sly smile. “That’s because it’s not meant for mortals. They see a cozy diner with a peeling menu and a jukebox that skips. But you? You see it for what it really is.”

“But… who’s doing the ferrying down there?” I asked, motioning vaguely toward the floor like it led straight to the Underworld.

Charon raised an amused brow over his sunglasses. “Relax, darling. You’re not the HR manager of the dead. Things are running smoothly, I am ferrying the souls I assure you.”

I blinked. “Wait—are you saying you can be in two places at once?”

Charon leaned against the hostess podium, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle on his glittering Versace sleeve. “This time of year? I’m everywhere with the help of Lord Hades’ magic. Here with you fine folks, and over in California, taking a mortal’s burger order at a joint near this record shop near Sunset Boulevard. Place is called DOA—Dead on Arrival. Very punk, very edgy.”

He rolled his eyes fondly, as if the memory amused him. “The mortals love that place—think it’s all rock and roll and underground concerts. Which, I mean, technically it is underground, if you know what I mean. It is the entrance after all—”

He cut himself off abruptly, lips snapping shut like a mousetrap.

I blinked. Gotcha.

Thank you for telling us exactly where to go next.

Callie tapped her chin. “Okay but like... what exactly happens during Halloween? Do the dead just... rise up and party?”

Charon tilted his head at her, grinning. “You ask too many questions, sugar. What if I take your orders first, hm? Then we’ll see if you’ve earned storytime.”

Andros stepped forward, arms tense, his jaw tight. “Is this a trap? I’ve read the stories—eat anything from the Underworld and you’re stuck. That’s the rule, right?”

Charon scoffed, actually scoffed, and waved a dismissive hand. “Relax, bronze boy. You’re not in the Underworld yet. This place is still firmly on the mortal side. ZIP code and everything. You can eat any food here, I swear on the River Styx. Just don’t forget to pay.”

Callie’s eyes narrowed. “So it’s like... an Underworld satellite location?”

He grinned wider. “Think of it as... a themed franchise.”

My stomach growled loudly enough for them all to hear.

Charon chuckled. “See? That’s what I thought. You’re hungry. And not just metaphorically. Honestly—don’t your parents feed you?”

The silence between us answered that for him.

“Ohhh right,” he added with a flourish. “They’re not the hands-on types, are they? Up there in their ivory thrones, looking down from the Empire State. Classic absentee divine parenting. Sad, really.”

Andros glared. “Watch it.”

Charon raised his hands in mock surrender, bracelets jingling. “No offense, sweetheart. I love the gods. They keep me in business.”

I sighed, letting the tension loosen in my shoulders. “Fine. We’ll eat. But if I find a pomegranate seed in my salad, I’m flipping this table.”

Charon winked. “That’s the spirit.”

He turned on his heel and strutted into the dining room, leaving behind a faint trail of something that smelled like cinnamon, ozone, and very expensive cologne.

Callie grinned. “I’m obsessed with him!”

And with that, we followed the ferryman—not across the River Styx, but to a red vinyl booth and a menu that might hold more secrets than just what came with the house special.

Charon returned to our table with a little flourish, balancing three trays like a Broadway waiter on closing night. He slid each one in front of us without a word, then adjusted a tiny vase with a single black dahlia in the center of the table. Very on-brand.

I wasn’t expecting much, but the food? It was incredible. Rich, flavorful, warm in a way that made you forget we were talking to the literal ferryman of the dead.

Cassie, mid-bite, stared at Charon like he’d just sprouted wings.

Charon raised an eyebrow. “What?”

She just kept staring.

“Oh. Right.” He leaned back, as if he’d been waiting to be asked. “Every Halloween, Lord Hades lets a few souls out to scare the kiddies. It’s a tradition now. He’s not some heartless creep, you know—we follow the seasonal vibes of Western civilization. And this?” He made a jazz hands motion. “Is what I like to call Soulloween. Get it? Soul. Halloween.” He grinned, waiting.

Cassie groaned into her drink. “That’s the worst pun I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you,” he said, beaming like he'd won an award.

Andros wiped his mouth with a napkin. “So… souls just go around scaring kids?”

“Exactly!” Charon nodded. “The gods built Western civilization. They’ve got to roll with the times. Trick-or-treating, plastic skeletons, the whole thing. We just add a dash of authentic horror.”

I leaned forward. “So we could use this place to get to the Underworld?”

He let out a sharp, sparkly laugh. “Oh, no, sweetie. This place is more of an exit located in multiple places across the country. A holiday loophole. "Any newly dead souls," he said, flicking his manicured hand like he was brushing off lint, "still gotta go through the proper channels.”

“The real entrance,” I muttered. “Of course.”

“Definitely not here,” Charon confirmed with a too-bright smile. “No boats waiting out back.”

Andros cleared his throat. “Have you ever… seen someone named Eli? Maybe ride your boat?”

For the first time all night, Charon’s playful smirk twitched.

He blinked once. “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

He turned away quickly, far too quickly.

I looked at him, quiet but sharp.

He knew something.

The rest of the dinner passed in a kind of suspended weirdness. Charon disappeared into the back, supposedly to “check on a soufflé or something dramatic”, leaving us alone with our thoughts and the last bites of what I had to admit was disturbingly good food. Like, hauntingly good. I didn’t trust it, but I wasn’t about to leave a single crumb.

Cassie twirled her fork between her fingers, eyes narrowed. “You saw how he dipped the second we said Eli’s name, right? Like, whoosh. Gone.”

“He knows something,” I said quietly, glancing toward the swinging kitchen doors. They creaked every so often, and through the crack, I could see Charon occasionally peeking out—pretending to clean glasses or polish the already-glimmering counter. “He definitely knows something.”

Andros nodded, pushing his plate away. “So… we head to California. That DOA place.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We’ve got our next step.”

A moment later, Charon returned with the check. He placed it gently on the table like it was the bill for a five-star meal, not a side-of-the-supernatural-diner experience.

Cassie opened it and snorted. “Three drachmas... plus ‘tips are appreciated’ in cursive. He even doodled a little skull.”

Charon stood beside our table now, looking expectant. His nails sparkled like they’d been buffed with diamond dust.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the three drachmas Chiron had given me earlier. I held them out just enough for him to see them, the bronze glint catching the faint neon.

Then I pulled them back.

“Tell me what you know about Eli.”

He raised a perfectly arched brow. “Excuse me?”

“You flinched when we said his name,” I said, standing now. “You know something. So talk.”

Cassie nodded, supporting me like backup vocals. “We can tip later. Spill now.”

Charon pressed his lips together and crossed his arms. “I may be a lot of things, sweetling, but a gossip isn’t one of them. Besides, it’s… complicated.”

“I’ll make it double,” I offered. “Six drachmas.”

He didn’t blink.

“Triple,” I said. “Nine. Just tell me the truth.”

He inhaled dramatically, hands fluttering to his chest like I’d just offered him a fur coat made of sequins and secrets. “Well, sweetie, now you’re speaking my language. These boots are last season, and I’ve been eyeing a pair of gold lamé loafers.”

He leaned forward, his tone lowering. “Eli is safe. In the Underworld. But he’s going to be put on trial.”

Andros straightened. “Trial? For what?”

Charon’s smile vanished. “He’s forbidden. He wasn’t supposed to live. The kind of child who exists outside the divine law… well, the gods don’t exactly have a ‘welcome basket’ for that sort.”

Cassie frowned. “But he didn’t ask to be born. Also, the Olympian gods let him survived last summer.”

“No one asked to be born in this world, sugar,” Charon replied with an exaggerated shrug. “But the Fates don’t spin extra thread without consequences. And we are talking about souls, which technically Hades has more power over”

I bit my lip, holding in a dozen questions. “Who’s putting him on trial?”

Charon looked genuinely remorseful. “The Council of Judgment. Minos. Rhadamanthus. Aeacus. All the cranky old men with bad robes and worse tempers.”

“Then we need to get to him,” I said. “Before the gods do something irreversible.”

Charon said nothing but didn’t argue.

Cassie fished out another drachma and handed it over. “Make it ten. You’ve earned it, Mr. Ferryman. Also, your cheekbones are everything.”

He smiled, flipping the coins like poker chips before tucking them away. “You’re not so bad yourselves. Maybe I’ll see you on the Styx someday.”

“Oh you’ll se us soon,” Andros muttered.

We stepped outside into the cool air, the neon sign flickering behind us—Underworld Grill: So Good, It’ll Kill Ya. A pomegranate winked at us from the corner of the sign.

I didn’t look back.

We had a trial to crash.

Chapter Text

The morning air pressed cold against my cheeks as we stepped out of the run-down inn, the kind of place that reeked of cigarette smoke, sadness, and stale vending machine coffee. The cracked sign above the front door had been flickering all night like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to die or not. And the receptionist—a sunken-eyed woman with the personality of a brick—glared at us every time we passed her desk, like she expected us to steal something just for being kids.

I don’t think any of us slept well. The sheets were scratchy, the walls were thin, and no one felt like talking. We all knew we’d left Camp Half-Blood later than we should have. Chiron had warned us about that.

Now, dragging our feet down the cracked sidewalk, the silence between us felt heavier than our bags. Dorian had already gone ahead to check for tickets. It was just me, Andros, and Cassie for now.

The street was mostly empty, save for a couple of early risers and a barking dog chained to a rusted fence. The cold bit at my fingertips, and I shoved them deeper into my hoodie’s sleeves.

Cassie broke the silence first.

“So what now?” she said.

“Can’t take a plane,” he muttered, like someone commenting on the weather.

Cassie and I glanced at him.

“Zeus hates me,” he added, deadpan.

I raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Andros gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah, well. I’ve been nearly zapped three times. Once during a layover in Atlanta when I was six. Thought it was just a freak thunderstorm. Second time I was riding shotgun in a pickup with my dad down in Florida. Lightning struck the truck’s radio. Nearly fried us. And then again—get this—on a freaking go-kart ride when I was eight. Clear skies. Out of nowhere, BOOM. Singed eyebrows.”

Cassie frowned. “Probably your godly parent did something?”

He shrugged. “Or probably my dad. My mortal dad—if you can even call him that—lives in Florida. Drinks more than he breathes. Never gave me anything but a last name.”

I didn’t say anything. What could you say to that? All of us had gaps in our lives that Camp Half-Blood only sort of helped patch together. Sometimes, though, the gaps still bled.

Cassie, ever the brightness among us, suddenly perked up. “Then train or bus?”

She grinned, stepping forward with a kind of spring in her step that felt completely out of place. But then she stopped, turned on her heel, and held up one finger like a teacher preparing for a lecture.

“Before we go, I have to ask.”

“Ask who?” Andros blinked.

Cassie didn’t answer. She closed her eyes instead, took a breath, and began to hum—a soft, gentle melody that didn’t sound like any song I knew. It was wistful, like the kind of tune you’d hear echoing from a cave mouth or drifting through a sunlit forest.

Andros side-eyed her. “Uh… what’s happening?”

I tilted my head, watching her.

Cassie opened one eye and smirked at us both. “It’s tradition. Don’t laugh.”

“I wasn’t going to laugh,” I said, though my lips threatened to curve. “Just… wasn’t expecting it.”

Andros coughed, still unsure whether to be impressed or afraid. “Right. Definitely not laughing. Just… startled.”

Cassie ignored him. She faced the rising sun and whispered, just loud enough for us to hear:

“Guide me, Father Apollo. Your light reaches all roads—show me which one we must walk.”

A soft breeze kicked up as if in answer. She opened her eyes slowly, and for a moment, her expression was something different—calmer. Grounded. Like she’d just gotten a text message from Olympus.

“Well?” I asked.

A sudden rhythm cut through the fog of our silence.

Boom. Ta-ta-ta-boom. Clink. Boom.

It wasn’t thunder. It was music—real, human music—alive and raw like a heartbeat. We turned a corner and found them: a group of kids our age, maybe younger, crowding the sidewalk in front of the old train station. Drums made from upside-down paint buckets. Rusted horns spitting out breathy, out-of-tune notes. One of them danced like his shoes were on fire, arms loose, head bobbing to some beat only he could hear.

It should’ve been annoying. But instead, it made me feel…lighter. Like something in the air cracked open just enough to let sunlight peek through.

“The Poughkeepsie Main Terminal,” Cassie said softly, nodding to the metal arch behind the kids. “Told you Apollo sends signs.”

Andros snorted. “Yeah, real subtle. Marching band chaos on the sidewalk. Very ‘god of poetry.’”

Cassie gave him a side-eye, then turned her gaze upward, pressing two fingers to her lips before speaking. “Thank you, Father. May your rhythm guide our steps, even on metal tracks.”

It wasn’t dramatic. Just… sincere. I felt something shift at her words, like the music in front of the terminal pulsed a little brighter for a beat. And just like that, we moved through the entrance.

Inside was dim and golden, lit by those old train-station bulbs that buzz faintly and never quite die. The ticket booth was manned by someone who didn’t bother hiding their boredom. Still, we managed to get three one-way tickets to Chicago without much trouble. There weren’t many passengers at this hour, and the platform was nearly empty.

The train itself looked older than it should’ve been—vintage, almost elegant. The kind of thing you’d expect in a movie with black-and-white detectives and dames in silk gloves. Chrome and faded crimson. Wooden trim. Velvet seats that looked more dignified than comfortable.

We boarded in silence.

The moment we stepped inside, a man was waiting.

He stood stiffly near the doorway, spine impossibly straight, like someone had pulled it taut with a string. His uniform was pressed to perfection, buttons gleaming, and his conductor’s hat sat on his head at an angle just sharp enough to seem deliberate.

His skin was pale—too pale. Leathery and papery, like someone who hadn’t seen sunlight in years. The kind of pale that looked wrong on a living person. And his eyes... they were the worst part. Not glowing or monstrous or bloody. Just... still. Too still. Like eyes that weren’t used to blinking anymore.

His name tag said Mr. Knox.

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at us. Then slowly—too slowly—he lifted his hand and reached into the pocket of his coat. For a second, I thought he was going to pull out something threatening. But instead?

He pulled out yarn. Or something that looked like yarn. Coarse. Straw-colored. He looped it over his long, thin fingers and began knitting.

Click. Click. Click.

We watched the long thread grow and grow, spiraling down in heavy coils that brushed the floor. Whatever he was making—it wasn’t a sweater. It looked more like a rope.

“Tickets,” he said, without looking at us.

Cassie handed hers over with a practiced smile.

“Sir.”

He looked at her. Groaned. A low, ancient sound, like rusted iron.

“Children,” he muttered under his breath, voice sharp with distaste. “Always the same. Loud, impatient... ungrateful.”

Andros raised an eyebrow. “Okay, rude.”

Knox grunted as he punched the ticket with a click that echoed through the car. He moved to Andros, inspecting the slip of paper like it might be fake. Another groan, deeper this time, followed by a grim mutter: “You all travel like gnats. Always going somewhere, never arriving.”

I handed him mine last. For a moment, his eyes locked on mine. Cold. Calculating. Like he was trying to figure out something without asking.

Click. The punch was harder this time.

“Sit down,” he said. “Don’t make me find you twice.”

With that, he moved down the aisle, rope still growing between his fingers, dragging along behind him.

I couldn’t stop staring at it. That thing he was knitting—it wasn’t soft, and it wasn’t for warmth. It was too coarse, too deliberate. It looked like a noose, or an anchor line, or—

“Is that a rope?” I whispered.

Cassie leaned in. “That’s... a lot of knitting.”

“Doesn’t even look like it’s for anything,” Andros muttered. “Why make something that never ends?”

None of us answered. We just watched Mr. Knox disappear down the length of the car, still knitting, still muttering to himself.

The train jolted forward. Slowly. Creaking like an old throat trying to clear itself.

The train had settled into a quiet rhythm, the soft clatter of the tracks underneath like a distant heartbeat. I stared out the window, my fingers resting on the warm edge of the glass, watching the green blur of trees whip past. I could still hear the muffled hum of the band we’d seen at the terminal—Poughkeepsie Main Terminal, as the sign read—fading as we pulled farther from Poughkeepsie.

“We’ll reach Toledo in about… thirteen hours,” I said aloud, mostly to myself. My voice barely rose above the engine’s hum.

Cassie let out a low whistle beside me. “That’s longer than the last musical I sat through,” she murmured, tugging at the strap of her bag before slipping off her boots and tucking her legs beneath her.

Andros groaned and slouched in his seat, crossing his arms. “No plane, no car. Just endless train.” He tilted his head back and sighed at the ceiling dramatically. “The Big Guy really knows how to ruin a road trip.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow. “Still not sure why he has it out for you. Do you think he just doesn’t like your haircut?”

“I dunno’,” Andros said, glancing out the opposite window like he could see lightning on the horizon. “I forgot to mention one story. I was trying to fly a kite when I was seven and the sky was clear—completely clear—and boom. Kite turned to ashes.”

Cassie chuckled. “Maybe he just hates kites.”

“I think it’s my mom,” he said quietly. “Whoever she is.” He stared down at his boots. “My dad’s still in Florida. I don’t think he ever knew how to be a parent. So... I guess she wasn’t much better.”

I glanced at him but didn’t say anything. Sometimes silence said more.

Behind us, the soft rustling sound of yarn being threaded—looped and pulled—was still going. Mr. Knox, the conductor, was seated in the next car down but visible through the open passage. His long arms methodically worked the knitting needles, even as he kept his hawk-like eyes flicking toward us. Every few minutes, he’d glance up, like we were a stain on his clean carpet.

I whispered to Cassie, “He’s still watching us.”

“He’s knitting a snake,” Andros muttered. “Or maybe a never-ending scarf for a ghost.”

Cassie leaned forward to peek. “Is that… a rope?”

I couldn’t tell. It stretched past his lap and spilled like an ink stain down the side of the seat. It was thick and tightly woven—sturdy. Intentional.

“He doesn’t like kids,” I murmured. “You can feel it. Like we’re gum on his polished shoes.”

Andros snorted. “He should’ve picked a different career then.”

The train passed over a hill, and the land opened up beneath us. Fields stretched wide to the left, and to the right, a dip in the earth revealed a cluster of creatures—at first I thought they were horses. But then I saw the bows, the torsos. The movement of hands rather than hooves.

“Look!” I nudged Cassie and pointed. “There. Over that rise.”

Centaurs. Maybe a dozen of them, galloping together across a hidden glade, their bodies lit by streaks of late morning sun. They moved like liquid—both beast and man in perfect sync. Some were young. One had feathers woven into his hair. Another carried a banner of some sort, fluttering behind him in gold and green.

“Whoa,” Cassie breathed, her eyes wide. “Do you think they’re headed somewhere?”

“Or running from something,” I said quietly.

“Think they’re related to Chiron?” Andros asked.

“I think Artemis once rode with them,” Cassie said, like she’d just remembered something from a book. “Like, before the Huntresses. They were her companions.”

We all watched for a while, until the trees swallowed the glade and the herd disappeared from view.

Then Cassie opened her bag and grinned. “I almost forgot.” She pulled out a brown paper parcel and unwrapped it carefully. “Leftover biscuits and boiled eggs from the inn. Told you I’d save us something.”

Andros perked up immediately. “I take back everything bad I ever said about you.”

Cassie handed us our shares with a grin. “Eat now. Unless Mr. Scarface over there plans on knitting us sandwiches.”

I laughed, biting into a warm, crumbly biscuit. “Bless you, Apollo.”

Cassie straightened in her seat and gave a little wink to the window. “Guide us westward, Father. Through train whistles and strange men who hate children.”

Outside, the landscape rolled on. And Mr. Knox’s needles clicked quietly in the distance—loop, pull, loop—never stopping.

The train had been moving for hours.

Ten, maybe more.

The sky outside had turned a bruised shade of purple, and the reflection of the windows shimmered like mirrors in the dark. My own face looked pale and tired against the glass. Cassie was curled up across from me, her cheek squished against a makeshift pillow made of her jacket, and Andros had slumped into a heavy, lopsided sprawl, snoring softly into the seat back. His head lolled every now and then, like his body was trying to fight against rest and kept losing.

I couldn't sleep. Not even if I wanted to.

I thought I would be exhausted from the walking, the planning, the almost constant worry. But instead, my eyes stayed wide open, trained on the dark world rushing by outside. The rhythmic clack of the train wheels was like a lullaby for someone else's nightmare.

My fingers tightened around the edge of my seat as I thought about last summer. On Eli’s quest, he always had those… dreams when we were travelling. Or visions. Or warnings. Whatever they were, they were never kind. And every time he woke up from one, I could see it in his eyes—that hollow fear that whatever he saw was already happening.

I used to wonder if I would ever get dreams like that. I don’t anymore.

I’m scared I will.

I glanced at my sleeping friends and let out a breath that felt like it had been caught in my throat for hours. My stomach turned a little. Not from the motion of the train, but from the feeling. That sour, creeping chill that always came when I let myself think too long about things I couldn't control.

Like Hades.

I don’t like to admit fear. But if there was one god I feared above the rest—it was him. Not just because of what he ruled, but because of how close he always seemed. You could pretend the sky wasn’t watching. You could run from the sea. But death? He was always there, waiting behind the curtain.

Just as the thought crawled across my mind like a spider, I felt it.

Eyes on me.

I turned, slowly, heartbeat catching.

Mr. Knox was still at the far end of the car—but he wasn’t sitting anymore.

He was standing. And facing me.

Even from here, I could see that his knitting hadn’t stopped. His arms moved slowly, like clockwork, winding the impossibly long, gray rope between his fingers. The yarn glinted under the train’s flickering overhead lights like it was threaded with something more than cotton. Something older.

I looked away, back toward the window. But when I glanced again—he was closer.

Two rows away now.

He hadn’t made a sound. Not a footstep. Not even a shuffle of fabric.

I sat up straighter, but didn’t wake the others. Something told me that wouldn’t help.

Mr. Knox’s face was even stranger up close. His skin had the texture of brittle paper, like something you could crush between your fingers if you dared to touch it. His eyes were sharp, a little too sharp, and they didn’t blink nearly enough.

"You children," he muttered. His voice rasped like the sound of coal dragging against metal. "You shouldn’t exist."

I stared. Not even sure I’d heard him right. “Excuse me?”

He kept knitting.

Endless gray rope, loop by loop by loop.

"Always moving," he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. "Always running toward the end of the line. But there’s no end. Not for your kind."

I swallowed hard. My voice came out quiet. “What do you mean?”

His lips curled into something like a frown—or maybe it was a smile, but only in the way a crack splits open on a dying wall.

"You break the cycle," he said. "You children. You little errors. Mistakes with faces. There was a time things made sense. A place for gods, and a place for mortals. But now… now the rope unravels."

And then it clicked.

The rope.

The endless, cursed knitting.

Something I’d read once… or maybe heard back at camp.

“You’re Ocnus,” I said before I could stop myself.

The knitting slowed. Just slightly. The needles paused mid-stitch.

“Excuse me?” he asked, but the humor in his tone was hollow.

“You’re supposed to be in the Underworld,” I said, voice low. “Forever weaving a rope that a donkey eats faster than you can make it. A punishment. For—something. I don’t remember what. But I remember the rope. The never-ending rope.”

Mr. Knox stared at me for a long time.

Then he smiled. A tight, sharp thing that never touched his too-still eyes.

And he said, “It’s nice when someone remembers your name.”

“You’re Ocnus,” I said again, more certain this time.

The man—creature—didn’t deny it.

The knitting needles moved again, steady as breath. The rope trailed down to the floor and slithered under the seat like a shadow come alive. He didn’t stop. I wasn’t sure he could.

“So what,” I said, forcing my voice not to shake, “you followed us? From the Underworld?”

“I’ve always been here,” he said. “I knit where the rope must stretch. Wherever time loops back on itself. Wherever people run and run but never arrive. I don’t need to follow you. You got on my train.”

His train. The words settled in my stomach like lead. I glanced again at the gray rope unfurling from his needles and disappearing down the corridor. Something in me recognized it—not the rope itself, but the idea of it. The repetition. The punishment.

I looked at the floor. “So this train is your donkey, huh?”

Ocnus grunted softly. It might’ve been a laugh.

“The beast must eat,” he said. “And it always hungers.”

There was a strange peace in his voice, like he wasn’t mad about it. Just… resigned. As if the futility wasn’t a burden anymore. Just a job.

“So what do you want with us?” I asked. “Why are you even talking to me?”

“Because you’re awake,” he said, without missing a stitch. “And because you’re afraid.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

“I’ve seen a lot of fear,” Ocnus went on. “Passengers clutching their bags. Soldiers going off to die. Runaways who never make it home. You think I don’t know what fear looks like, child?”

I clenched my jaw. “Don’t call me that.”

He tilted his head just slightly. “Then don’t act like one.”

I stood up before I realized I had. Not loudly, not enough to wake the others—but it was instinct. My fists were tight at my sides. My heart thundered like hooves.

He noticed.

“You fear Hades more than anything,” Ocnus said. “You think he’ll tear you apart when you get there. That he’ll strip you of every truth you’re afraid to face.”

“Shut up,” I snapped.

Still, the knitting went on. The rope coiled around his feet.

“You children of the gods,” he said, voice low, “are always so loud about how unfair your lives are. So quick to call it fate. You talk about love like it’s armor and justice like it’s owed. But you don’t know the meaning of punishment.”

My mouth was dry. I didn’t even know what to say.

He looked at me—no, through me. And he said, “If you truly feared death, you wouldn’t have come this far.”

For a moment, I wanted to punch him. Not out of real anger, but because it would’ve felt easier than thinking. Than feeling anything at all.

“What’s your advice then?” I asked bitterly. “Since you’re so wise. So ancient. What do you think I should do?”

Ocnus didn’t look up from his knitting.

“When you see him,” he said, “bow your head. Speak only when spoken to. And remember you are nothing in his realm.”

I felt my face flush hot with rage.

“That’s not advice,” I said. “That’s cowardice.”

At that, the needles paused just slightly. For a breath.

Then they resumed.

“No,” Ocnus said quietly. “It’s survival.”

He turned from me then, slowly walking down the aisle, the rope unraveling behind him like a snake made of regret. He didn't look back.

Neither did I.

I sat down hard in my seat, my hands trembling as I brushed my hair from my face.

Cassie murmured something in her sleep and shifted. Andros snorted and rolled over, still completely out.

I stared at nothing.

The fear still throbbed in my chest, but the anger was stronger now.

Anger that he was right.

Anger that I hated being afraid of things I couldn’t control.

Anger that no matter how far we ran, the shadows kept catching up.

Eventually, I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in days, really this time, I let the darkness take me.

Sleep came, not gently, but like the weight of a door finally slamming shut.

Chapter Text

It wasn't peaceful sleep. It never was anymore.

When the train lulled me into dreams, I already knew what was waiting.

If the Lord of the Underworld wanted to see me, then so be it. I’d rather face him head-on than keep trembling every time the shadows moved too much. Still, as the dream took shape, my stomach tightened like a knot being yanked.

The world formed around me, dark and hushed like the deepest part of a cavern. Cold wind slid past me, carrying a silence that didn’t feel natural. Then—

"You’re a brave one, little archer."

I turned.

He stood in front of me like he’d always been there—tall, sharp-featured, cloaked in shadows so heavy they might’ve been alive. Hades didn’t radiate fire like the stories say. He was frost in the marrow of your bones.

“Hades,” I whispered.

He dipped his head once. “You’re sharper than you look.”

I clenched my fists. “What do you want?”

His gaze, ancient and unreadable, swept over me. “Your friend. The one with the fire in him—he’s safe… for now.”

My breath caught. “Eli?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned slightly, tilting his chin at something in my hands.

That’s when I noticed it.

My bow.

Only… it wasn’t my bow. This one shimmered in moonlight, silver and flawless, elegant in a way my old one never was. The string thrummed with energy I didn’t understand.

“What…?”

Hades' eyes were already on it. “It suits you more than you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gave me the smallest, coldest smile. “You’re asking the wrong questions.”

“Then tell me the right ones.”

“You should be asking,” he said, voice low as distant thunder, “why a child like him is your concern at all right now.”

I stiffened. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer directly. Just looked at me. Then the bow again. Then the distant nothing of the dream.

“Anyway,” he said, stepping forward, “this is your warning. You and your friends… do not belong in my realm.”

“We don’t exactly have a choice,” I snapped.

“Stupid. There’s always a choice,” he said. “It’s what makes mortal decisions so inconvenient.”

Something in his tone changed. Darker now, less amused. “My sister should’ve known better. Transferring a soul... bending death like that? It wasn’t meant to be. There are souls that aren’t meant to be seen again. And truths that deserve to stay buried.”

He said it so gently that it chilled me more than shouting ever could.

“Are you saying he… Eli—”

“I said what I said,” Hades interrupted.

I felt like I was grasping at mist. Every time I thought I understood what was going on, another layer twisted itself around the truth.

His voice came—low and certain. “Your friend is to be judged. A day from now.”

My breath caught.

“Judged?” I repeated.

He didn’t clarify. Just let the word hang there, cold and heavy in the air between us. Like I should already understand what it meant. Like the Fates themselves had already scribbled the sentence

“He’s… just a boy,” I said.

Hades didn’t blink. Then, without warning, he flicked his hand lazily through the air.

The dream shattered like glass. The dark veil of the Underworld dissolved into moonlight and the sway of a moving train.

I shot up, gasping.

Sweat clung to my neck. The cabin lights were dim, but the train rocked gently beneath us. I looked at the watch near the door of the train.

11:32 PM.

The train was quiet. Cassie leaned against the window, snoring softly. Andros was curled awkwardly in his chair, arms folded like he’d fallen asleep mid-huff. The entire car was wrapped in a hush.

I leaned to the side and pressed my face against the glass, desperate for something real, something normal.

But the moonlight outside painted the trees in ghostly white.

And just beyond the line of pines—

There it was.

A stag.

Antlers like branches tangled with stars. Its silver coat shimmered like light on water. It stood perfectly still, watching the train pass.

Watching me.

I pressed my hand against the window.

I sat back, heart thudding.

The stag didn’t move. It stood at the edge of the trees, just past the reach of the moonlight, like it had always been there—watching, waiting. Its antlers looked like branches painted in silver, catching the moon as if it were an offering. Something in my chest tightened.

I had seen that stag before.

Not just in passing. Not just once. I remembered it standing in the distance on the worst days—when I cried in the snow outside the boarding house, when the others locked me out of the dorm room, when my blood ran hot with questions I had no names for. I used to tell myself it was a hallucination. A wish. A dream. But it had never looked at me quite like this. Not like now. Not like it was... disappointed.

The train shook gently under us, and the moment passed like smoke. The trees slipped away behind us, and the stag vanished with them.

I blinked and turned from the window. The clock read 1:47 AM. Almost Toledo.

The train hissed and screeched as it pulled into the station. Dim sodium lights flickered outside. The station was empty but for a few wandering silhouettes and a flickering vending machine.

Cassie stretched and yawned beside me. “Finally. I was starting to think this train was powered by Hermes on foot.”

Andros, groggy and squinting, rubbed his eyes. “We’re not dead, right? That was the most haunted nap of my life.”

We stepped off into the cool, grimy wind of Chicago at night. The station loomed above us—Union Station, a fortress of pillars and hollow echoes. Trash skittered across the floor, and the vending machine let out a mechanical growl like it might attack. At 2 AM, the city was more shadows than lights. Taxis honked somewhere far off, but no one lingered around the terminal. Just us and the echoes.

Behind us, the train hissed again. Mr. Knox—the conductor—stood at the doorway of the nearest car. He wasn’t knitting anymore. His hands were still for once.

“Safe travels,” he said, voice gravel-smooth, almost too pleased. “And stay off the tracks.”

Cassie muttered, “Gladly,” under her breath. “Creep.”

I didn’t say anything. My eyes met his. Something passed there. Not quite a threat... but not a farewell, either.

Then the train pulled away.

Cassie looked around the quiet, shadowy station. “Sooo… are we just gonna stand here all night? It’s kinda creepy.”

Andros glanced at the flickering lights. “Yeah. This place feels like where people go to not be found.

Cassie rolled her eyes. “I swear by Apollo, I will punch you into next week.”

I was barely listening.

My thoughts were thick, my stomach heavier than it should be. That dream—no, that vision—wasn’t going away. Neither was the look on Mr. Knox’s face when I said his name. Ocnus. The soul-weaver. The one who wasted eternity with a rope no one ever used. And Hades...

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“You good?” Andros asked, blinking at me through the Chicago fog. “You’ve been quiet.”

Cassie tilted her head. “You’re not usually the brooding one. That’s Andros’ job.”

“Rude,” Andros muttered.

I looked at them. For a second, I thought about brushing it off. Just saying I was tired. That it was the stag. But the weight in my chest was too sharp to hold.

“The conductor,” I said softly. “Mr. Knox. He spoke to me last night after you both fell asleep.”

Andros’ eyebrows rose. “What, like creepy-old-man ‘spoke’? Or ghostly-cryptic ‘spoke’?”

“Both,” I answered quietly. “The conductor—Mr. Knox. He wasn’t just some guy. He’s Ocnus.”

Cassie squinted. “The one with the rope? From the myths?”

I nodded. “Endless rope. Forever weaving while a donkey eats it behind him. That’s what the train was... it was the donkey. Swallowing up the rope. And he just kept knitting. Watching us.”

Andros looked disturbed. “That’s... creepy. Why would he be here?”

“He said children like us shouldn’t exist. Like we do not know what punishment is.” My voice came out colder than I meant.

Their faces shifted—first confusion, then something else. Worry.

“And that wasn’t the worst part,” I added. “I had a dream—or something. I know it was more than that. It was him.”

Cassie leaned in, serious. “Him?”

“Hades,” I said. “It was Hades. The real one. Lord of the Underworld. And he knew things. About me. About Eli.”

Andros blinked, suddenly very awake. “Wait—Hades actually showed up in your dream?”

“He wasn’t cruel, exactly,” I said slowly. “But he was... final. He told me not to come. That stepping into his realm was a mistake. He said I was brave—but stupid.”

“He said Eli isn’t my problem. He said Eli will be judged, a day from now. And he knew about the bow. My bow. It was silver, in the dream. It looked like it never belonged to me. Like I’d only been borrowing it.”

Cassie bit her lip. “On Halloween?”

She was correct, I didn't even realize that. “There was more. Outside the train window, before we stopped... I saw a stag. In the trees. Watching us.”

They stared.

“I’ve seen it before,” I whispered. “Ever since I was a kid. Always when I was alone. Always when something was about to change.”

For a moment, none of us spoke. The wind wrapped around us, tugging at our coats, reminding us that we were three kids standing on the edge of something big and unseen.

Cassie finally broke the silence. “Okay. There’s a diner two blocks from here. My mom took me there once. Says they’ve got the best hash browns in the mortal world.”

She looked at me. “We’ll figure it out there. When the sun’s up.”

I nodded.

And for now, I let them lead.

We didn’t talk much on the way to the diner. Not because there wasn’t anything to say—but because none of us really knew how to say it. My head still spun with what I’d seen. What I’d felt.

The air in Toledo at 2:30 in the morning was sharp and still, like the city was holding its breath. Traffic lights blinked yellow over empty intersections. Storefronts were dark, the kind that looked like they hadn’t seen a customer since the Bicentennial. There were payphones on corners, graffiti on alley walls, and the occasional flicker of a neon beer sign that gave the sidewalk a faint, flickering glow.

Cassie led us a few blocks, coat pulled tight, humming some pop song under her breath. Probably to keep her teeth from chattering.

“There,” she said, pointing.

A squat brick diner sat on the corner beneath a flickering sign that read Mel’s Diner: Open All Night Since ’63. The “s” and “3” blinked like they were trying to give up but couldn’t quite die yet.

It smelled like coffee and grease and warmth. We slid into a booth near the window, sticky menus already waiting for us. A waitress with tired eyes and a beehive hairdo poured us water without a word, then wandered back to the counter to smoke behind a napkin dispenser.

Cassie ordered hash browns and toast. Andros went with pancakes. I got tea, mostly to hold the cup between my hands.

We didn’t say much until we were halfway through our food, eyes half-lidded and brains just beginning to process again.

Andros finally spoke. “So... Ocnus, huh?”

“Yep,” I muttered.

“Just casually running the train network?”

“He’s probably been knitting since Amtrak was invented,” Cassie added, stabbing a piece of hash brown. “I mean, it tracks. Eternal punishment, eternal schedules.”

“It wasn’t the weirdest part,” I admitted. “Not after the dream. Or Hades.”

Andros gave me a sideways glance. “You okay?”

I hesitated. Then nodded. “No. But I will be.”

That was enough.

We sat there until the sky began to warm, just a hint of gold peeking above the rooftops. My tea had gone cold. I didn’t care. For a few hours, the world felt still. Not safe, exactly. But still.

By sunrise, we were outside again, heading for the Toledo Greyhound Station. Cassie had asked the waitress where to find it—two blocks west, tucked behind a convenience store and a lot that smelled like spilled gasoline and yesterday’s rain.

The building was a boxy old thing, all stained tile and flickering fluorescents. A gum-smudged payphone stood near the wall, and someone was already asleep on a bench near the vending machines.

We bought three one-way tickets to Toledo. Bus #614.

Departure: 7:00 AM.

The guy behind the counter barely looked at us. Probably didn’t care we were three kids traveling alone across state lines. It was the ’80s. As long as you didn’t look like a runaway or light something on fire, no one asked questions.

The bus wasn’t crowded. I took the window seat. The sky outside was pale and streaked with haze, and Toledo blurred behind us—red brick buildings, a water tower, a church spire vanishing into the early mist.

Cassie popped her Walkman headphones in and closed her eyes. Andros pulled a comic book from his bag, but I could tell he wasn’t reading it.

The bus ride passed in a haze. Somewhere between the steady hum of the road and the weight of our exhaustion, I drifted in and out of half-sleep. Not dreaming—thank the gods—but hovering in that limbo where your thoughts are heavier than your limbs and your chest forgets how to breathe right.

We stopped once at a roadside gas station and a bathroom that reeked of bleach and regret. I got a cherry cola and pretended it tasted normal. It didn’t.

By the time we reached Chicago, the sun was already past its peak. The skyline rose like jagged teeth above the smog and heat haze. We stepped off the bus into a wind that carried the stink of exhaust and roasted peanuts and something metallic. People bustled past like they had somewhere to be. I envied them.

Cassie stretched, pulling her jacket tighter. “So... Windy City. I thought it’d be taller.”

“It’s pretty tall,” Andros replied, glancing at the Sears Tower in the distance.

It was Cassie who spotted the sign. A crooked little hand-painted board nailed above a dusty doorway between a pawn shop and a boarded-up photo booth.

“Madame V’s Gifts and Fortunes.”

Cassie stopped walking. “Guys. Guys. Come on.”

“Oh no,” I said immediately.

“Oh yes,” she grinned. “We’re on a quest. Quests need cryptic prophecies from questionable old ladies.”

Andros raised an eyebrow. “You just want someone to tell you you’re secretly royalty.”

Cassie smirked. “Already know I am. I just want confirmation.”

I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. Something about the store—it buzzed at the edge of my senses. Not magical exactly, but... familiar. And not in a good way.

Still, I followed them in.

Inside, the shop smelled like incense and old velvet. Shelves sagged under strange trinkets—crystals, animal bones, dusty dolls with missing eyes. A lava lamp burbled in the corner, casting blobs of gold and green light against the walls.

At the back of the room sat a round table draped in purple cloth. A woman waited there, still as a statue. Her hair was black and pinned in coils like snakes. Her lips were painted blood red, and her fingers were covered in rings—each one glinting differently under the lava glow. Her eyes were pale gray, and when they met mine, something in my stomach twisted.

Cassie bounded forward. “Three fortunes, please!”

The woman didn’t smile. Her voice was like smoke in winter. “Sit.”

Cassie dropped into the chair across from her. The woman placed a hand over Cassie’s, eyes fluttering closed.

A long silence.

Then, quietly, “You will leave little behind. But not because you are forgotten. You’ll walk where others fear and laugh in places meant for sorrow.”

Cassie blinked. “That’s... not really what I expected.”

The woman opened her eyes. “It never is.”

Andros was next, reluctantly sliding into the seat.

The woman’s fingers hovered above his hand. This time, her expression shifted—barely—but it did. Like recognition. Or amusement.

“You are not made for shadows,” she said. “But you were born in one. Your mother watches from heights you do not yet know. Soon, the veil will lift.”

Andros sat straighter, suddenly too still.

“Okay, I’m done,” he muttered, getting up fast.

And then it was me.

I didn’t want to sit. Every cell in my body screamed not to. But I did. Slowly.

The woman looked at me. She didn’t reach out.

“You are chasing a soul not meant to be chased,” she said. “But you will find him.”

I swallowed. “How do you—?”

But something inside me had already started to recognize her voice.

I knew this woman.

Not from dreams. From memory.

The room felt colder suddenly. The air, too still.

Her skin shimmered—just faintly. A flicker of something beneath it. Her eyes, those gray eyes, were not old. They were ancient.

Vexthia.

The Ker that had been following me since I was young. The one that was killed last summer. The one whose screech could peel the skin from bone.

But she had come back.

I stood up so fast the chair nearly toppled.

My hand shot to the silver bow strapped across my back. It wasn’t habit anymore. It was instinct. My fingers curled around it like a lifeline.

Andros was already in motion, pulling his shield free with a metallic hiss. Cassie didn’t scream, didn’t run. She stepped behind us, quiet and sharp-eyed, waiting.

The fortune teller—no, Vexthia—rose slowly. The gauzy veil she wore fluttered, then tore away as if caught in a sudden wind. Her eyes, once glazed and distant, gleamed black and violet now, shining like oil on water. Her skin shimmered unnaturally, too smooth, too pale, like stretched wax.

Then she changed.

The shift was grotesque—her limbs lengthening, spine cracking as it hunched forward. Her mouth split into a sneer full of needle-sharp teeth. Her human form peeled back like dead bark, revealing the monstrous truth beneath: a Ker reborn.

Razor claws burst from her fingertips. Her robes had turned to shadows clinging to her in tendrils, moving on their own. Her hair was a nest of dark writhing snakes that weren’t quite alive, but not still either.

“Did you miss me, little huntress?” she purred. Her voice was deeper now, gravel-laced and cold. “You know how this works. Monsters crawl back.”

My heartbeat thundered. My vision narrowed. Every nerve in my body screamed.

“Vexthia,” I said through gritted teeth. “Last summer. You nearly tore my throat out.”

She grinned. “Then let me finish the job.”

She lunged.

I raised my bow. Too slow.

Andros slammed into her mid-sprint, shield-first, sending her crashing into the side of the shop. Glass shattered. Candles flew. Tarot cards whipped through the air like startled birds.

Cassie grabbed a burning stick of incense and threw it like a dart. It hit Vexthia’s shoulder. She hissed—more annoyed than hurt—but it was enough. Enough for me to nock an arrow and draw.

“You children shouldn’t be here,” Vexthia snarled, circling us. “You’re not part of their story. You’re mistakes.”

Her claws flashed.

Andros blocked. Sparks flew as claw met shield. Cassie ducked and rolled behind a broken table, grabbing a shard of mirror like a dagger.

I took aim—but she moved fast. Too fast.

She slashed across Andros’s chest. He grunted and stumbled back, his shirt torn and bleeding.

“Enough!” I shouted. “You don’t get to crawl out of the Underworld again.”

“Oh, but I do,” she said, leaping toward me, claws outstretched.

I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch.

I let the arrow fly.

It buried itself in her chest—dead center.

For a second, nothing.

Then she froze. Her body arched back. A scream like splintered glass erupted from her throat. The shadows clinging to her shriveled. Her form convulsed—then crumbled. Piece by piece, she turned to ash, the monster dissolving into the smoke of her own fury.

Silence fell.

My bow lowered slowly, my hands trembling.

All that remained of Vexthia was a black scorch mark on the hardwood floor.

Cassie emerged, panting, a streak of blood on her cheek from flying glass. “Well,” she muttered, “that was not in the fortune.”

Andros coughed, clutching his ribs. “Next time... maybe we don’t visit shops like this?”

I didn’t answer. I just stared at the ashes. Because monsters always came back. And something told me... she or even Kerostes will be back.

Chapter Text

The ashes of Vexthia still swirled in the air, caught in the wind like dark snow. I wiped a smear of soot off my cheek and turned to Callie, fists clenched.

“What were you thinking?” I snapped.

Callie blinked at me, still winded. “What?”

“The fortune teller. Playing along. We lost time—we could’ve walked into a trap ten minutes earlier and I wouldn’t have hesitated. But you—”

“I didn’t know she was going to turn into that,” Callie shot back, pointing to the now-empty doorway of the shop like the monster’s ashes were still clawing their way out.

“That’s the point! You didn’t think!”

“Alright, both of you—enough,” Andros said, stepping between us. His tone was sharp—not yelling, but enough to cut through the tension like a sword. “This isn’t helping Eli. It’s not helping any of us.”

I pressed my lips together and looked away. My hands were still gripping my bow too tightly. The burn of adrenaline hadn’t faded. “You’re right,” I muttered. “I’m sorry. I just... I’m worried about him.”

Callie exhaled. “Me too. And... I’m sorry, Lyssa. I thought maybe it would help. At least Vexthia’s gone again, right?”

“For now,” I said. “But they come back. They always do.”

We stood there for a moment in the haze of streetlights and magic residue, the world around us feeling too normal for what had just happened. Cars passed. A dog barked. Somewhere far off, a siren howled. But all I could think about was what Hades had said.

Eli.

Judged.

Halloween.

Tomorrow.

I turned toward the road, the night wind curling around me like a warning. “We can’t take a bus. Or a train.”

Andros frowned. “Why not?”

“Because we don’t have time,” I said. “Halloween is tomorrow. We’ll be lucky to make it by sunset.”

Callie looked between us. “Then how do we get there?”

I didn’t have an answer yet.

But whatever it was—it had to be fast. It had to be now.

“Come on, follow me—I have an idea,” Callie said, already picking up speed.

We didn’t ask where. We just followed.

The streetlights buzzed faintly overhead as we hurried through Uptown Chicago, the night air sharp and humming with distant traffic. I barely registered the ache in my legs or the lingering sting of ash and smoke in my lungs. My thoughts were still knotted around Vexthia—her claws, her voice, the way she burned to nothing at the end of my arrow.

Callie moved ahead, weaving through the city streets like she’d lived here her whole life. I jogged to keep pace, our boots clapping against the pavement. The sun had finally sunk beyond the skyscrapers, painting the skyline in a faded orange glow. Lampposts flickered to life, casting long shadows as we turned down Broadway.

“I know a place, The Green Mil.” Callie said.

“The Green Mill?” Andros asked, jogging beside her. “Is that like… a hotel?”

Callie laughed once, breathless. “A jazz club. Kind of famous. Al Capone used to hang there. But it’s also one of Apollo’s shrines.”

“Music,” I said, the word tasting warm in my mouth. “Makes sense.”

Callie nodded. “It’s not far from the Red Line station. Just past Lawrence. I used to come here when I was little. My mom would bring me on slow days. Said Dad liked to check in when it got quiet.”

That made me pause. Callie didn’t talk much about her dad. None of us really did, unless it was life-or-death—or deeply sarcastic. But this wasn’t either. She was serious. Reverent, even.

Ten minutes later, the club came into view.

The Green Mill Cocktail Lounge sat nestled into the block like a secret. Neon letters curled across the sign, pulsing green against the darkening sky. It looked old. Real old. Like the walls remembered every tune ever played inside them. Red velvet curtains hung behind large windows, and the faded brickwork gave it an old soul vibe, the kind you couldn’t fake.

We ducked under the awning and stepped into another world.

Inside, music swelled instantly—smooth jazz from a live trio under soft yellow lighting. The smell of aged wood and cigarette smoke clung to everything. A small crowd milled about, chatting low in the booths, sipping drinks from highball glasses. Nobody seemed to care that three soot-streaked teens had just burst into their little oasis.

“This place is… alive,” Andros whispered.

I felt it too. The music moved like a heartbeat, thudding low in my ribs. It wasn’t just good—it was divine. Literally.

Callie made her way to an empty booth near the back. She slipped in, pulled something from her coat pocket—a harmonica—and held it like a relic. Her fingers were shaking.

She closed her eyes. “Dad… it’s me. Callie. I know I’m not supposed to bother you. I wasn’t gonna ask for anything big. Maybe just a chariot. But…”

She brought the harmonica to her lips and began to hum instead of play. It was soft, barely there—a lullaby threaded with longing. The sort of tune you only sing when you’re hoping someone’s listening.

She whispered something then. I couldn’t catch it, but it sounded old. Old and respectful, like a prayer whispered through generations.

The music in the lounge shifted.

The saxophonist on stage faltered for half a second—just enough for trained ears to notice—then picked up a new melody. This one slower, radiant. A golden thread weaving into the night.

And then he was there.

Not with a thunderclap. Not descending from a fiery chariot.

He was just… leaning against the bar, sipping something amber from a glass, wearing a yellow button-down shirt and slacks that probably cost more than everything I owned. His hair was tousled in that effortless way, sun-golden and wavy. He looked like he’d just stepped off a California beach—minus the tan. His smile was soft. Tired. Kind.

Callie gasped. “Dad?”

Apollo gave a slight nod, raising his glass in her direction. “You called.”

She blinked. “I… I didn’t think you’d come come. I thought maybe you’d send a chariot or a sign or something.”

He chuckled, setting the glass down. “You asked nicely. And you didn’t demand a golden chariot, so I figured—why not?”

Callie practically bounced out of the booth and threw her arms around him. Apollo ruffled her hair and held her for a heartbeat longer than I expected.

I stood. “Why are you helping us?”

His eyes met mine. They were bright and soft and deep, like sunlight reflecting off water.

“The gods don’t usually help,” I added, crossing my arms. “You all have rules.”

Apollo sighed, his gaze drifting to Callie for a moment before returning to me. “Just because we usually don’t, doesn’t mean we never do.”

“Not a real answer,” I said.

He smiled again, gentler now. “Because my daughter needs me.”

Silence hung there like a single note at the end of a song.

And somehow, that answer was enough.

“So where are we heading?” Apollo asked, casually, like we were picking between diners and movie theaters instead of mythic battlefields and godly death zones.

Callie didn’t hesitate. “California. Entrance to the Underworld.”

Apollo blinked. “Oh.” Then again, slower—“Oh.”

A golden flicker passed over his sunglasses. He tapped a rhythm absently on his thigh—three beats, pause, two. A habit. Nervous energy. Even the sun god got rattled, I guess.

“You know, Lord Uncle H doesn’t exactly send thank-you cards when people show up uninvited,” he said, voice still light, but there was an edge beneath it. “And you three… no offense, but you're not dead. Yet.”

Callie’s expression didn’t falter. “We’re not going there for fun.”

“No?” Apollo raised a brow. “Could’ve fooled me. You do have that whole ‘ragtag band of tragic hope’ thing going. Which, by the way, very 1930s movie serial. I approve. But also—no. You can’t just march into the Underworld. There are rules. Cosmic, ancient, extremely grumpy rules.”

I stepped forward.

“He’s going to be judged tomorrow. Halloween,” I said quietly. “His name is Eli.”

Apollo tilted his head toward me, like he. The amusement faded, slowly, like the sun slipping behind a thick cloudbank.

“He’s my friend,” I continued. “He’s not supposed to be there. He’s... not just any demigod. And if the gods make the wrong choice, it won’t just end him. It could destroy everything.”

Callie nodded, voice gentler. “We’re not asking to fight monsters or steal a throne. We just want to get there in time to speak. To show them who he is before they decide who he was.”

There was a long pause.

Then Andros, who’d been silent all this time, finally said, “We had a good summer. Last camp season, I mean.” His voice was low, but steady. “Eli made it better. For a lot of us.” He looked away, jaw tightening. “He matters. To camp. To us.”

His voice cracked at the edges, but he didn’t look away. That was the thing about Andros—he didn’t speak often, but when he did, it mattered.

Apollo sighed. “Gods, you kids and your loyalty. That’ll be the death of you.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I’d rather be loyal than forgettable.”

That earned a smile. He nodded slowly, then straightened his jacket. “Alright. You win. Just this once.”

Outside, the streets of Chicago were still tinted with golden dusk. The Green Mill’s neon flickered behind us like a heartbeat as we stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Now, don’t freak out,” Apollo said, spinning the keys in his hand like a magician. “But I brought something... not a chariot.”

A gleam of red chrome appeared out of nowhere—like it had always been there, tucked between alley shadows and late October wind.

“1986 Ferrari Mondial Cabriolet.” Callie mumbled.

It is red as sunset, polished like a dream, and impossible to miss. The kind of car that made you feel like the soundtrack should kick in the moment you looked at it.

“Oh,” Andros whispered. “Oh, that’s... that’s a real car.”

Callie beamed. “I call shotgun.”

She ran ahead, vaulting effortlessly into the passenger seat like she’d done it a hundred times.

Andros climbed in back next to me, still staring wide-eyed at the leather stitching and dashboard lights like they were Olympic relics. I watched him in the mirror—this boy built like a battering ram, wide-eyed like a five-year-old on Christmas morning.

He might’ve been a warrior, but right then, he was just a kid.

“Seatbelts on,” Apollo called, already sliding into the front. “I’d prefer not to scrape any of you off the pavement before we get to California.”

I clicked the buckle into place just as the engine roared to life—a sound that echoed like thunder down the quiet block.

The heat inside the car was immediate—a dry, golden warmth that felt like the sun had been bottled and stitched into the leather seats. The moment the doors shut with a smooth click, I realized this wasn’t just a car. It radiated something divine.

The red convertible shimmered like it had been buffed with sunlight instead of wax. Chrome glinted at the edges, and the wheel was wrapped in golden threads. The radio blinked, not with station names, but with runes. The dashboard smelled faintly of citrus and cedar wood and something like... burnt ozone. Even without anyone saying it, I knew. This was Apollo’s chariot.

“So uh,” Andros said, tilting his head at the sleek dashboard, “you traded the flaming horses for horsepower?”

Apollo chuckled as he adjusted his Ray-Bans. “The flaming horses are still around. But they’re a bit... dramatic for a school zone. This model’s enchanted, faster than a Pegasus, and doesn’t need hay. Got it after disco died. Custom gift from Hephaestus—he owed me after that time I played backup lute in his forge for three months straight.”

“Three months?” Callie grinned from the passenger seat, buckling in. “That’s a long gig.”

“He’s slow at forging,” Apollo replied with a smirk, revving the engine. The car purred like a lion basking in the sun.

Andros was still poking at the buttons. “What’s this do?”

“Don’t—” Apollo started, but too late.

The car lifted two feet off the ground.

Andros jerked back, wide-eyed. “We’re flying?!” He practically climbed onto my side of the seat. “We’re flying—Zeus is gonna see us and fry me. He hates me. My whole cabin’s cursed.”

 “Relax, we’re only skimming airspace,” Apollo said, shifting into cruise like he was driving through a highway, not the clouds. “And Dad only zaps people who ask for it. Like Hermes.”

“Or Ares,” Callie added.

“Or literally everyone,” Andros muttered, ducking slightly anyway.

Apollo laughed. “He zapped me once. Or maybe twice. Okay, six times, but that’s father-son bonding for you. We’ve had our... moments. I wrote a ballad about it once. Didn’t chart.”

The road—if you could call it that—flickered beneath us in golden streaks. After a few minutes, the rhythm of the ride lulled them. I looked over and saw Callie curled up, her head tilted against the window. Andros had his arms crossed, brow furrowed even in sleep. Like he didn’t trust the sky not to drop him.

Apollo drove with one hand, his other resting lazily near the gearshift. He didn’t speak, letting the quiet settle.

I finally broke it. “Thank you.”

He turned his head slightly, but didn’t look at me. “For the ride?”

“For helping us at all. I thought gods... didn’t usually interfere.”

He sighed. “We don’t. Not directly. Not often.”

“But you did.”

He was quiet again. The wind tugged at my hair and the moonlight spilled through the open roof like silver thread. Then he said, “Let’s just say... I got ambushed by the moment.”

I smiled. “That doesn’t sound very godly.”

“No,” he said, finally glancing at me. “But it’s very fatherly.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I looked up at the sky instead. The moon hung like a silver coin, glowing faintly in a cloudless night.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Apollo murmured.

“It is.”

“She used to chase it,” he said. “My sister. Artemis. When we were young, she’d shoot arrows at it. Said if she hit the right spot, the moon would open up and show us the secrets inside. She never missed, but it never cracked.”

“Sounds like her.”

He smiled faintly. “She loved it more than anything. Still does.”

“She’s my role model,” I admitted. “I always hoped she might—someday—ask me to join the Hunt.”

“That’s why your weapon’s a bow.”

“Yeah.” My fingers touched the string at my side. “I’ve always liked the silence before it hits. The calm.”

“And your mom?” he asked gently.

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I'm unclaimed. She might be a minor goddess. Maybe a huntress once, or someone who loved archery. It doesn’t really matter. I just wish I knew.”

Apollo didn’t answer right away. Then he said:

“You don’t need to know the name of the wind to know it carried you.

You don’t need to see the firelight to know it burned for you.

A name can be lost, forgotten, gone—but legacy? That’s the arrow you already shot.”

I blinked. “That was... awful.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I know. I’m better with haikus.”

“But I get it,” I said quietly. “Thank you.”

He nodded, facing the road again. “You’re welcome, Lyssa Silverpine. Don’t forget the wind behind you.”

The wind stung my cheeks as we soared above miles and miles of sleeping America. For a while, I couldn’t tell where we were—just darkness below, streaked with blinking lights and highways like veins. Apollo didn’t say much, just occasionally tapped the steering wheel or hummed along to some tune I didn’t recognize.

At some point, I must’ve nodded off. When I opened my eyes, the sun was peeking up over the hills, staining the sky in oranges and deep violets. The world looked different out west—vast and glowing, as if the sky was stretching wider just to catch its breath.

“We’re here,” Apollo said.

He pulled the cherry-red convertible to the curb of an unassuming street that smelled faintly of the ocean. The buildings were older, stacked tightly together in that way only California cities seemed to manage—graffiti-tagged walls, crooked telephone poles, and tucked between them all… a record store.

It looked closed, windows tinted black, with a flickering neon sign that buzzed weakly: DOA Records. A chill skated down my arms.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“That’s it,” Apollo confirmed, resting his arms on the top of the wheel. “Dead On Arrival. Cute, right?”

Andros groaned. “Do the gods ever do subtle?”

Callie was already out of the car, pulling her coat tighter against the ocean breeze. She stared at the store’s front, nervous but grounded. When Apollo stepped out and rounded to us, something in his smile had changed. A quiet solemnity.

“I can’t go with you from here,” he said.

Callie’s face fell. “But—”

He opened his arms, and without hesitating, she rushed into them. I looked away. Something about it felt too sacred to watch.

“You’ve done enough,” she said softly.

Apollo kissed the top of her head. “You’ll always be my favorite song.”

She laughed, teary-eyed. “You say that to all your kids.”

“I mean it every time.”

He stepped back and looked at each of us in turn, his gaze lingering on me last.

“The Underworld is not just a place of death—it’s memory, pain, and shadow. It reflects what you carry. Go with clarity, or it’ll swallow you.”

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out three items.

First, a slender silver lyre—no bigger than my palm, strung with thin gold threads that shimmered unnaturally. “Orpheus’ Lyre,” Apollo said. “Well, a replica. The original’s locked up somewhere more cursed. You’ll know when to use it.”

Callie took it reverently, nodding.

Second, a pouch of golden drachmas. “For Charon,” Apollo said. “Though even with a bribe, he’s moody. Remind him I gave you these. He owes me for a concert I did on the River Styx.”

Andros pocketed the coins, raising an eyebrow. “Did you actually play there?”

Apollo winked. “Sold out. Lord Uncle H hated it.”

Last, he handed me a small parcel wrapped in waxy cloth. “Ambrosia. Don’t eat it unless you’re dying. And even then, only nibble.”

I tucked it into my bag. “Thank you. Really.”

He waved a hand like he was brushing it off. But I saw it—that flicker again. The mask of godhood dropping, just for a heartbeat.

“You know, I wasn’t supposed to help you,” Apollo murmured. “Interfering, prophecy, blah blah. But... my daughter asked. And sometimes, even we can’t turn away.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just nodded.

We stood in silence a moment longer, the air heavy with meaning.

Then Apollo clapped his hands once, bright and musical. “Alright! Into the land of death you go. Try not to die.”

Callie rolled her eyes. “Real motivational.”

Apollo grinned. “You get it from me.”

But just as he turned to leave, he paused, one finger raised. “Wait. One last thing. A farewell poem, if you will.”

“Oh no,” Andros muttered.

Apollo took a dramatic breath, then declared:

“Through shadows deep and tunnels wide,

Face Lord Uncle H with fearless stride.

Don’t trip or slip, or lose your head—

Unless, of course, you want to be dead.”

Callie blinked. “Was that… supposed to rhyme?”

“It did rhyme,” Apollo said proudly. “Mostly.”

I smothered a laugh with the back of my hand. “Beautiful.”

“I thought so.” He shot me a wink. “If you survive this, I’ll write you a sequel.”

With one last glance toward the rising sun, we looked away, Apollo turned—and in a shimmer of golden light, was gone.

We stood in silence for a beat, staring at the spot he’d vanished.

Andros scratched the back of his neck. “Gods are weird.”

“Yeah,” I said softly, eyes drifting toward the dark, flickering windows of DOA Records. “But sometimes... they care.”

We turned as one toward the door.

We were on our own now.

Chapter Text

DOA. Dead on Arrival. It looked like the kind of place rich people walked into to make other rich people richer. No signs, no flashy neon, just sterile perfection. And yet something about it screamed wrong.

“Is this it?” Andros asked, squinting up at it.

Callie nodded. “It’s always this… subtle.”

The glass doors parted with a whisper when we stepped close, like they recognized us.

Inside, the lobby gleamed—too clean, too quiet. The white marble floors didn’t have a single scuff. The potted plants were too green. The air smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. And around us, scattered near the elevators, were ghosts.

Actual ghosts.

They didn’t float like you’d expect. They stood. They waited. In a long, miserable line that wound around red velvet ropes. Some looked barely older than us, others were shriveled like forgotten raisins. One ghost was reading People magazine upside down. Another clutched a cassette tape with a death grip, muttering, “I told them I was good. I had talent.”

Callie whispered, “Weird.”

“I feel like I’m going to sneeze but on my soul,” Andros muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

At the front desk stood a familiar figure—tall, dark, and looking as bored as a cat at a dog show. Charon.

Gone was the glittery sequin Versace jacket from before. This time he wore a sleek black Italian suit, gold chain glinting at his throat. He had the poise of someone who’d been working the front desk since the fall of Troy, and resented every second of it.

He looked up from filing his nails and smiled.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite little demigods,” he drawled. “And here I was hoping to spend Halloween without mortal interference. How festive.”

The line of ghosts groaned as we stepped out of it. One transparent woman in a shoulder-padded blazer scowled at us.

“Back of the line, living breathers!” she snapped.

I ignored her. We all did.

Charon gave us a slow once-over, his eyes pausing just a second longer on Andros. “New face.”

Callie stepped forward. “We don’t have much time. I know you’re... busy with all this.” She gestured vaguely to the spectral crowd. “And tonight’s, you know, a high-traffic night—ghosts, ghouls, disco zombies probably.”

“Don’t get me started,” Charon muttered.

“But we really need to get across. It’s urgent.”

“Urgent.” Charon said it like it was a word that offended him. “You know how many urgent requests I get in a night? Hundreds. That one over there”—he pointed lazily to a see-through man with a top hat—“claimed he left his oven on in 1933.”

Andros crossed his arms. “Look, we’re not here to argue.”

“And we have these.” I pulled the small pouch of drachmas Apollo gave us from my jacket pocket. The coins shimmered like firelight.

Charon’s eyes gleamed.

“Tempting,” he murmured, but he didn’t reach for them yet. “Very tempting. But not tempting enough.”

“Oh come on,” Callie said. “Last time, you accepted our bribe to tell us about Eli.”

I glanced at his feet.

“Are those last season?” I asked innocently.

Charon narrowed his eyes. “They’re classics.”

“We brought you something else,” I said quickly, stepping forward with a hopeful grin. “Not with us yet, but we can get them. Gold lamé loafers.”

Charon blinked. “You’re lying.”

Callie shook her head solemnly. “Nope. Size twelve. Shiny enough to blind a god. We'll buy them. Have them delivered straight to you.”

Charon’s mouth actually fell open. “Gold lamé loafers,” he repeated, as if the words were holy. “You swear?”

“We swear,” I said, offering the drachmas in my hand. “No tricks, no haunting, just a fast pass into the Underworld. Let us through, and the shoes are yours.”

Charon’s eyes glittered like the Styx itself. “Very well,” he said, with the air of a man making the most important business decision of his afterlife. “But if I don’t get those loafers…” He pointed a skeletal finger at us. “I will personally escort you to the Fields of Punishment. And I don’t mean the scenic route.”

“Understood,” Callie said brightly. “Size twelve. Gold. Legendary.”

The elevator ride down felt like a descent into silence itself.

The moment the heavy brass doors slid shut behind us, the noise of the DOA Lobby vanished like a light switch flicked off. It wasn’t like any elevator I’d ever been on—not even the antique creaking one from the Green Mill. The floor beneath our feet was marble, black veined with silver, and the air had that stale coldness of a museum no one had visited in centuries. There was no panel of buttons—just one glowing symbol above the door: Ῥεύμα.

Callie leaned toward me and whispered, “That means ‘flow.’”

Andros was stiff beside me, arms crossed, eyes fixed ahead like he was bracing for something worse than ghosts.

Charon stood at the front of the elevator, elegant in his tailored suit, hands calmly folded over his obsidian-tipped cane. His eyes never blinked. “It’s a long way down,” he murmured.

It felt endless. There was no sensation of movement, and yet the pressure in my ears built until I thought my head would pop. The only sound was the faint ticking of something ancient—like bones brushing against each other in rhythm.

Then—ding.

The doors parted to a wall of mist.

We stepped out and it swallowed us whole.

Beneath the haze, the ground was dry and cracked like a desert floor, and the scent of sulfur clawed at my throat. A cold wind whispered past us, and as it cleared, we saw it.

The River Styx.

It stretched out before us like a scar across the Underworld—inky black, thick as oil, and rippling without wind. The water moved as if it had weight, like it dragged every grudge, regret, and curse ever uttered in its current. The river didn’t just flow, it seethed. Here and there, ghostly shapes floated half-submerged, reaching with translucent hands toward the shore only to be pulled under again.

No bridge. No docks. Just a simple, sleek boat carved from black wood waited at the river’s edge. It gleamed like obsidian.

“Step carefully,” Charon said. “Souls have been known to cling to ankles.”

Charon gave us each a nod—he’d been quiet since the elevator, his expression solemn—but as Callie stepped forward, he gently steadied her. “I’ll wait for your return,” he said. “You must face the Underworld yourselves.”

We boarded one by one.

Charon took his place at the stern, gripping a pole that shimmered with faint silver runes. With one silent push, we drifted from the shore.

The moment the boat touched the Styx, a chill spread through the soles of my boots. I shivered. This wasn’t just water—it was memory, anger, sorrow, power. I looked down once and saw a face beneath the surface—young, ancient, impossible to name—before it melted back into the current.

No one spoke. We just floated through the fog, carried on a current that felt like it was judging every heartbeat we’d ever had.

After what felt like both minutes and lifetimes, the opposite shore came into view—jagged rocks, scorched trees, and a set of wrought-iron gates tall enough to swallow a mountain.

Charon brought us gently to shore and turned, brushing invisible lint from his lapel.

“Well,” he said, the faintest hint of amusement returning to his tone, “this is your stop. Past here, it’s all teeth and trial. Try not to die.”

He paused, looking at each of us.

Then added slyly, “Oh, and just to confirm... you three swear on this river that you’d deliver my gold lamé loafers, yes?”

Callie groaned, “Ugh. Yes, we swore.”

Andros lifted a hand like a solemn oath. “Cross my heart and hope—wait, bad phrase—yes, we swore.”

I smiled, despite the dread curling in my stomach. “We remember. We’re not ghosts yet.”

Charon grinned, wicked and wide. “Then may the fates show you a shred of mercy.”

And with that, the boat vanished into the mist, leaving us at the gates of the Underworld.

The air turned cold—sharp, metallic. Like we had stepped through an invisible curtain. My skin prickled, and not just from the Underworld's usual chill.

Then it started.

A high-pitched whine. So piercing, so sudden, it sent a spike through the center of my head. I grabbed my ears instinctively.

Andros did too, doubling over beside me.

Callie spun around. “What’s wrong? Lyssa?”

But I could barely hear her over the sound building behind my eyes, like pressure cracking glass.

Then the voice came.

Not loud. Not shouted. Just there. Inside me. A whisper layered in thunder.

“Your soul is bound to liars. Oaths unkept will poison you both.”

I staggered. My knees buckled. It felt like the voice had reached in and hooked behind my ribs.

Andros grunted sharply.

“By the breach of sacred tongues, you are marked.”

Callie grabbed my arm. “What’s happening? Andros?”

He didn’t respond—his eyes squeezed shut, hands trembling at his sides.

Another line cut through my skull, softer this time, almost a murmur.

“You are born from silence and pride. But the oathbreakers’ debt is yours to pay.”

And then one last blow—delivered to Andros. I watched his whole body flinch.

“And when the veil parts... I will collect what is owed.”

The sound stopped. Just like that.

I gasped like I'd been underwater. Andros dropped to one knee, panting.

Callie stood over us, pale and confused. “What just happened? You both—Lyssa, you looked like someone was stabbing you.”

We locked eyes, me and Andros. We’d both heard it. Felt it. Whatever it was.

Callie’s eyes bounced between us, her brows drawing tight. “Okay... what just happened? You both looked like someone shoved a dagger through your ears.”

My throat felt raw. The words still buzzed in my skull like a swarm refusing to leave. I took a shaky breath and spoke them aloud—each line that voice had carved into me. The moment the last one left my lips, the weight in the air seemed to thicken.

Callie stared at me, blinking hard. “...You heard that just now? Both of you?”

Andros gave a slow nod, rubbing his temples. “Same words. Same pressure. It was like it was inside my head.”

“But I didn’t hear anything,” Callie said. “Just you two freaking out and going pale.”

I swallowed again, my voice lower. “It wasn’t meant for you.”

Andros met my gaze. “The warning... it wasn’t random.”

“No,” I said. “Whoever—or whatever—it was... it knew us. It was speaking to something deeper. Something we inherited.”

He looked grim. “Oaths. Debts. Ours to carry, even if we didn’t make them.”

Callie folded her arms, still shaken. “You guys think this is about your parents?”

I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t have to. We all knew the answer.

The path twisted downward, darkening with each step we took. No one spoke. Not about the voice. Not about the aching pressure behind our eyes or the way the air felt heavier now—like it was watching us.

We didn’t talk about the warning.

I couldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I let the silence swallow me, letting my footsteps echo over the black stone as we reached a tall iron gate. It rose like a ribcage out of the obsidian earth, flanked by columns that looked like they’d been scorched in some eternal fire. Ash clung to everything, drifting gently down like black snow.

I gripped my bow tighter.

Andros stopped beside me. His eyes flicked to the gate, then to me, and then somewhere far off beyond it, into the Underworld’s vast expanse. He hadn’t said a word either. Not since… not since that. But I wondered.

But last summer, Eli and I went on a trial together—and we discovered that our fate was the same. Mirror fate. And now, I couldn’t help but wonder if Andros was part of it too. Unclaimed, uncertain. Just like us.

And now, I couldn’t help but glance at Andros. Unclaimed. Unsettled. And maybe—just maybe—unwelcome in the world above, just like us.

“I know I didn’t hear the ghostly murder whisper, but uh… did you guys hear that?” Callie said suddenly.

Her voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I blinked.

A low, bone-vibrating rumble echoed somewhere behind us.

“I did,” I said slowly, already turning.

Andros frowned. “Yeah. I hear it too. It's—”

Another rumble, deeper this time. A wet growl.

It was getting closer.

I turned fully now, heartbeat hammering in my ears.

At first, it looked like a dog. A very big dog. Massive, muscled, with sleek black fur and eyes like molten coins. But then it shifted forward, and the torchlight—if you could call the strange green flames above the gate torches—glinted off three heads. All snarling.

It was like someone had thrown a hellish Rottweiler into a nuclear reactor. Each head bared dripping fangs, and its paws hit the ground with the weight of falling stones.

“Okay,” Callie whispered. “That is not a schnauzer.”

“Cerberus,” I said, breath hitching. “The Cerberus.”

“He’s bigger than I imagined,” Andros said, backing up slightly. “Like, train-car big.”

Cerberus let out another growl—a deep, hungry thunder that rolled over our bones.

We ran.

I grabbed an arrow from my quiver, nocked it, and fired without thinking. It streaked through the air and bounced uselessly off Cerberus’s shoulder. His middle head snapped in my direction with a snarl.

“Oh great, he noticed me.”

“Maybe try not to taunt the immortal death dog!” Callie yelled as she ducked behind one of the iron columns.

Andros pulled out his shield and turned just in time to block a lunging paw. He stumbled back, planting his feet.

“Distraction,” I gasped. “We need to—keep it busy—get to the gate!”

“I think we’ve got its attention already!” Andros called, slamming his shield forward into the front left paw, which did nothing. “Any other brilliant ideas?!”

Cerberus barked—more like boomed—and the sound shook the columns. Loose stones rattled down from somewhere unseen.

“We could’ve brought a chew toy!” Callie shouted from her hiding spot.

“I am not a chew toy!” Andros snapped.

I loosed another arrow, this one aimed at the left head’s ear. It skimmed past, grazing it—just enough to make the left head roar in annoyance and turn toward me.

“Yup, definitely noticed me now.”

The heads were arguing. Left and middle both barked at right. Right barked back. Their whole body shifted restlessly, like it couldn’t decide which one of us to rip apart first.

“Hey!” Callie shouted suddenly, standing up behind the pillar. “Fluffy! Sit!”

All three heads turned toward her.

Andros and I yelled, “CALLIE, NO!”

Too late. Cerberus charged.

“Callie, run!” I shouted, but she was already sprinting, her boots smacking the stone path in frantic rhythm. The three-headed beast zeroed in on her like she was a chew toy dipped in dog food.

Andros and I took off after them, weapons drawn. The monstrous dog bounded after Callie, each of its heads snarling in sync, breath like sulfur and death. One of the heads snapped at her hair and just missed.

“Go left!” I yelled, pulling an arrow from my quiver mid-run.

Callie veered to the side of a crumbling column, panting, while Andros raised his shield. “You go high, I go low?”

“Gotcha,” I muttered, and let the arrow fly.

It struck—somewhere between the tail and what I desperately hoped wasn’t a very large butt. Cerberus yelped and stopped mid-charge, spinning all three heads toward me and Andros, eyes blazing.

“Uhhh,” Andros muttered. “That didn’t work as planned.”

Cerberus growled, shoulders bunching, all three mouths drooling like it was dinnertime.

It was about to lunge—when the sound came.

A soft note, like a whisper in moonlight. Then another, swirling into a melody that seemed... impossible. Haunting and sad, like a lullaby written for ghosts.

Cerberus froze.

One head tilted. Then another. Then the third let out a soft, almost confused whine.

The beast turned slowly—calmly—and began padding away from us.

Following the music.

We looked up the slope.

There was Callie, standing with something glowing in her palm. A tiny silver lyre, no larger than a sparrow’s wing, but it shimmered with impossible power. Each string hummed as if being played by the Underworld itself.

Andros stared, wide-eyed. “Orpheus Lyre?!”

Cerberus reached Callie and did something completely unholy for a creature of legend and terror.

It licked her.

All three heads.

“Ew—ugh—okay, buddy, personal space!” Callie laughed, wiping her cheek as the heads slobbered over her shoulders like she was their long-lost chew toy. “I save the day, and all I get are dog drools?! This is not how Apollo said this gift would go!”

Andros snorted. “Still the coolest thing I’ve seen all week.”

I smiled, catching my breath as the dog curled at her feet like a giant, rotting puppy. The lyre’s glow faded, but the music still lingered in the air like a promise not quite broken.

Callie waved us over. “Come on. While Lassie’s still in a good mood.”

We slipped past, one by one, the iron gates of the Underworld yawning open before us. Cold air met my face—older than death, thick with silence.

We were in.

And for now, at least, we were alive.

Chapter Text

The gates shut behind us with a groan like the world sighing shut. I don’t know what I expected exactly—torches, chains, a giant “Welcome to the Underworld” sign? But the truth was colder. Still. And too quiet.

The air turned thicker, like we’d stepped into memory. It smelled of ash and iron, like something long extinguished. The path ahead was wide and cracked, bones crunching beneath our boots, and beyond it—the Fields of Asphodel stretched like a sea of gray grass forever under a sky that had never known the sun.

Callie took the first step forward, still wiping Cerberus drool off her shirt. “So. This is it. Death smells... kind of bland.”

Andros stood beside me, his shield still strapped to his arm. “No Elysium in sight?”

“Or Tartarus,” I muttered, hoping neither of those options were coming up anytime soon.

The Asphodel Fields looked like someone had stripped the world of color, left only ghosts to wander the silence. Pale, see-through figures drifted aimlessly, whispering to themselves—or maybe to no one at all. Some wept. Others walked in endless circles. None of them looked at us. And that felt worse than if they had.

I remembered reading once—maybe in Camp’s library—that most souls end up here. Not because they were good or bad, but because they didn’t make a mark at all. They just... existed. It was a field of forgotten lives.

Callie’s voice lowered as we walked. “You ever think about what people will remember you for?”

Andros made a face. “That’s not a loaded question or anything.”

“No, I mean it. All these people—we don’t know their names. We don’t even know their stories. They just faded.”

She slowed as we passed a spirit kneeling by a crumbled statue. A woman with hollow eyes and hair like dust. She was singing something without a voice. No sound came out. She didn’t even know we were there.

I swallowed. “We won’t be like them.”

Callie gave me a side glance. “Because we’re demigods?”

“No,” I said. “Because we remember each other. That’s what keeps people real.”

There wasn’t anything to fight in the Fields of Asphodel. No monsters. No mazes. Just the weight of silence and the creeping thought that we could get lost in it. That’s what made it dangerous—not blades, but forgetting who you were.

So we did what any logical trio of tired half-dead teenagers would do.

We walked.

Sometimes, the fields whispered. Not in words, but in feelings—like sorrow brushing your shoulder, or a dream trying to break into your skull. I kept thinking I saw someone I knew. An old camper. A friend. But every time I looked, it was just another ghost, already disappearing again.

I gripped my bow tighter. “Don’t talk to them,” I told the others. “They’ll pull pieces of you if you let them.”

Callie shuddered. “Cheery place.”

We kept walking. At one point, we passed what looked like a dried-up olive tree split down the middle. Ghosts gathered around it in a half-circle, watching nothing at all.

I found myself glancing over my shoulder more than once. Not because I was scared something was following us—but because I was scared it wouldn’t.

I didn’t say it aloud, but something was gnawing at me.

Last summer, Eli and I had gone through a trial together. And in that forest, we’d learned something strange. That our fates were the same. Mirror fate. I hadn’t thought about it, but now? Walking through the land of the dead? I couldn’t stop wondering—was Andros like us too? Was that why he was still unclaimed?

Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it would. I just kept walking.

“Hey,” Callie said suddenly, squinting ahead. “You hear that?”

I paused. “What?”

“Exactly,” she whispered. “I don’t hear anything. Not even our footsteps.”

She was right. The ground was soft. Our boots made no sound. The farther we went, the quieter it got, until even our breathing felt like an intrusion.

“This place doesn’t want us here,” Andros said, his hand on his shield again.

Too bad, I thought. We’re already inside.

Callie slowed beside me, her boots crunching on pale dust. “Uh… Lyssa?”

“I know,” I whispered. Something was wrong.

The fields had subtly changed. The flat, endless gray gave way to a grove of trees—if you could call them that. No leaves. Just tall, twisted husks with branches like broken fingers. Their bark looked scorched, their roots clawed at the earth. A faint silver mist curled around their trunks.

We hadn’t meant to walk this way. There was no path, no sign. But something had guided our feet here.

“Do you hear that?” Andros asked behind me.

I stopped walking.

A breeze stirred through the grove—or maybe not a breeze, but something like breath. And from the trees, like wind through cracked lips, came voices.

One word. Three times. From three directions.

“Lyssa.”

My blood froze.

The voice wasn’t distorted or ghostly. It was… familiar. Gentle. Like water over stone. Like someone I should’ve remembered but couldn’t quite name.

I turned, scanning the twisted trunks.

“Who said that?” I asked.

Callie didn’t answer.

She was staring through the trees now, a stunned look on her face.

“Andros?” I called, but he wasn’t beside me anymore.

He was walking forward, his shoulders tense, gaze fixed on something deeper in the grove.

That’s when I realized— each of us was hearing something different.

I took a step back.

“Don’t—”

The grove shifted.

It didn’t move exactly. It just… rearranged. One moment there were dead trees, the next—three arches of gnarled roots opened ahead, one in front of each of us. Mine pulsed faintly with silver light. Through it, I saw a forest bathed in moonlight. Hanging from a tree branch was a silver cloak. A bow rested beneath it. And in the distance, I could swear I heard a woman’s voice calling.

“Lyssa.”

My breath hitched.

“I… no.” I shook my head. “That’s not real.”

This—whatever this grove was—it wanted to sever that bond. To tempt us with individual destinies.

But we weren’t here alone.

“Callie?” I called. “Andros?”

No answer.

The arch before me pulsed again. Closer now. I took a step back.

And then—I remembered something else. Something simple, quiet.

Eli’s voice, during the trial, “This is... just letting go. Of the fear.”

It grounded me.

I grabbed an arrow from my quiver and drew back. Not to shoot something—but to wake them up.

I aimed at the sky and let it fly.

The arrow burst into gold light as it soared over the trees.

The illusions shattered.

The grove let out a hiss, like breath escaping a tomb. The arches twisted, cracking, then crumbled into dust. The trees stilled.

Andros staggered back, looking pale. Callie gasped like she’d been underwater.

“That was…” she started, and then shook her head. “Okay, officially? Trees shouldn’t whisper. That’s my new rule.”

“What did you see?” I asked quietly.

Callie frowned. “My brother, step-brother,” she said. “But… he was still alive.”

She didn’t look at me. And I didn’t push.

Andros was silent. But his eyes were darker, and he didn’t meet mine.

We stood there for a moment, three living people in a place meant for the dead.

Then, far ahead, through the trees, we saw it.

A glowing pavilion—white marble against the gray horizon.

The Judgment Pavilion.

It waited for us like a courthouse before an execution.

I tightened the strap across my chest and nodded. “Let’s go.”

The Pavilion loomed ahead like some ancient monument swallowed by the Underworld. It looked like the courthouse from The People’s Court got dragged through Tartarus, dusted with despair, and left to rot under a permanent eclipse. Massive black columns coiled with iron ivy held up the domed roof, while ghostly flames hovered at the steps, flickering like they were nervous.

“Why does this feel like we’re walking into a haunted version of Judge Wapner?” Callie whispered beside me, pushing her sunglasses up onto her forehead.

“Because we probably are,” I muttered.

Inside, the heat fell away. The air was cold—too cold for the land of the dead. It was the stillness of judgment, of something ancient and watching.

The chamber spread wide, circular and enormous, like the center of a black amphitheater. Stone benches curled in rows along the walls, stacked high like the audience stands of a courtroom—or a coliseum. Except instead of jurors or bored spectators, the seats were filled with spirits. Shades, specters, and things that had probably never been human sat in silence. Not one of them blinked.

At the heart of the room was a raised platform carved with symbols: olive branches, laurel wreaths, and a massive pair of scales embedded into the floor in gold. A spotlight of eerie blue flame hovered over it, as though the room itself wanted you to notice the center.

A single marble platform rose at the center of the room, carved with scales and laurel branches. It wasn’t just symbolic. The moment we stepped forward, the entire space felt like it shifted—tilted—until all focus landed on us.

Or rather, on what stood at the center of the dais.

Three thrones.

Not golden or ornate. These were forged from different elements entirely. One looked as if it had been carved from glacier ice, its surface glistening, cold and untouched. Another shimmered like molten bronze, always moving, like it couldn’t decide whether it was metal or flame. The third seemed to grow from the very roots of the Underworld itself—stone and bone tangled with living ivy, impossible but real.

And in those thrones sat the Judges.

They didn’t scare me.

They petrified me.

The first throne—on the left—was carved of solid ice, constantly melting and reforming in delicate drips and shards, yet never puddling. Seated there was Rhadamanthus, youthful in appearance but ancient in posture. His robes were pale and stiff like winter cloth, and his skin was so translucent I could see the bluish pulse of veins beneath. His eyes were sharp and colorless, like the snow right before it blinds you.

The second throne—center—glowed with a bronze light. It pulsed with molten metal that never spilled, like a volcano caught mid-eruption and frozen in time. There sat Minos, broad-shouldered and grim. A beard lined his jaw like an iron curtain, and his hands rested heavy on the arms of the throne as if he’d once held a kingdom and never really let it go. His robes were dark red, trimmed with flame, and his gaze made me straighten my back without realizing it.

The third throne—to the right—looked grown, not built. Gnarled roots and bones twisted together into a seat, moss creeping along its arms, vines curling around the legs like they were breathing. Aeacus sat with his legs crossed and his chin in his hand. His robe was dusty green, patched and weathered like old bark. His eyes were sunken, wise, and weary—like he’d seen far too much and still kept watching.

The three of them radiated power—not loud, not theatrical. The quiet kind. The kind that didn’t need to prove itself. That simply was.

We slipped into an empty row near the back of the pavilion, the cold stone benches pressing into our legs as we sat in stiff silence. The gallery was packed with shades—spirits of the dead, pale and wavering like candle smoke. None of them turned to look at us.

Callie was the first to whisper. “Nobody’s looking. Keep your head down and don’t act weird.”

“But I’m interested, it looks like they are judging someone.” Andros muttered.

I nudged his leg under the bench. “Shh. We blend in, remember? Quiet demigods. Ghost vibes.”

He gave a half-hearted peace sign like a wannabe spirit and slouched lower.

The three of us huddled close as a new name echoed across the pavilion.

Minos stood, unrolling a scroll with a dramatic flick of his wrist. His voice boomed from nowhere and everywhere.

“Soul Number 1986-040-062-804,” he announced, his tone sharper than steel. “Come forward.”

A man stepped into view at the center of the floor. He was middle-aged, still faintly pink in the face like someone who’d only just died. His eyes were wide. Desperate. The kind of look you only saw when someone realized too late that consequences still applied after death.

The judges leaned in slightly as the soul was read his charges.

“Killed his wife,” Minos barked, reading from the scroll. “Robbery of a federal bank. Assault with intent to kill. Arson. Threatening a police in disguise.” He sneered. “This one was busy.”

“I say Tartarus,” Minos said immediately, slamming his gavel once. “No deliberation needed. Next!”

Aeacus cleared his throat. It sounded like a landslide echoing through a cave. “Minos, you always vote Tartarus.”

“Because they deserve Tartarus!”

Rhadamanthus tilted his head, voice calm. “I’m inclined toward the Fields of Punishment… but not Tartarus. Not unless he shows signs of being truly monstrous. Look at him—he’s shaking like a leaf. Some of that may have been out of fear, not cruelty.”

Minos threw his hands up. “Fear? Is that supposed to be a defense?”

“Calm yourselves,” Aeacus said, his voice slow but stern. “The soul must go somewhere. Our vote must be united.”

“Then we’re stuck,” Minos snapped.

I leaned toward Callie, whispering, “Do they always fight like this?”

“It’s like watching daytime court TV, except the stakes are eternal suffering.” She whispered back.

Andros nodded. “They should give them a theme song.”

We tried not to snort.

At the dais, the judges continued their sharp back-and-forth.

“He didn’t regret what he did,” Minos said, stabbing a finger at the accused. “No remorse in his record.”

Aeacus gave the soul a long look, as if seeing something beyond what the man presented. Finally, he gave a slow nod.

“Fields of Punishment.”

Minos turned to the man and raised his gavel.

“Soul Number 1986-040-062-804,” he said grimly. “You are hereby sentenced to Field of Punishment for the full weight of your crimes. No appeals.”

The others raised their gavels in perfect sync.

CLAAAP!

The sound of three gavels echoed like a thunderclap.

“No!” the man shrieked as two Underworld guards—hulking, zombie-like figures with yellowing bones and rusted armor—grabbed him by the arms. He twisted and kicked, but their grip didn’t budge.

“You can’t do this!” he cried, voice rising in terror. “I—I was going to turn myself in! I was sorry!”

No one listened.

The guards dragged him from the center platform toward a yawning chasm at the side of the pavilion. A rush of icy air swept over us as its gate opened, exhaling the distant roar of monsters and screams.

Then the door closed, and the silence returned.

We stayed very, very still.

The courtroom’s murmur hadn’t quite settled when I nudged Andros with my elbow. “We need to find Eli. Fast.”

Andros glanced sideways at me. “You think he’s already been judged?”

“I don’t know.” I shifted on my feet. “But if he has, we’re wasting time breathing recycled death air.”

Callie, pressed close behind us, whispered, “We’re surrounded by the dead, and you’re worried about the air?”

“Callie.”

“Okay, okay.” She tugged her hoodie lower, trying to blend in. “What’s the plan?”

I scanned the benches. “We split up a little, keep eyes on the judges. Look for any signs of—of anything. He wouldn’t go quietly.”

They nodded, and we fanned out through the dead. I tried not to focus too much on the expressions around me—blank, foggy, flickering. Faces worn down by memory, grief, or sheer forgetfulness. Some looked up at the judges, waiting for their names, their number, their afterlife. Others just sat, crumbling slowly into the weightless air.

I kept my eyes moving. No sign of him.

No spark of gold in his curls. No slouching stance. No nervous glance that told me he was ready to bolt and needed me to tell him not to.

Where are you, Eli?

I circled back toward our original row, and Callie met me with a subtle shake of her head. Andros joined a moment later, face grim.

Nothing.

Then Radamanthus’s voice rang out, cutting clean through the hall like a blade.

“Soul Number 1986-040-062-805—step forward for judgment.”

Minos sat back in his throne-like seat with a huff. “Oh, gods. The son Hestia claimed.”

My heart jolted.

A shiver raced down my spine. Every sound in the chamber evaporated. The shades leaned forward. Even the dust in the air seemed to pause.

We whipped around in unison—Callie, Andros, and me.

And there, the space before the judges was slowly filling.

I stared at the number echoing in my ears. Forty million, sixty-two thousand, eight hundred and five. The next soul in line.

The next soul to be judged.

I took a breath. “Eli.”

Chapter Text

The doors creaked open, and for a second, the Judgement Pavilion was silent—eerily so. Then the shuffle of dragging feet echoed across the cold obsidian floor. Two guards—zombies, gray-skinned and soulless, armor half-rusted and smelling like dust and mildew—lurched forward from the shadowed corridor.

Between them, shackled and flanked like a prisoner of war, was Eli.

I didn’t breathe.

His curly hair was a mess, and his usual wide eyes were clouded with something... dazed. Not pain, not fear. Something heavier. Something like betrayal. His wrists were bound with glowing golden chains that shimmered like celestial bronze, inscribed with runes that pulsed with divine restraint. They weren’t just chains. They were sacred bindings.

He shuffled forward in that oversized shirt—gray, plain, and clearly issued by the Underworld—marked boldly across the back:

1986-040-062-805

I mouthed the number without realizing it. The 40,062,805th soul to die that year. He looked so small beneath that giant label, like it had swallowed his identity and replaced it with a barcode.

“Eli,” I whispered under my breath.

Callie clutched my wrist. Andros stiffened beside me. No one dared move.

The judges leaned forward in unison, shadows falling across their ancient, stony faces. Minos, the central judge, cleared his throat like a thundercloud about to burst.

“A curious case,” Minos said, tapping his long, bony fingers against the obsidian desk. “Soul Number 1986-040-062-805.”

“It shouldn’t be a case at all,” snapped Rhadamanthus from the left, his eyes glowing faintly beneath a hood that looked older than history itself. “This soul has already broken protocol.”

Aeacus, the third judge, merely scratched at his beard and muttered, “We never should’ve allowed the goddess to interfere.”

Minos raised a hand. “Let the facts be reviewed for the record.”

The audience murmured behind us. Shades—ghostly onlookers, half there, half not—twitched with restless anticipation. Even the dead liked a little drama.

“Begin the recount,” Minos said. His voice echoed across the chamber like the toll of a bell.

Rhadamanthus stood. “This soul once belonged to a mortal woman: Eliana of Rhodes. She perished in an accidental hearth explosion—her death was recorded, her essence collected, as is law. However, before her spirit could pass through judgement, the goddess Hestia intervened.”

A low murmur spread through the crowd. Even some of the ghosts whispered to each other, flickering like candlelight.

“Hestia extracted Eliana’s soul and offered it... to another,” he continued. “A woman named Maria, childless, pure-hearted, incapable of natural conception. Hestia implanted the soul into Maria’s womb. Divine intervention. A rebirth bypassing our domain.”

“She cheated the system,” Aeacus growled. “Plain and simple.”

Minos nodded slowly. “And this reborn soul, now named Eli, grew. Lived. And last summer, was claimed as Hestia’s son.”

“Lord Hades in was angry,” Rhadamanthus said, voice sharp, “he must be judged. Not as a mortal, not as a god’s chosen, but as what he truly is: a soul that never passed through death’s gate.”

Minos leaned forward, face unreadable. “The question remains: what is he now? An exception… or a threat to the balance?”

They hadn’t even looked at Eli. He stood silent at the center, head bowed, as if he didn’t hear a word.

But I knew better.

Eli was listening to all of it.

And somewhere deep inside that still, quiet frame, I knew he was burning.

I didn’t even realize I was gripping Andros’s arm until he shifted and winced.

“What do we do?” Callie hissed, her eyes locked on Eli. “They’re going to try him like he’s a mistake that needs cleaning up.”

“They’re not just trying him,” I murmured. “They’re deciding if he even had the right to exist.”

The tension in the Judgement Pavilion crackled like lightning about to strike. The three judges resumed their quiet, yet intense conversation, the echo of their deep voices filling the high ceiling like a distant storm.

“This isn’t like any court we know,” I said, barely above a whisper. “There are no lawyers. No defense. No testimony.”

“Just three dead guys with too much power,” Andros muttered.

My stomach churned. Eli stood there, chained, alone, while his fate was debated like he was nothing but a piece of divine contraband. It made me want to scream.

The murmurs in the Pavilion quieted as Rhadamanthus leaned forward, tapping his fingers against his obsidian scroll.

“This one... This one violates a thousand years of order,” he said darkly. “Born of a soul unjudged. Given flesh without passage. The system was bypassed, intentionally. What else could that be but defiance?”

Minos grunted. “An act of divine mercy, perhaps. A gift. Do not forget who granted that soul another chance.”

Aeacus scoffed. “Mercy? This is blasphemy in powdered form. You may not like rules, Minos, but even you know we cannot allow Olympians to skip the line at death’s door. This wasn’t just a child being born—it was a soul being smuggled.”

“Smuggled,” Minos repeated, resting his chin on one fist. “Or... repurposed. And what of the mortal woman who bore him? Did she not choose?”

“Choice or not,” Rhadamanthus said, “The child is an anomaly. No father. No underworld record. No judgment of the original soul. And now, claimed as Hestia’s own son? What precedent do we set if we allow this?”

Aeacus slammed his hand on the bench. “We don’t! We send him to the Fields of Punishment. We erase the crime before the Olympians rewrite fate again!”

Minos frowned. “He has not committed any evil. Not yet.”

“He is the violation!” Aeacus barked.

Rhadamanthus exhaled, slow and cold. “And what if this was just the first? What if more ‘children of mercy’ start surfacing? We’d have chaos in every corner of the realms.”

“A warning must be made,” Aeacus agreed. “One soul… for balance.”

Minos shook his head but said nothing more—for now.

Callie turned to me. “We can’t just watch.”

“No,” I said. “We’re not watching. We’re interrupting.”

And before either of them could stop me, I stepped forward from the crowd.

“I object, Your Honors!”

My voice rang out and cut through the murmuring crowd like a dagger through silk. It echoed off the black stone walls and halted the judges’ discussion mid-sentence.

All three of them turned slowly to face me.

Rhadamanthus stood. “You.”

Uh oh.

“I knew it,” he said, glaring down at us. “Lord Hades warned us there would be interference.”

Aeacus’s lip curled. “Guards. Seize the intruders!”

At once, a half-dozen skeletal guards lurched forward from the edges of the pavilion, their bones clattering like warped xylophones, each gripping a rusted bronze spear. They were slow but strong, and there were too many of them.

Andros stepped in front of me instantly, lifting his shied with a sharp clang. “You’re going to regret that,” he muttered through his teeth, then surged forward.

A spear jabbed at him, but he caught it with the edge of the shield, pivoted, and shoved hard. The skeleton stumbled backward, ribs fracturing on impact. Another came at him from the side—but Andros ducked low, swung his shield upward like a battering ram, and sent the second one flying into a column.

I drew my bow without hesitation, my fingers almost moving on instinct. I notched an arrow of silver fletching and loosed it at the nearest guard. The shaft struck it right through the skull—and with a hiss of steam, the skeleton collapsed into a pile of dust.

Another came from behind. I spun, dropped to one knee, and fired point-blank into its sternum. It burst like kindling.

“We’re not leaving without him!” I shouted, slinging another arrow onto the string.

Beside me, Callie reached into her satchel and yanked out Orpheus’ lyre. Her fingers danced across the strings, plucking a soft and haunting melody.

The sound changed the room.

The skeletons paused, their bones trembling mid-swing. Even the torches around the judgment dais flickered lower, the flickers now moving in rhythm with the song.

Callie’s voice wove into the music like a thread of sunlight: “By harmony, by memory, by the sacred name of Mnemosyne, still your hands…”

Minos lifted a hand and banged his gavel. “Enough!”

The music faded, like a feather settling to the earth.

Silence.

The judges stared at us. None of the guards moved.

Minos sat back with a deep sigh. “The lyre of Orpheus…” he said, almost impressed. “You come into my court with melody and arrows.”

Rhadamanthus sneered, but didn’t object.

Aeacus looked like he’d just swallowed a dagger. “You should be thrown into Lethe yourselves.”

Minos held up a hand. “No. We will hear what they have to say.”

And just like that, the fighting stopped. The courtroom, if you could call it that, returned to its still, cold balance. Dust floated through the underworld light, settling between broken bones.

I lowered my bow. But my eyes never left Eli, still shackled at the center, wearing that awful gold chain around his wrists.

The courtroom still smelled like dust and fire, like parchment left too close to a candle. The embers from Callie’s lyre-song still shimmered faintly, casting broken halos on the dark marble floor.

And then he looked up.

Eli.

His golden chains clinked softly as he turned toward us, confusion flickering behind his eyes before it was swallowed by something else—recognition. His lips parted in a gasp, too soft to reach us, but the words still found their way: Thank you.

I hadn’t realized I’d stopped breathing until that moment. I gave him a nod, and just the barest smile—small, tight, all I could manage without crumbling. I didn’t want him to see the fear tightening in my chest. I wanted him to see resolve.

Because gods help them all—I wasn’t leaving this courtroom without him.

I stepped forward, voice steady even though my knees felt like they might buckle. “Your Honors,” I said, “Eli did nothing wrong. He didn’t cheat death. And what happened—this miracle—maybe it wasn’t a loophole. Maybe it was a gift.”

Minos stood, robes pooling like storm clouds around his feet, face carved in the shape of rage. “That is not how the cycle works!” he thundered. “The soul dies. It comes here. It is judged. It is punished or rewarded. That is the law set before Olympus was Olympus!”

His voice cracked through the chamber like thunder on a mountainside.

Callie stepped beside me, brushing a curl behind her ear. Her voice didn’t rise—it just carried, light but firm. “But the Twelve Olympians already judged him,” she said. “He was claimed. That alone means they deemed him worthy of life.”

Andros, still dusted with bits of cracked bone from the earlier fight, crossed his arms. “Hermes himself let him stay in our cabin. And Hermes follows the rules. You really want to say you know better than the messenger of the gods?”

Aeacus let out a hiss. “Camp Half-Blood is not underworld jurisdiction.”

“We’re not saying it is,” I shot back. “We’re saying that whatever happened with Eli—it was sanctioned.”

Minos slammed his gavel once. “Sanctioned without our knowledge!”

Rhadamanthus’ voice joined like a low growl. “Do you truly think you’re above the laws of death because a hearth goddess put her hand on a cradle?”

“Reincarnation isn’t something to be handed out like offerings!” Aeacus barked. “A soul must earn it. They must wander Asphodel or bask in Elysium, reflect and atone. Swim in the River Lethe to erase their memories. That is how it has always been.”

Eli took a tentative step forward. The guards didn’t stop him, but their bone-sheathed fingers tightened on their spears.

“I… I don’t remember anything from before,” he said softly. “I don’t know who Eliana was. I don’t remember a fire, or Greece, or dying. All I know is Maria. My mom. Growing up in Poughkeepsie. Watching cartoons on Saturday morning and burning toast on accident.”

He looked up at them. “If I have the soul of someone who died, I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t steal it. I just am.”

The courtroom fell into a deep, uneasy silence.

The torches flickered.

Behind their towering benches, the three judges leaned toward each other. Their voices dropped into ancient murmurs—speaking in a dialect lost to any living tongue. But I didn’t need translation. I could feel the shifting temperature in the air. Doubt. Disagreement. Uncertainty.

They argued, quietly, but with intensity. Rhadamanthus’s brow furrowed. Aeacus shook his head, tapping a finger against the arm of his throne. Minos pressed both hands against the railing as if steadying himself.

Eventually, Minos turned. He adjusted the black hem of his robe and looked straight at Eli.

“We have reached a verdict.”

A chill trickled down my spine.

Minos lifted the scroll. “Soul Number 1986-040-062-805,” he said, his voice now low and formal, each syllable crisp and final. “Though reborn by divine intervention, you have bypassed the sacred order of judgment. Your life, however innocent in memory, is anchored to a soul that has not faced what all must.”

I gritted my teeth. Don’t you say it. Don’t you dare say it—

“In accordance with the will of this court,” Minos continued, “you shall be consigned to the Fields of Asphodel.”

Eli flinched.

“You will walk with the silent, the forgotten, the unsure. Neither punished nor praised, but contained… until such a time that your case is reviewed again in the Court of Endless Appeals.”

He looked to his left. Rhadamanthus nodded. Aeacus gave a grunt of bitter approval.

Minos raised the gavel.

“No,” I whispered.

They slammed them down in unison.

CLAAAP.

The sound felt like a sentence, a door slamming shut.

Eli didn’t cry out. He just stood still, watching us. Something inside him visibly fractured. The only sound was his chains shifting as he exhaled, slowly, like trying not to collapse.

I wanted to scream.

This wasn’t justice.

This was delay. This was fear masquerading as process. This was Olympus still breaking things just to glue them back together with rules that made no sense.

I took a step forward.

We weren’t done yet.

Not even close.

Because Eli stood there—his head bowed, his wrists in chains, that stupid shirt with a number like he was a file in some ancient drawer—and all I could think about was how wrong this was. How Hestia gave him life, how Maria raised him. How someone who had never done a thing wrong was being sentenced for something he didn’t even remember doing.

No.

I moved on instinct.

No hesitation. No looking back.

My hand shot over my shoulder, fingers brushing fletching. I grabbed two arrows in one fluid motion—sting-tipped, fast enough to numb a monster and sharp enough to split bone. I notched them together in the same breath.

The air crackled as I exhaled.

THWIP. THWIP.

Two perfect arcs.

Both arrows slammed into the zombie guards holding Eli. One hit a ribcage. The other shattered across a skull. Bone cracked, and both guards crumpled with metallic groans, twitching where they fell. Eli stumbled forward, arms still chained, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Lyssa—!” Callie gasped.

Andros turned to me, stunned—but only for a moment. He nodded, something dark and solid rising behind his eyes. He understood.

So did Callie. She was already reaching for her lyre.

The first notes rang out like trickster lightning—sharp, silvery, enchanting. Music spilled through the chamber in an echoing wave of dissonance and dream. The sound spun around the guards still lining the edges of the courtroom, their heads tilting slightly like moths confused by sudden moonlight.

Andros ran. His shield up, he barreled forward like a soldier storming a barricade. He slid across marble, grabbed Eli with one arm, and heaved him up.

“We’re leaving!” he shouted.

The illusion shattered.

Minos stood, face a thunderstorm. “Seize them!”

Rhadamanthus snarled something in Ancient Greek.

Aeacus pointed, and the skeletal warriors lunged.

“Go!” I yelled.

We ran.

Boots on marble. Chains clinking. Lyre music twisting behind us like a spell that wouldn’t hold much longer. I shot another arrow behind us and nailed a skeleton through the jaw. It dissolved into dust with a screech.

We tore through the obsidian doors, sprinting into the open pathways of the Underworld. The stone beneath us shifted from black to ashen gray. Shadows danced across barren plains. Ghosts turned to look, their translucent faces passive, mournful, confused.

We hit the Fields of Asphodel like a hammer through silence.

Souls were everywhere.

Dozens. Hundreds. Endless figures standing still or moving in slow, looping patterns, as if reliving moments they’d long forgotten. We collided with some—cold as fog, weightless as regret. They parted around us like ripples in water.

“They’re still following!” Callie shouted.

I looked back. Bone-faced guards on black horses. Screeching furies overhead. Minos’ voice echoed through the dark like a divine command: “Bring them back! I want them in chains!”

Then I saw it.

Through the blur of souls and shadows.

The stag.

Tall. Silver. Ancient.

Its eyes locked with mine.

It was just standing there at the edge of the field—half in mist, half in memory. Regal. Calm. Real. I didn’t know why it kept finding me, or why I kept finding it, but every time I did, something in my chest clicked—like a compass pointing north.

“There,” I said, already running. “Come on! Follow me!”

“What—where?” Andros called.

“Just trust me!”

The stag turned, and I followed.

We ran.

Through the dead. Through the fields. Through the long-forgotten names and faded prayers and the silence of souls who had no songs left to sing.

And the stag led us deeper.

Somewhere none of the judges had the power to reach.

Chapter Text

We ran until our legs burned and the clanking of chains and bone faded into nothing but memory.

I don’t know how long we ran—it could’ve been minutes or hours. Time worked differently down here, in this place of shadows and memory. Eventually, the grayness thickened like fog around us. The echo of our footsteps dulled. And when we finally stopped, we were standing in a part of Asphodel that felt different.

Still.

Silent.

Neutral.

Gone was the eerie hum of judgment. No moaning souls. No marching guards. No glowing path. Just the soft crunch of our shoes against brittle, dead grass and the occasional whisper of the wind.

The stag was gone.

Callie turned slowly, brushing her copper bangs from her forehead with a shaky hand. “Where are we heading?” she asked, looking around, breathless. “Are we lost?”

I looked toward the distant path where we’d come from. The faint shimmer of the court had already vanished behind the fog. We were alone.

“I think we’re in a neutral patch of Asphodel,” I murmured. “The judges don’t patrol here. No guards. Just... wandering souls.”

Callie tilted her head. “And the stag?”

I shook mine. “Gone.”

“Wait,” Eli croaked softly behind me, his voice hoarse from whatever torment he’d endured before the trial. “What stag?”

I turned to face him. And in the dim, dusty twilight of the Underworld, Eli’s eyes met mine. He still wore the torn shirt with the number 1986-040-062-805 across the back like a branded scar. His wrists were bruised where the golden chains had dug into his skin. And yet, even here, he somehow managed a broken smile.

I swallowed, stepping forward. “It’s... hard to explain. But the stag—it shows up when something important is about to happen. When danger is coming or... something beyond us is guiding the way.”

Callie blinked. “Wait, that was what you saw on the train too?”

I nodded slowly. “I didn’t realize it at first. But the stag... it was there before the Cercopes attacked us. It was there before the hotel. Before the judgment. It’s been trying to guide us all along. And now it’s gone.”

From behind us, Andros finally jogged up, panting and dragging his shield close to his side. “Looks like we lost them for now,” he muttered, glancing back the way we came. “No bones rattling behind us. That’s a win.”

But Eli didn’t look at the path. He looked at me.

“Lyssa,” he said. And that’s all he needed to say.

I rushed forward before the tears could stop themselves. I wrapped my arms around him, tightly, careful of his bruises but desperate to hold him like I hadn’t in what felt like lifetimes. His arms came around me too—hesitant at first, then tight and trembling.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he whispered into my hair.

“We’re not leaving you behind,” I said firmly. “Not now. Not ever.”

He pulled back just a little, eyes shining with emotion. “You... you stood up to the judges. You shot undead guards. You literally screamed I object like we were in some kind of weird Underworld episode of Matlock.”

I laughed through the tears. “You’re welcome.”

“You saved me,” he said, voice cracking. “All of you.”

That was when Callie stepped forward and slung her arms around both of us, practically squeezing the breath out of our lungs.

“You’re such a pain sometimes,” she mumbled. “But I’m really glad you’re not condemned for eternity.”

“Agreed,” Andros added gruffly, clapping a heavy hand on Eli’s shoulder. “Even if I had to throw a skeleton guard into a pillar.”

Eli looked between the three of us, voice breaking with a chuckle. “You guys are so weird. And amazing. And weird.”

“I missed you,” I said, squeezing his arm gently. “We all did.”

“Don’t get too emotional now,” Callie teased, wiping under her eyes. “We’re still stuck in the Underworld. With no map. No stag. And about twelve angry undead guards probably still looking for us.”

“True,” Andros grunted. “But at least we’ve got each other. And a lyre that can hypnotize the dead.”

Callie held it up. “Orpheus would be proud.”

Eli smiled weakly. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I missed this madness.”

I looked around at the dim grayness, the pale wandering souls in the distance, the barren field that stretched endlessly in all directions.

I didn’t know what would happen next. But right now, for this moment, we were together.

And that was enough.

We sat there for a long time, just breathing. Letting the silence settle over us like a blanket we hadn’t known we needed. The gray winds of Asphodel whispered through the air, low and hollow. Souls drifted around us like forgotten memories—silent, unseeing, undisturbed.

Then Eli finally broke the quiet.

“My mom…” he said, his voice soft, almost scared to ask. “Is she okay? And—Dorian?”

I looked up from where I was clutching my bow. Eli’s eyes were wide and filled with worry. Even after everything—after chains, after trials, after running through the Underworld—his thoughts were still with them.

I offered a small smile. “They’re okay,” I said gently. “We visited her before we look for you.

I handed Eli the necklace with one bead.

Eli nodded and smiles, swallowing hard, and looked away. “And Dorian?” he asked, voice quieter. “Why didn’t he come?”

That was the question I knew would come. I glanced at Andros and Callie. They both looked at me, waiting. The prophecy. I took a deep breath.

“I didn’t leave him behind, Eli,” I said. “It was the prophecy.”

He frowned. “The one from the Oracle?”

I nodded. “To the Underworld you must go, with power and healing to rescue the flame.”

“Andros has power,” I continued, glancing toward him. “Probably more than anyone I’ve ever met. Even Brandon wouldn’t duel him. And Callie—she’s the only one from the Apollo cabin right now. She’s our healer.”

Callie, ever dramatic, put a hand over her chest. “So what you’re saying is... I’m only here to heal? I see how it is. My lyre playing means nothing. My charm and wit—completely ignored.”

I snorted despite myself. “Callie, you’re literally the reason we weren’t turned into bone dust five minutes ago.”

“Exactly!” she grinned. “Just checking.”

I leaned closer. “No one else could’ve done what you’ve done. We need you, okay? We needed you. Even Apollo helped us to get to Tw entrance of the Underworld.”

Eli gave a weak chuckle but turned back to me. “So what does the rest of the prophecy mean? The other lines?”

I recited it softly. “A lurking danger waits below, but not the foe you think you know.”

He stiffened at that. “You think it means Hades?”

“It felt like it at first,” I said, fingers curling around the edge of my bow. “He’s clearly angry. But… something else has been happening. When Andros and I got off the boat from River Styx, we herd this... warning. A voice. But not Hades.”

Eli’s eyes darkened. “Something other than Hades?”

I hesitated. “I think… someone’s trying to warn us. Someone down here. Maybe someone bound to this realm. But we haven’t figured out who. And now…”

“A mirrored fate the gods may give,” I whispered. “Yet the veiled one won’t let you live.”

He looked up at me, his voice barely a breath. “Do you think that means Hades might have let us go?”

My heart twisted. “Maybe. That’s what mirrored fate might mean. Like… you could’ve had a second chance. A chance to live. Like a new life in the world above.”

“But the veiled one,” I Said, the name burning in my mouth. “Kerostes.”

I nodded slowly. “She’s not finished with us. She is the riled one. She knew you’d be here. She’s the one who twisted the prophecy in the first place—made sure your existence felt like a curse.”

“And she’ll come for us,” Eli said, his eyes dark and certain. “Even here?”

“Especially here,” I whispered. “The dead are her territory just as much as the living. During the battle last summer, she said she’ll be back.”

“I hate her,” Eli muttered. “More than I ever hated any monster. Because she made me feel like my life wasn’t supposed to happen. Like I’m some kind of… glitch.”

I reached forward and took his hand, firm and steady. “You are not a glitch. You’re a miracle. You are a spark the world wasn’t ready for—but we are. And out fate is already tied. We will do this together”

He blinked, and tears welled in his eyes. He nodded once.

Callie cleared her throat, blinking rapidly. “Okay, stop. If one more person cries, I swear I’ll start, and my mascara’s already not waterproof.”

Andros snorted. “You’re wearing mascara in the Underworld?”

“Don’t judge me. A girl has to have standards,” she replied.

We all laughed—quietly, carefully—but for the first time since we’d entered this realm of shadow and judgment, it didn’t sound out of place.

It sounded like hope.

The quiet didn’t last forever.

After cleaning Eli up and giving him a rundown of everything he’d missed, we set to tending our wounds. Callie dabbed some herbs onto a nasty scrape on Andros’s cheek—he flinched and swore like she’d stabbed him. She gave him a glare and told him to stop acting like a mortal man-child. Eli laughed, which made her beam like she’d won the Olympics.

We shared bits of nectar, not too much—no one wanted to go up in flames—and nibbled on ambrosia chunks like they were trail mix. The numbness of Asphodel dulled the taste, but the warmth in our chests told us it was still working.

When we’d finally patched up enough to move, we set off again into the gray.

The Fields of Asphodel stretched out in every direction like a dream with no edges. There were no landmarks, no sky to guide by. Just endless flat land, low grass, and drifting souls who wandered with no direction, mumbling to themselves or staring into the void like they were trying to remember something they’d forgotten centuries ago.

Eli kept close to me, his footsteps soft but steady. His eyes flicked across every soul we passed, searching. For what, I didn’t ask. I had the same habit now.

“Okay,” Andros said after a while, his voice the first to break the oppressive silence. “So… how exactly do we get out of here?”

“Working on that,” I muttered, kicking a pebble that didn’t echo when it landed. “Charon said there were ways out. More than usual. Something about today… oh, right.”

“What?” Eli asked.

I glanced back. “It’s Halloween.”

Callie blinked. “Oh. Spooky.”

“No, like—it’s a liminal day,” I explained. “The veil between life and death is thinner. Charon said there are more exits, like the diner we visited.”

“So,” Andros said, squinting into the gray. “We just have to find one of those ‘many exits.’ In a plain with no signs. Or directions. Or logic.”

Callie hummed. “So we’re relying on Halloween loopholes? Love that.”

Eli chuckled softly, then sobered. “At least it’s better than being chained up and sacrificed.”

“Low bar,” Callie said brightly. “But I’ll take it.”

We kept walking. More souls passed us—men and women, young and old, faded outlines with dim eyes. Some barely looked real anymore, like smudges in the air. Others seemed… closer to who they were in life. It was hard to tell why.

I tried not to look too closely.

But then—

I bumped into someone.

Hard enough that I stumbled back, catching myself before I fell. “Sorry,” I muttered automatically.

The man I’d walked into turned toward me.

And for a heartbeat—just one—time stopped.

He had wavy dark hair that curled gently around his ears. His face was warm, sun-kissed even in this gray place, with a strong jaw and a soft, crooked smile. His eyes—gods, his eyes—were deep brown and kind. Familiar.

He looked at me like he knew me. Like he had always known me.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Lyssa?” Callie asked, blinking beside me. “You okay?”

The man tilted his head slightly, his smile not fading. “You’ve grown.”

I took a step back. “No. No, no. This place… it messes with your mind. This is just Asphodel playing tricks again.”

The others exchanged glances. I could feel them staring at him too. He wasn’t just a projection. He was real. A soul.

“You see him?” I asked, my voice tight.

“Yeah,” Eli said slowly. “We do.”

“He’s not fading like the others,” Andros added. “He’s clear. Solid.”

Callie nudged me gently. “Lyssa… do you know him?”

I swallowed, throat suddenly dry. My pulse thudded painfully behind my ribs.

“I—” I tried to shake my head, but the words fell out before I could stop them. “My father.”

There was silence.

The kind that settles when no one wants to say the wrong thing.

The man—my father—stepped a little closer, hands held open at his sides. No threat. Just presence.

“I’ve waited,” he said gently. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to see you.”

He stepped forward, hands still open, like he was afraid I’d vanish.

“Did you follow the stag?” he asked, voice gentle, almost awed. “It brought you here, didn’t it?”

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but my voice cracked on the first breath. I nodded. “Yes,” I managed. “Yes, we… we followed it.”

I didn’t know what else to say. What could I say?

He looked the same age as in the photograph I saw in the coffee shop—the one Marge showed me. His eyes held something ancient now, like they’d seen too much and were still trying to see more. But the warmth? That hadn’t changed.

I was trembling.

And then, before I even thought to stop myself, I ran to him. The motion was instinct. Muscle memory I never had but somehow remembered anyway. I threw my arms around him.

He didn’t stop me.

He felt cold. Not icy, but empty. Like hugging smoke that still remembered being a man.

“I wish I could hug you too,” he whispered, his voice breaking at the edges.

I squeezed tighter. “You feel real enough.”

He laughed—soft and pained. “It’s just this form. Wandering souls aren’t like the others. We’re not judged yet. We… drift. Wait.”

I pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eye. “Wait for what?”

“For someone to remember,” he said. “To forgive. To finish something. The Fates never say. I just… stayed.”

He gestured gently, beckoning us away from the crowded part of Asphodel. The others exchanged quick glances, but followed. No one said a word. Not even Callie, which was saying something.

We passed through the veil of drifting souls like shadows. He led us to a quiet patch—an old, dried tree curled sideways like it had tried to run once and gave up halfway. Its bark was cracked, a ghost of what it must’ve once been.

“I sit here most of the time,” Christopher said, lowering himself slowly onto one of the thickest roots. “It’s quieter. Easier to think.”

I stood there, unsure if I should sit beside him or keep standing. I finally knelt, not trusting my legs to hold me.

“I thought—” I blinked rapidly, trying to steady my voice. “I thought you left. That you just… went away.”

He looked at me, pain flickering across his expression. “Lyssa—”

“But now I know,” I said quickly. “I remember. I know. You didn’t leave me.”

My voice cracked. “You were murdered.”

The silence between us wasn’t empty. It was loud. Full of everything that had never been said and everything that had never gotten a chance to happen.

“I was five,” I whispered. “I don’t remember your voice. I don’t remember how you smelled or what stories you told me before bed. I just remember the sirens and your burning shop. I remember people whispering.”

I looked at him, tears finally slipping free. “I was left behind. Like you. Wandering.”

Christopher’s mouth trembled. And then he broke.

He buried his face in his ghostly hands, and though no tears fell, the sound—the ragged, breathless sob—was unmistakably human.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” he choked out. “I never would have. I fought. I tried—I tried to keep the monster from reaching you.”

He looked up, eyes full of grief older than I could comprehend. “I never stopped thinking about you. I didn’t even know if you were still alive.”

“I am,” I said, voice barely a whisper. “I’m alive in here.” as he touched my heart.

He looked around at the others, eyes still glistening with some unseen sorrow. “You have a brave heart, Lyssa. And you’re not alone.”

I nodded slowly. “I have them. But… I never stopped wondering about you.”

He reached out like he could touch my face, but his hand hovered an inch away from my cheek, then retreated with a shake of his head. “You’ve grown up into someone strong.”

I smiled faintly, blinking the tears from my lashes. “You would’ve been proud?”

His eyes softened. “I already am.”

Behind me, I heard Andros shift his weight slightly. Callie gave a sniffle but didn’t interrupt.

I stayed kneeling beside him, unsure how long I’d have this moment.

But I knew one thing:

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t wondering anymore.

Chapter Text

The Underworld wasn’t quiet. People think it is—some cold, silent cavern humming with the weight of eternity. But Asphodel whispers. The dry wind rattles through the gray grass. Souls murmur as they drift by, their voices brushing the edge of sound but never quite forming words. The stillness only made my question feel heavier as it hung in the air between me and the ghost of my father.

“Is there a way out?” I asked.

Christopher Silverpine, my father—my dead father—tilted his head slightly. His expression was gentle, pained. “There are ways,” he said slowly, “but few are meant for the living.”

That was not a no.

Before I could ask more, a presence approached. The mist parted like it knew she was coming.

She moved with the kind of grace you couldn’t fake. Regal, but not distant. Her long dark robes rippled softly around her ankles, and her posture was so straight, it made me instinctively stand taller. Her face was calm, elegant, with sharp cheekbones and eyes like twin moons—watchful, cool.

“Ah,” Christopher said with quiet warmth. “There you are.”

She stopped a few steps away, studying me. I studied her right back.

“Lyssa,” my father said, “this is Tyrynna. She’s a friend. We met here in Asphodel some time ago.”

Tyrynna inclined her head. “Christopher speaks of you often.”

I blinked. “He does?”

She nodded, something unreadable in her expression. “It’s rare, you know. Souls like his, still tethered to the living by love.” Her gaze softened. “It’s good that you came.”

There was something strange stirring in me the longer I looked at her—a familiarity I couldn’t place. Not memory. More like instinct.

“You feel it, don’t you?” she asked.

“I… don’t know what you mean.”

“I once served Artemis. Long ago.” She spoke plainly, without ceremony. “I was one of her Huntresses. Until I broke my vow. I fell in love with a man.” She paused. “I died, and ended up here. Wandering.”

There was no regret in her voice. Just a quiet finality.

My breath caught.

A former Huntress? The connection I felt suddenly made sense. Her presence—the quiet strength, the poise—I’d seen that before. In my own reflection. In my own steps.

Something in me shivered.

“I heard you’re looking for an exit,” she added, turning her gaze to the shadowed horizon.

“I am,” I said. “We all are.”

Tyrynna looked over at Christopher. They exchanged a glance that held the weight of long knowledge.

“Then you’ve come at a perfect time,” she said.

“Today,” Christopher added, “the Underworld gets busy.”

Tyrynna gave a half-smile. “It’s Halloween. The barrier between the worlds loosens. The old paths grow restless. Hades allows some spirits wander up, out—to scare the mortals.”

Christopher nodded. “A few gates open—briefly. The veil lets souls through, for a heartbeat.”

“Not all of them come back,” Tyrynna added, voice like velvet stretched over old iron.

I thought of the diner. The sizzle of burgers. Charon’s sequined Versace. “Just like the Underworld Grill,” I muttered aloud.

Christopher raised a brow.

“It was a diner,” I explained. “We met Charon there. Back when our quest started.”

Tyrynna smiled faintly. “Of course he’d make a diner.”

“It had themed booths,” I said, shaking my head. “It was weird. But he also said the same thing about Halloween. Soulloween.”

Christopher chuckled under his breath. “That sounds like him.”

But the momentary warmth gave way to a deeper chill—the kind that lives in your ribs. An exit. A gate. Today.

If this was our chance… we had to be ready.

The peace shattered like glass under a boot.

It started faint—barely more than a rattle—but it grew. A bone-deep scraping, rhythmic, like someone dragging a bag of loose teeth across the ground.

No one had to say it.

We all turned at once.

Out from the mist came the guards. More of those skeletal enforcers of the Underworld—taller than they should be, bones creaking with unnatural joints, armor fused to their ribcages like old barnacles.

“Run,” Christopher said.

I already had my bow in hand. The string thrummed under my fingers like it was itching to fire. “No time.”

Andros let out a low curse and stepped forward like a linebacker. “They followed us. Guess that warm moment’s over.”

Callie was already tuning her lyre, one hand over the strings, lips set in a tight line. “Of course I just cleaned this.”

Eli stood frozen, hands empty. His gaze flicked from me to the guards and back again. “I—Kharma’s not here. I left it. In the apartment. Next to the fridge.”

“Well,” I said, notching an arrow, “guess we’re going old school.”

The first wave hit. Six of them, sprinting faster than corpses had any right to.

I loosed a shot before they could take another step. The arrow hit square in the center of a skull and exploded in a shower of green-gray mist. The bones collapsed, twitching once before going still.

“Nice,” Callie muttered, strumming a jarring chord that sent out a ripple through the ground. The nearest skeleton staggered, hands flying to where ears would have been. “Noise magic. Don’t say I’m not helpful.”

Another one came up behind her—fast.

“Callie!” I shouted.

But before I could move, Andros did. He slammed into the guard like a freight train. Bones went flying. He didn’t stop—he kept moving forward, grabbed the remains of a cracked femur, and used it to bash two more in a wide arc.

Three skeletons clattered apart. One landed in a tree. Another’s skull rolled to a stop at Eli’s feet.

And Eli?

He looked down, sighed, and said, “Sorry, spooky,” before grabbing the skull and chucking it like a fastball into the chest of the nearest one. It stumbled, then tripped right into Andros shield.

"Still got it," he murmured.

“Seriously?” Eli said. “That’s not even fair. Can someone give me a stick or—? No? Cool.”

A guard leapt at him, bony claws aimed for his chest.

Eli ducked, rolled—actually rolled, right across the gray grass—and kicked out behind him, tripping it.

I fired again, this time aiming for the knees. The guard cracked apart, and Eli scrambled to his feet.

“I hate Halloween,” he wheezed.

“Blasphemy,” Callie said, still strumming. “Best holiday.”

Andros stomped past, dragging two more skeletons clinging to his back like oversized spiders. “Can we not debate this now?”

More came through the mist. At least ten, maybe more. My arms were already burning, my breath coming faster.

This was not a fight we could win by staying still.

“We need to move!” I shouted.

“Toward the exit,” Tyrynna called, voice hard and cold. “There’s a passage not far.”

“Then lead the way!” Eli yelled, grabbing a discarded bone and swinging it like a club.

We ran.

The Underworld shook behind us, each step thudding like a drumbeat of borrowed time. The bony shrieks of the guards echoed across the dead trees and windless hills. Tyrynna and my father sprinted ahead, gliding almost, like they’d learned the landscape so well they didn’t need to think.

The rest of us? We stumbled, gasped, slipped on the loose dirt of Asphodel’s fading edge.

“Just a little more,” Tyrynna called over her shoulder. “We’re close.”

“Define close!” Eli wheezed.

“Less than a soul’s breath!” she answered, which wasn’t helpful at all.

Branches clawed at our legs. Pale flowers crunched beneath our feet. And then—

It stopped.

Not our running. Not our fear. The noise.

No more bone-rattling clacks. No more groaning jaws. Just... quiet.

We emerged into a clearing where the mist thinned like peeled skin, revealing something strange and otherworldly, even for the Underworld.

Doors.

Hundreds of them.

They stretched out in a crooked semicircle like the mouths of ancient gods, each one humming with quiet energy. They weren’t normal doors either. Some were old wooden things with tarnished brass knobs. Others glowed with neon outlines or swirled like water held still by magic. A few floated inches above the ground. One was covered in what looked suspiciously like disco-ball mirrors.

Names were etched into the air above each one in glowing red or gold letters. There’s New York City, Los Angeles, Mexico City, Athens, Tokyo, Rio Grande and many more.

“What... is this?” Andros said, shielding his eyes.

“The Way Out,” Tyrynna answered. “For one day a year.”

“Halloween,” I whispered, chest still heaving.

Tyrynna nodded, serene in a way that made her feel taller, more solid. “Souls go out and scare mortals and once Halloween ends, then the doors close again.”

“Just like the Diner,” I said quietly. “The Underworld Grill. Where we met Charon.”

“I still have dreams about the onion rings.” Callie said, rubbing his arms.

Christopher stood to the side, quietly watching the doors. His expression was unreadable, but he looked... lighter. Not like a soul about to move on. More like a father seeing his daughter running again.

The bone guards hadn’t followed. Whether they couldn’t or wouldn’t enter, I didn’t care. For now, we were safe.

We all gathered near the central path, trying to read every glowing label.

“I see Brooklyn,” Andros said. “That’s close to Long Island, right?”

“Too far,” Callie muttered. “We’ll end up on the wrong subway line and surrounded by pigeons with attitudes.”

“Manhattan?” Eli offered. “Anyone see Manhattan?”

“There,” I pointed, and we all ran toward a tall iron door labeled UPPER MANHATTAN – WEST SIDE.

The mist thickened around it like it knew we were coming. Other souls—faded shapes of men and women, children, even one old man still holding a newspaper—moved toward their doors, guided by nothing but instinct.

None of them saw us. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

They weren’t here to chase or speak. Just to go home.

“Why these cities?” Eli asked, watching a soul pass into a door labeled Paris with a quiet hiss.

“Cities that celebrate Halloween,” Tyrynna said. “Or Dios de Los muertos and the likes.”

I glanced at her again.

The way she walked beside my father, the easy rhythm of it—like they’d known each other forever. The way she stood between us like a shield when the guards came too close. Even the way she looked at me, like she recognized me down to my heartbeat.

There was something about her.

Not just familiarity. It was... deep. Warm. Like the scent of pine in winter, or the feeling you get standing beneath a full moon.

I stood in front of the door labeled UPPER MANHATTAN – WEST SIDE, its metal frame thrumming with soft power. The letters glowed like embers, warm but fading, as if reminding me that time was short.

Behind me, I could hear the others. Andros checking his shield. Eli mumbling something about missing his sword. Callie tuning her lyre like they were about to play a concert instead of escape the Underworld.

But I wasn’t looking at the door anymore.

I turned.

My eyes landed on him.

My father.

Dad stood a few paces back, Tyrynna beside him, both half-silhouetted by the dim shimmer of passing souls. The wind of Asphodel moved through him like he was part of the place—permanent, weightless. A man stuck between moments.

I hadn’t said goodbye.

Not really.

The thought of stepping through that door and leaving him behind twisted something sharp in my chest.

So I ran.

Not with urgency this time, but with intent. The same way I’d run toward him when I was five and scraped my knee. The way children ran before they learned to be embarrassed about needing someone.

He didn’t move at first. Just watched me.

But then his arms opened.

I crashed into him, and for one perfect second, it was like time stopped. His arms were still strong, still familiar, like I had memory buried in my bones that knew how this was supposed to feel even if he’s just a ghost.

“Sorry,” I whispered into his shoulder. “I just— I couldn’t walk away without—”

“I know,” he said quietly, his voice soft like moss. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

I pulled back just enough to look at him. His face wasn’t stern or broken or even sad. It was something else—something tired and full of love.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Lyssa. For everything. For your birthday cakes. For that awful year when you wandered the street alone. For all your hardships in camp”

I blinked. “Wait—how did you know about that?”

“I’m still your dad,” he said with a crooked smile. “Some things cross the veil.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You didn’t choose to leave.”

“I still missed everything.”

He cupped my cheek with one transparent hand. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either—just… memory. Gentle and steady. “And I am so proud of the woman you’ve become.”

My throat burned.

My knees wobbled.

I didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But I wanted to.

“I wish you could come with us,” I said.

“So do I.” He hesitated, his voice low. “But the living belong to the living, Lyssa. And I belong here. For now.”

I hugged him again, tighter this time, like it would stretch a second into an hour. And he let me.

As I turned to go, I looked back one last time, eyes locking with his.

“I love you, Dad,” I said, my voice breaking just a little.

He smiled—soft and proud. “I love you more, Little Pine.”

And that name—Little Pine—hit me like a storm.

For a split second, I was a child again. Sitting on his shoulders as we hiked through the woods near our old house. Laughing as he carved a wooden doe from a pine branch and told me it was enchanted. Feeling his arms around me as we watched the moon, his voice low as he whispered stories of brave girls and wild gods.

The memories flooded in without mercy—bright and sharp and far too few.

Tears poured down my cheeks as I ran to him and hugged him again, tighter this time, even if my arms passed slightly through.

He was solid enough to pretend.

And he hugged me back with everything he had left.

Tyrynna stood quietly beside him, watching with the stillness of someone who understood the shape of grief too well. She didn’t speak, only offered me a gentle smile, as if lending me strength just by being there.

I nodded back.

Then I turned, heart heavy, and ran toward the others—toward the door marked Manhattan, glowing faintly like a promise.

I didn’t look back.

But I carried him with me.

I reached for the doorknob.

It was cool under my fingertips—smooth, almost humming. The sign above the door flickered faintly.

Callie, Eli, and Andros hovered just behind me, hearts pounding in time with mine. None of us had stepped through. Not yet. Not until we were sure. Not until we said goodbye.

I glanced over my shoulder.

Dad stood a few feet back, that same warm smile on his face, though his eyes were red-rimmed. Tyrynna stood beside him, their fingers intertwined—holding hands—quiet and steady. A soft wind teased her silvered hair.

I blinked. Wait, what? My heart tugged in two different directions—confused and just a little weirded out. When did that happen?

Then the air shifted.

It hit like a breath held too long finally being exhaled.

Wrong.

Everything suddenly felt wrong.

The mist grew heavier. Not white or gray like before, but black—like ink spilling from a cracked sky. It coiled around our feet, snaked along the walls, and then the room… pulsed.

Behind me, I heard Andros draw in a sharp breath. Eli’s hand brushed my arm, and Callie stepped back. The doorknob beneath my palm grew cold, colder than death.

And then he was there.

Stepping from the shadows like they were part of him, like he'd always been there waiting—

Hades.

His cloak whispered across the stone floor, woven from pitch and starlight. His eyes were endless hollows—deep, calculating, and ancient in a way that made time feel meaningless.

His voice came like a whisper, but it struck like thunder.

"You think I’ll just let you leave, Little Pine?”

Chapter Text

Cracks tore through the air. Portals, maybe twenty or more, ripped open in the ground like wounds in the marble. From each one, the clattering began—bones clicking and grinding, armor rattling like death's drumbeat. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of skeletal guards began to pour out, each one glowing faintly blue, the fire of undeath burning in their hollow eyes.

Hades raised a single hand, and every bone soldier halted.

“Escort these two,” he said, pointing a long finger toward Dad and Tyrynna, “to the Judgement Pavillion. Prioritize their trials.”

“No!” I took a step forward, panic snapping in my voice. “You can’t—he hasn’t done anything!”

Tyrynna didn’t speak. She didn’t resist either. She only looked at me with something solemn, something brave.

“Lyssa,” she said softly. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not!”

Two bone guards grabbed each of them—firm but oddly respectful—and began dragging them away toward a glowing blue fissure. Tyrynna met my eyes once more, and this time… she nodded.

Then Hades turned his gaze to me.

“But as for you,” he said, stepping closer, “I have an offer, little pine.”

I squared my stance, trying to ignore the tremble in my legs. “What?”

“Bring me the Starlit Mirror of Ortygia.”

The name hit me like a riddle I was too tired to solve. “The what?”

Behind him, Tyrynna suddenly tensed. Even held in bone-white arms, her chin lifted, and her voice was quiet but clear.

“The mirror of Artemis,” she said. “From her birthplace. Ortygia.”

Hades gave her a nod, a slight smile at her accuracy. “She is right.”

I stared at him. “Why do you need it?”

Instead of answering, he snapped his fingers. Black tendrils erupted from the ground, thick as ropes, and in an instant, they lashed around Andros, Eli, and Callie. They all cried out—shouts of anger, of pain, of panic.

“No!” I shouted.

Andros tried to break free, tried to shift into form, but the tendrils tightened around his legs, his chest, his arms. Eli’s hands twisted behind his back. Callie dropped her lyre with a clang, her face pale with fear.

“Stop it!” I screamed. “Let them go!”

But Hades only flicked his hand again. A glowing sigil appeared at his side—ancient, with shifting runes that seemed to whisper things I didn’t want to hear.

“That mirror,” he said slowly, “is a divine artifact. One of Artemis’ earliest creations. It does not show your reflection. It shows your path.”

He turned his burning gaze toward me again, stepping forward, voice cold and sharp. “You see, Little Pine… the Underworld receives millions of souls every day. Some accept their fate. Others don’t.”

He gestured toward Dad and Tyrynna, now being chained by the zombie guards. “Take them. Both are examples. Souls wandering. No closure. No peace. My court is flawed. The judges are blind. And recently, those three fools even let this son of Hestia escape.” He narrowed his eyes at Eli. “A mistake I do not intend to let happen again.”

“You think the mirror can fix that?” I whispered.

“I know it can,” Hades said. “If the souls see their true path—where they are meant to go, what closure they must find—then I can restore order here.”

“Even if you’re the one messing it up?” I snapped.

His lips twitched—not quite a smile. “Tread carefully.”

Behind me, the air pulsed with energy. My friends, dad and Tyrynna were still bound.

I felt the weight of it all pressing on me like a mountain.

The mirror. Ortygia.

The cold from Hades’ voice hadn’t left my skin. My friends were still bound. My father was being dragged to judgment. There was only one path forward—and gods, it tasted like ash.

My jaw locked.

“I accept,” I said, the words leaving my mouth like a bowstring snapping. “Where can I get this mirror?”

Hades didn’t blink. He simply flicked his hand again, the movement sharp and elegant like the flick of a guillotine. The doors around us—there were at least a hundred—began to turn in a circle, rotating like a dark carousel. The marble creaked as the whole room shifted, doors sliding around one another until one clicked into place right in front of me.

The words on the door glowed faintly, carved in dusky gold: SHENANDOAH ALLEY, VIRGINIA.

Somewhere far from here. Somewhere real.

I stepped toward it. My breath was coming faster, my pulse like a drum in my ears.

“If I bring you the mirror,” I said, eyes locked on Hades, “will you let my friends go, including Eli? Will you take my father to Elysium?”

Hades raised a brow. “So bold,” he mused, “but yes. I promise. I will even throw in a buy-one-get-one offer and take your father’s girlfriend with him.”

A slow heat boiled up my throat. My fists clenched so tight, my nails dug into my palm.

“Then swear it,” I said. “Swear on the River Styx.”

A murmur passed through the chamber. Even the undead guards stilled.

Hades’ eyes gleamed, dark and full of ancient promises. He raised his hand.

“I swear on the River Styx,” he said, and the air shuddered. Thunder rumbled somewhere unseen, like a vow carved into the bones of the world. “Bring me the Mirror of Ortygia before the next sunrise… and I shall release your friends, and deliver your father and his lady to peace.”

He stepped closer. “But if you fail…”

The shadows around him deepened, as if the room itself recoiled.

“If you fail, Little Pine, I will lock them all in here—your father, his precious Tyrynna, your friends—for all eternity. No trial. No light. No escape.”

My heart twisted.

“I’ll give it to you,” I whispered. “Before sunrise tomorrow.”

Hades reached into the folds of his obsidian robes and pulled out a whistle.

It wasn’t metal. It wasn’t wood. It was something colder—something worse. The moment it touched the air, I felt the temperature drop. The whistle was carved from what looked like black glass, but I knew better. This was Stygian stone—Underworld-forged, colder than regret, sharper than grief. Even without blowing it, it seemed to hum with the echo of distant howls.

He dropped it into my hand, and it stung my palm like frostbite.

“Once you have it,” Hades said, voice like shifting marble, “blow this. Someone will come... and escort you back.”

I hesitated as I took it, the metal cold against my fingers.

“And one more thing,” he added, voice softer now. “As you enter that door…”

His eyes bore into mine.

“Don’t look back.”

My breath caught. The chamber fell silent.

Don’t look back.

I knew that story. Every demigod did.

Orpheus—the mortal son of a muse—had descended into the Underworld to retrieve his beloved Eurydice. Hades had agreed, as long as Orpheus led her out without looking back. But at the final step—just before the surface, just before freedom—he turned.

And she was gone.

Lost forever.

I remembered how many times I’d looked back already today. How many times I’d tried to catch one last glimpse of my father. How I ran to hug him. How I clung to every second like it would stretch into forever.

Now… I was being told not to do it again.

Don’t look back.

The weight of the warning landed on me like the pull of the Styx itself.

I glanced at my three friends—Andros, Eli, and Callie—still bound to the ground by those cursed black tendrils. Their faces twisted with panic, yet I could do nothing.

Then my gaze shifted to my father and Tyrynna, now being escorted away by the skeletal guards, their forms beginning to blur into the mist. Our eyes met for just a heartbeat.

“I’ll be back,” I whispered, the words barely audible over the chaos. My knees trembled, but I forced myself to stand.

I turned my back to them all.

And then—voices.

Screaming.

“Lyssa, don’t open that door!” my father shouted, his voice hoarse, breaking.

“Help me, Lyssa!” Eli’s cry pierced something deep inside me.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Illusions, I told myself. That’s all they are. Tricks. Lies. Don't listen.

I reached for the door.

The handle was cold—ice cold, like the River Styx itself—and unsettlingly smooth. It felt too real to be an illusion. Real enough to change everything.

I twisted it, pushed the door open—

And stepped through.

I did not look back.

The Underworld vanished behind me.

Instead, I stumbled out into a foggy alleyway behind a building that smelled like soap and second chances. A crooked neon sign buzzed overhead: Six Feet Lather – Laundromat & Dry Cleaning. We Wash Away More Than Stains.

It would’ve been funny if I wasn’t falling apart.

I sank onto the cold concrete just outside the back door, knees pulled tight to my chest, and I broke.

Tears poured down my face as I sobbed into the quiet. For my friends. For my dad. For whatever the gods had just set in motion.

I walked to the streets but I can’t.

I fell to my knees on the pavement, my breath ripping through my throat like knives.

My sobs were ugly. Loud. Messy.

I didn’t care.

I had just handed my father over to the Underworld. I'd watched my friends bound to the earth like sacrifices. I’d walked away from everything—everyone—and I didn’t even know where I was.

People stared.

A man in a denim jacket paused near a pickup truck. A woman holding a basket of laundry froze mid-step. Someone across the street half-turned to ask if I was okay, but I couldn’t speak.

A young girl whispered to her mom. I caught the word crazy.

Let them think that.

Let them think whatever they want.

I wiped my face with the back of my arm, then finally looked up.

Luray, Virginia.

The street sign across the road confirmed it: Main Street. Nestled in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley, surrounded by mist-covered woods that stretched on forever.

I was far from Camp Half-Blood. Far from safety.

The streets were alive with the chaos of Halloween night, kids darting between porches with pillowcases and pumpkin-shaped buckets. Orange and purple lights flickered in tangled webs across fences. Cardboard gravestones leaned awkwardly on front lawns, and skeletons hung from trees with plastic chains.

A group of kids in Ghostbusters jumpsuits rushed past me, arguing about who got to be Venkman. A Freddy Krueger mask gleamed under a streetlamp, while a little girl dressed as a Care Bear tugged her dad toward a house handing out full-sized candy bars.

Someone had rigged a boom box near their porch, blasting Thriller, and the sidewalk pulsed like it was part of the beat.

For a second, I just stood there, watching it all. The laughter. The lights. The families.

Then the weight in my chest dropped.

I remembered what night it was—not just Halloween.

It was the eve of the deadline.

If I didn’t bring the Mirror to Hades by tomorrow’s sundown, my father, Tyrynna, and my friends would be lost forever.

“Okay,” I whispered, voice raw. “Okay. Think, Lyssa. Think.”

I looked at the clouds—the moon bringing the light to the night—and remembered Hades’ deadline.

Before sunrise tomorrow.

My pulse spiked.

“How do I get that mirror?” I muttered aloud, to no one.

And then…

I saw it.

There, beyond the cracked parking lot. Standing just at the edge of the tree line.

A silver stag.

Its body shimmered in the moonlight—so bright it hurt to look at. Its antlers spread like white branches, gleaming with moonlight that shouldn’t exist yet.

I didn’t hesitate.

This time, I didn’t doubt. I didn’t cry. I didn’t question if it was real.

I ran.

My boots hit gravel, then grass, then soft pine needles as I darted across the field and into the woods. The trees swallowed the town behind me. Branches brushed my shoulders. Thorns scratched my legs. The wind howled as if warning me.

The stag moved without sound.

Every time I thought I was close, it was just ahead—turning, pausing, glancing back with eyes like starlight.

And then… it vanished.

Not ran. Not leapt. Not vanished into trees.

It dissolved.

Like smoke. Like a dream.

I stood breathless in the middle of an overgrown clearing.

The air was still. Cold.

And then I saw them.

Women.

Dozens of them—some draped in silver cloaks, others in hunting leathers. Some no older than me. Some ancient as myth. They were quiet. Beautiful. Fierce. Their eyes shone like the moon, and their feet didn’t make a sound on the earth.

I stared. Frozen. Disbelieving.

And one of them turned to me.

Her face was half-shadowed beneath a silver hood, but I knew her eyes. They weren’t cruel like Hades’, or burning like the Kerostes’.

They were patient. Wild.

She smiled just slightly and said:

“Lyssa... we’ve been waiting for you.”

Chapter Text

The woods were quieter now, the night holding its breath as I followed Zoë deeper into the forest.

We didn’t speak much. Her presence alone was enough to silence the questions churning in my mind. The only sounds were the soft crunch of pine needles under our boots, and the distant call of a wolf. The trees here leaned in closer, like they knew who she was and bowed in respect. There was no trail, no path, just instinct and purpose.

Nestled in a clearing, half-wrapped in moonlight, was a temporary camp. White tents lined the edges like Miniature Mountains, soft firelight flickering from inside some of them. Hunters moved between the tents, silent and sure-footed. A few of them knelt beside sleek silver wolves, feeding them raw meat from carved wooden bowls. Others were oiling their bows, sharpening arrowheads, or braiding each other’s hair by the firelight.

It was beautiful in a way that made my throat tighten.

This was the wilderness, yes, but more than that—it was sacred. A space untouched by time. And somehow, in all the darkness pressing in around my life lately, this place felt... safe.

Zoë moved like she belonged to the forest, like she was carved from the same starlit bark and evergreen shadows. She had that ethereal grace how she stood tall and proud, with sharp cheekbones and eyes like obsidian glass. Her hair was tied back in a simple braid that caught the moonlight like thread dipped in silver. And even though I knew she'd been walking this Earth for centuries, she didn’t look a day older than twenty.

But those eyes… they held centuries of burden. Of loss.

She didn’t need to speak to make the others move around her. The Hunters parted for her without question, giving her a silent nod as she led me toward a larger tent at the center of camp. It was taller than the others, its fabric a deep midnight blue, shimmering faintly with what might’ve been stardust. A banner stitched with Artemis’s silver bow and arrow fluttered above it.

Zoë paused at the entrance.

“This way,” she said softly, pulling the flap aside.

Inside, the tent smelled like cedar wood and lavender. The floor was lined with thick rugs and deerskin. On one side, there was a low cot, neatly made. On the other, a table littered with scrolls, half-drunk tea, and celestial bronze tools. Weapons hung on the canvas walls—elegant, deadly things: recurved bows, daggers shaped like crescent moons, quivers carved from pale bone.

“This was once my tent,” Zoë said, as though admitting a long-forgotten secret. “It hath stood for many decades. I keep it for moments like this.”

My eyes caught on the bowl of glowing embers beside the table. Each flicker cast moving shadows across the weapons. “You knew I was coming,” I whispered.

Zoë turned to me, those dark eyes pinning me with the weight of memory. “We hath known for years. Not the when, but the who. Artemis does not forget her own.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m not one of you.”

Her expression softened—just a little. “Not yet.”

I sat slowly on the cot, letting the warmth of the tent seep into my cold skin. Something about being here made me remember… things I hadn’t thought about in years.

“I saw you once,” I said. “When I was nine. At camp. You and the others stayed in Artemis' cabin for the winter solstice. You didn’t talk much to the other campers… but I watched. I followed you around like a puppy.”

Zoë’s lip twitched, almost a smile. “I remember thee. The girl with pine needles in her hair. Always asking questions.”

I laughed under my breath. “I used to sneak behind the trees to watch you train. I wanted to be a Huntress so badly. I even made a fake bow out of a coat hanger.”

“A warrior’s spirit reveals itself early.” Her eyes didn’t leave mine. “But the path reveals itself only when it must.”

I looked down at my hands, suddenly uncertain. “I still don’t know if I’m ready. This whole thing with Hades… the mirror…”

Zoë moved to the table, picking up a scroll with delicate fingers. “We shall speak of the mirror soon. For now, eat. Warm thyself. The trials shall start soon.”

Zoë gave me food before anything else.

She didn’t ask if I was hungry. She simply placed a metal plate in my hands, warm with the scent of venison stew and something spiced and earthy. A chunk of bread, hard on the outside and soft within, steamed in the autumn air. I hadn’t even realized how hollow my stomach felt until the smell hit me.

“Eat,” she said, settling across from me near the fire. “Thy limbs tremble like a fawn’s.”

I sat cross-legged on a log, barely waiting before digging in. “Thank you,” I mumbled between mouthfuls, already feeling guilty for eating like a half-starved raccoon in front of literal immortal warriors.

But the deadline loomed in the back of my mind like a countdown clock. Sunrise. That’s when Hades said the gate would close. Whatever this Trial of the Moon was, I needed to finish it before daylight touched the trees.

Still, the food helped. The ache in my chest settled a little. The world wasn’t as sharp at the edges now.

Around me, the Hunters went about their evening like they’d done this a thousand times. Some lounged near the flames, others cleaned their gear. A younger girl brushed a wolf’s silvery coat, the creature resting its chin in her lap like a sleepy puppy. Someone played a reed flute softly by another fire pit, the melody curling into the smoke like a lullaby from another time.

Zoë finally broke the silence between us.

“Thou art not the first to seek what lies in the trials,” she said, her voice low and steady, her eyes fixed on the fire. “But few walk away with both their spirit and soul intact.”

I paused, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Encouraging.”

She allowed herself the tiniest of smirks.

“Three parts,” she continued. “That is the shape of the Trial. As all things sacred to Lady Artemis.”

I frowned. “Three?”

“Aye.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, speaking like she was telling an ancient story passed down over campfires and blood-won silence. “The Trial of the Moon is not merely a test of thy strength, nor thy speed. It is a trial of the self. Of thy will. Artemis rewards no hunter who doth not first know her own heart.”

I swallowed hard. The fire crackled between us, throwing sparks like tiny fireflies into the dusk.

“What are the three parts?” I asked.

Zoë looked at me then, her gaze sharp as the blades she carried.

“The first,” she said, “is a climb. A path to the highest hill just west of here. In the mortal eye, it is no more than a ridge—nameless, unmarked. But under moonlight… it becomes a passage. Bring thy bow.”

She reached into the folds of her cloak and handed me a slender silver band. It gleamed softly in the firelight, shaped like the waxing crescent moon.

“Tie this around thy wrist,” she said. “It shall mark thee as one who seeks Artemis’s favor. None shall touch thee while it rests there—neither beast nor shadow nor vengeful spirit.”

I took it gingerly and slipped it over my wrist. It tightened gently, like it knew who I was.

“What’s the second part?” I asked, my voice quieter now. Humbled.

“That is for thee to uncover,” Zoë said, rising to her feet. “The Trial reveals itself only as thou proceed.”

I sighed. Of course it did. No guidebook. No map. Just me, a bow, and a ticking clock.

Zoë turned away, her silhouette cast in silver-blue shadows.

After finishing the food. I started walking. Zoë said I need to do these trials alone.

The path was steep, carved into the mountainside like a forgotten scar. Moonlight bled through branches above, casting fractured silver across the stones. Each step echoed louder than the last—my breath fogged the air, my thoughts heavier than my feet. Behind me, the forest was silent. Ahead, the world was still.

No one came with me. That was the rule. That was the point.

By the time I reached the crest of the hill, the trees had fallen away, and the stars unfolded like a crown above the clearing. A soft breeze swept through, brushing my hair from my face. The sky opened up, endless and cold. The full moon hung just above the clearing like it was waiting for me—watching.

There, in the center of it all, was the basin.

It rested atop a pale pedestal, carved from smooth white stone that glowed faintly, as though it remembered every hand that had touched it before mine. The bowl was shallow, filled not with water, but something more alive. Moonlight, distilled and swirling like liquid silk. It beckoned.

I stepped closer. My boots crunched over loose gravel. I was shivering before I realized I was crying.

Then I looked down—and the basin began to stir.

The silver light shimmered, then darkened, twisting into shadows, smoke, and flame. And I saw her.

Me.

I was five years old.

Standing in the middle of a Denver street, my hands sticky from candy I hadn’t paid for. I watched flames pour out of a building across the road, curling up into the night like dragon’s breath. Sirens howled in the distance, but they sounded far away.

I didn’t know the building belonged to my father. I didn’t know he was inside.

All I knew was that I couldn’t feel my fingers. That my shoelaces were undone. That no one had come for me.

The image shifted.

I wandered the streets for days. Weeks. The lights were too bright, the noises too loud. Adults passed me without seeing me. My stomach was always empty. My ribs began to show.

Then I saw it.

The stag.

It appeared in an alley, tall and still and silver as the moon. It didn’t make a sound. Just turned, slowly, and began to walk.

So I followed.

The memories came faster now. Like a river bursting its banks.

Fangs in the dark. Hissing laughter. Monsters.

I didn’t know what they were. Only that they weren’t human. That their eyes followed me, and their claws reached for me.

But every time they came too close—something struck them down.

I never saw what did it. A flash. A howl. Silver light. They just… fell.

One of them returned often.

A woman with black wings and rotten eyes—Vexthia, a Ker. I didn’t know her name then. I only knew she hated me. Hunted me.

And yet, every time, she died. Burned. Shattered. Disappeared.

I lived. Somehow.

Three years passed.

Alone in forests. Sleeping beneath bridges. Following the stag whenever it returned. Eating scraps. Running from monsters.

And surviving.

I reached Camp Half-Blood at eight.

A satyr with nervous eyes found me crouched near a berry bush and said, “You smell… like a demigod.”

They gave me clean clothes. A bed. My own space.

And they gave me a bow.

Not just a weapon. A lifeline. I held it like it was the only thing that had ever held me back.

The images flickered again—faster now. Blurred glimpses of time folding in on itself. Laughter in the campfire’s glow. Arrows thudding into targets. Sleepless nights beneath a quilt of stars. Faces. Names. Echoes.

Then… them.

The Hunters of Artemis.

I probably asked too much about being one of them. I’d stare too long when they passed. I’d ask Chiron more questions than I should have. I memorized the vow they took before I understood its cost.

But I never spoke to them. Not really. They didn’t talk much, and I didn’t know what to say.

Instead, I watched.

From behind trees. From the edge of the arena. From the shadows where no one noticed me.

I studied the way they moved—silent, like they belonged to the wind. Their eyes didn’t flinch. Their hands didn’t shake. They were everything I thought I had to become to survive.

So I mimicked them. I rose with the sun and ran drills before the others woke. I practiced alone. I held my bow like it was a lifeline. I pulled the string until my fingers bled. I trained because I thought if I became enough like them, maybe I wouldn’t be the scared little girl anymore.

The images flickered again, bleeding into one another now—faster, more vivid.

I made friends.

Real ones.

Eli was... an unexpected gift. Odd, bright, stubborn boy. We laughed. We trained. And then a quest

Eli’s prophecy. His truth, heavy and unfinished.

And somewhere along the road, between ruined train stations and haunted diners, I learned I had one too.

A mirror fate.

We were bound together by something. We carried burdens that didn’t belong to us—but no one else would carry them.

And if I’m being honest… I probably ate the most food on that quest.

But for a while, in between the danger and the doom, there was something close to joy. Something like hope.

And that made everything harder to let go.

Then came the Underworld.

Saving Eli had been the mission. That was the reason I stepped through death’s gate.

But fate had one more twist for me.

I saw him.

The man I’d only remembered in pieces—flashes of laughter, calloused hands, the scent of burnt cedar and oil.

My father.

I didn’t know he had died until just before I entered that place. The truth had come like a blade through the fog, sudden and cold. All those years, I thought he'd left me. Chosen to stay away. Chosen not to look.

But he hadn’t abandoned me.

He was just… gone.

And now here he was, standing in the gloom of the Underworld, waiting.

He remembered me.

I didn’t recognize his face, not fully. Time had blurred the details. But his eyes—his eyes were exactly the same. Gentle. Steady. The kind of gaze that made you believe you were safe just by being near it.

The same kindness I’d been chasing through shadows since I was five years old.

The images vanished.

The basin turned still.

Moonlight stretched over my hands, pale and unblinking. I stared down at the bow strapped across my back. It had been mine since that first day at camp. Since I stopped running and started fighting.

A whisper rose in the wind. Not a voice, but a knowing.

Let go.

I clenched my jaw. My fingers shook.

Let go of the pain. The fire. The street. The fear. Let go of the girl who walked alone.

“I can’t,” I whispered. My voice cracked. “I can’t.”

But I could.

Because that girl wasn’t me anymore.

I slipped the bow from my shoulder.

The same bow I’d carried since I was eight. My first weapon. My only constant. It had been with me through every skinned knee, every midnight monster attack, every moment I fought to prove I was more than a frightened girl in the dark.

But that girl was still here. Clinging. And this bow had become a piece of her.

I looked at the pedestal, waiting—expecting. No words, no signs. Just the quiet expectation of release.

I gripped the bow tight in both hands. My breath shook.

“No going back,” I muttered.

And then—with a cry, I raised my knee and slammed the wood down hard against it.

It didn’t crack.

So I did it again.

Harder.

The third time, it snapped clean in two with a violent crack that echoed across the clearing. One jagged end scraped my palm. I didn’t flinch.

I stood there, breathless, holding both halves. Splinters dug into my skin.

Then I dropped them into the stone basin like offerings. Like bones. Like a past I refused to carry anymore.

The silence that followed was thick, almost holy.

I wasn’t armed anymore.

But I was free.

A hush fell over the hilltop. Even the crickets seemed to hold their breath.

Then the wind stirred—slow at first, then curling around me like a whisper made of cold silk. It coiled through my hair, brushed the tears I hadn’t realized had fallen. And then I heard it.

A voice, not loud but low and ancient, carried on the breeze like the rustle of forgotten leaves:

"You’ve let go. What once held you doesn’t define you anymore."

The pedestal flared with a sudden pulse of light. Blinding, silvery white.

I stumbled back.

Before me, the air shimmered—twisting, stretching—and then split open like paper. A circular portal, rimmed with glowing crescent shapes, bloomed from the very space above the pedestal. It hummed with quiet power, wind now rushing in every direction as if the world was exhaling with me.

The scent of pine and something older—starlight, maybe—bled through.

The wind whispered again, softer this time, almost like a lullaby:

“To move forward, your heart had to be unburdened. The path is open now.”

I took a step forward, squinting into the light. Whatever came next was waiting on the other side.

I no longer had a bow. No weapon. No shield.

Just me.

Chapter Text

The light swallowed me whole. At first, I thought I had stepped into the sun itself. It was blinding—white, searing, endless. My eyes clamped shut on instinct, my arms thrown in front of my face like it could somehow shield me from whatever divine high beam I had just walked into. Even through closed lids, I could feel it: a glow like fire behind my eyes, humming and pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own.

I stumbled forward, unsure whether I was walking or just falling through brilliance. It was warm—not burning like a flame, but not gentle either. Like being bathed in memory.

And then, suddenly, the light thinned. Dimmed. Shrunk down to something solid.

I blinked.

The tunnel ended in shadow.

I stepped out onto smooth, cold stone. The air changed, cooling against my skin like I’d passed into the other side of something sacred. A cavernous room stretched out before me, black as ink, so dark it made the world behind me feel like a dream. The silence was heavy. Sacred.

Three massive pillars stood in the space, towering like guardians. But they weren’t made of stone.

They were mirrors.

Not flat like normal ones. These stood at least ten feet tall, octagonal in shape, and the glass wasn’t clear—it shimmered with a surface like still water, slightly rippling as if stirred by invisible wind. Each one pulsed faintly with a light from within, silver and deep, like moonlight reflected through a storm.

I took a step forward, and the mirrors hummed.

A whisper rose from the air, low and smooth and everywhere at once.

"You must choose," the voice said, "what you will become."

My throat dried. “What I… become?”

No answer came.

I moved toward the first mirror. My footsteps echoed like thunder against the floor. I didn’t feel afraid—but my heart thudded in my chest like it wasn’t so sure.

When I stopped in front of the first pillar, the ripples calmed. The surface stilled.

And there I was.

Five years old.

Wearing a red corduroy jacket two sizes too big and holding a plush rabbit with a chewed-up ear. I knew that version of me—though I hadn’t seen her in years. Her cheeks were rounder, her hair shorter, messy, and unbrushed. Her eyes were the same though—stormy gray, curious and cautious.

Beside her stood a man.

My father. The same kind eyes I saw in the Underworld. The soft smile. He looked alive—whole. He was holding my hand.

And next to him… a woman.

She was laughing, brushing crumbs from my jacket as if we were all just having a picnic. Her face was unfamiliar. Her smile was warm. And yet—something in me twisted.

“That’s not my mom,” I said aloud, barely breathing.

"No," the whisper returned, gentle and patient. "Your mother is a goddess you have not yet named. But here, in this life, she is mortal. Here, you are mortal."

I stared as the mirror shimmered, shifting.

Now we were inside a small, sunlit kitchen. I was older—twelve. My current age. Sitting at a breakfast table with the same man and woman, laughing mid-bite with cereal in my mouth. The kind of ordinary moment I had only seen from the outside.

The mirror flickered again.

I was seventeen, dressed in a navy cap and gown, holding a diploma. My dad cried behind me, taking pictures with a camera. That woman—my maybe-mother—hugged me so tightly I felt it in my real ribs.

Flicker.

A small outdoor café. A boy—tall, soft-eyed, nervous—offering me a milkshake with a pink straw. Our hands touched. I smiled. It was… cute.

Flicker.

Now I was holding a baby. My baby. She had dark eyes and wild hair. I was singing to her, and the man from the café stood behind me, arms wrapped around us both.

I stared.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “How can I… become this? I’m not mortal. I can’t be. I was born—”

But I stopped myself.

What was I, exactly?

"If you complete the trial," the whisper answered, "I will grant you a gift. A wish. A single thread unraveled from the Loom of Fate. You may change what is—or what could have been."

A wish.

It hit me like a cold wave.

A normal life. A family. A future without monsters or gods or fighting. I could have it.

But—

I looked at the mirror again. At the peacefulness. The softness.

And then I remember Eli’s smile. Dorian’s or Callie’s eye roll. Andros calling my name across the archery field. Campfires and cabins. The sharp twang of a bowstring. The feeling of wind in my hair as I chased the moon.

My father looked so happy in the mirror.

But that wasn’t me.

“That’s not me,” I said quietly. Firmer now. “It could be. Maybe. But it’s not.”

The whisper didn’t protest.

It only fell silent.

I let the first mirror fade behind me and stepped forward, toward the second.

Its glow shimmered differently—cooler. Like moonlight reflected off a blade.

This time, the whisper didn’t greet me right away.

I could feel it, though, pulsing behind the glass like a heartbeat.

Then the silver stilled, and the image rose.

Lady Artemis.

Tall, radiant, carved in moonlight and starlight and every quiet promise hidden in a winter sky. She stood before me in a forest clearing, dressed in silver armor. I knew this scene. I had dreamed it once. Or wished it. Her expression was calm but powerful—the kind of presence that silenced whole armies and comforted a wounded bird in the same breath.

She was looking directly at me.

“Lyssa Silverpine,” Artemis said. Her voice echoed through the glass. “Will you join the Hunt?”

I watched my mirrored self nod. No hesitation. No fear. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”

The moment froze, like a painting.

I reached out and touched the mirror’s surface. The air was cold.

“In this life,” the whisper finally returned, “you swore the vow of the Hunt. You pledged yourself to the moon. You became eternal.”

Immortal.

Not ageless. Just… untouched. Like a statue locked in time.

The mirror flickered.

Now I saw Zoë Nightshade, whip-fast and stern-faced, correcting my stance with a long, narrow blade. My arms were covered in bruises. My feet were bare. I stumbled, again and again. But each time, I stood back up.

The image shimmered.

We were running through snowdrifts, chasing a monster that moved like shadows. Zoë shouted over the wind, and I loosed an arrow that struck true. My hands bled. My breath burned. But I smiled.

Again, the mirror changed.

We were on a cliffside this time. The moon was full. I was older—not much in appearance, but stronger. My frame more confident. My eyes colder. A true Huntress. Zoë nodded once. I nodded back.

Training. Patrol. Monsters. Arrows.

Again.

Again.

Again.

I started to lose count.

Then something shifted in the rhythm.

In the flicker of the glass, I saw Camp Half-Blood.

Eli stood outside a New York club, his curls longer, a little stubble on his chin. He was laughing too hard at something Dorian had said, both of them slightly flushed from dancing. Callie was nearby, sipping something fizzy from a plastic cup and rolling her eyes at them both. Andros was on his third hot dog and trying to convince a mortal bouncer that he wasn’t in a band.

They were maybe twenty-five? Older, maybe thirty. Still them. Still wild. Still bright. Still alive.

The mirror flickered again.

I was still the same.

Unaged. Steady. Dressed in silver and gray and leather. I stood alone at the edge of the sidewalk, watching them from a rooftop, unseen.

They moved on. I stayed still.

It happened again. And again. They danced. They grew. I hunted. I stayed.

It wasn’t bad.

It was noble. Strong. I was powerful in ways I’d never imagined.

But—

Even surrounded by my sisters, something inside me curled inward. A loneliness I didn’t know how to name.

Because they were frozen with me, too. My Huntress sisters.

But not them.

Not my people.

I crossed my arms and stared at the mirror. “I do want that,” I said quietly. “I do want to be like her.”

And I meant it.

But...

“I don’t know if I can turn my back on them,” I said. “Even if I don’t get to grow up the same way.”

The whisper didn’t answer right away.

Instead, Artemis appeared again, gently placing her hand on my shoulder in the image. My mirror-self didn’t flinch.

But I did.

My real hand trembled just slightly.

I looked away from the mirror.

And the silver began to ripple.

I took one last breath, steadied my spine, and stepped away from the second mirror.

The third stood just a few paces ahead, tall and dark and utterly still.

Unlike the others, there was no shimmer to it—no gleam of silver or flicker of motion beneath the surface. Just smooth, black glass framed by ancient marble. Cold. Untouched.

I stood in front of it… and blinked.

Nothing.

No reflection.

No future. No past.

Just a void.

My own face didn’t even look back at me. Like I’d vanished. Or never existed in the first place.

My throat tightened.

“Uh,” I muttered, waving my hand in front of it. “Hello?”

Still nothing.

No glint of my fingers. No outline of my shape. Just blank, flat emptiness.

Like a vampire staring at a mirror.

Or a ghost.

I frowned, stepping closer, trying to make sense of it. “Okay… what now?” I asked aloud.

No whisper answered me.

No riddle. No guidance.

Just silence so loud it pressed in on my ears.

My mind raced. I was running out of time. I could almost feel the hourglass turning in the back of my head. The ticking echo of Hades’ voice followed like a shadow:

“Bring me the Mirror of Ortygia before the next sunrise… and I shall release your friends, and deliver your father and his lady to peace.”

My friends. Dad.

My chest ached at the thought of them, still trapped down there. Still waiting.

I looked back at the mirror, the blank surface as stubborn and unmoving as ever.

“C’mon,” I growled. “You’ve shown me being mortal. You’ve shown me being immortal. What is this, the option to be nothing?”

Still, nothing answered.

“Stupid, broken—”

And then something clicked in my mind.

Something Hades had said.

Something he’d leaned in and muttered when I first asked about the mirror’s power:

“It does not show your reflection. It shows your path.”

The words thundered through my memory like lightning tearing through clouds.

Not my face.

My future.

This wasn’t a mirror meant to show something beautiful or tragic or tempting.

It wasn’t meant to seduce me with comfort.

It was a challenge.

An invitation.

A dare.

And maybe… the answer I’d been searching for all along.

My fists curled at my sides. Heat bloomed in my chest. My heart pounded in my ears.

I stepped forward, feet planting firm in the ground.

“I choose this one!” I shouted.

My voice cracked across the chamber, raw and defiant.

“I choose this path!”

The room shuddered.

A tremor rippled through the floor like the earth itself had held its breath and finally let go.

The mirror lit up.

But not in silver or gold or blue.

It glowed white-hot, like the center of a fire. The kind that burned clean. The kind that left truth behind.

I shielded my eyes as the glass pulsed—once, twice—then exploded outward in a burst of pure light.

And for the first time…

The whisper returned.

Low.

Close.

Almost gentle.

“Then walk it.”

The light from the mirror swallowed me whole.

For a heartbeat, I thought I might dissolve—scatter into sparks and memories and dust. But instead, I fell. Not physically. Not like tripping or tumbling. More like... I dropped inward, deeper into myself, as if my body was just a shell I stepped out of.

And then I was standing again.

The brightness faded. Darkness took its place—not empty darkness, but thick, ancient shadow. A damp breeze swept against my cheeks.

I looked around.

A cavern.

My boots crunched over stone and mineral. Cool air kissed my skin, and overhead, cathedral-like formations of rock stretched into sharp points. The walls shimmered faintly, traced with veins of quartz and crystal, dripping in places like melted candlewax frozen in time.

Luray Caverns.

I remembered the pictures in a Camp's library once. Virginia. Stalactites like icy fangs, stalagmites like roots trying to pierce the sky. A hollow, sacred place carved by water and patience and time.

And me—somehow—at the heart of it.

"You’ve chosen your path."

The voice returned.

It wasn’t around me this time—it was with me. Inside, echoing not just in the air but in my ribs, in the soles of my feet.

A little warmer now.

Less cryptic. Almost proud.

"Few do," the voice continued. "Many see their choices and run. But you walked into the unknown."

I swallowed. "I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice."

"Every choice feels that way… when your heart is already decided."

The echo faded.

And then, across the cavern floor, two pedestals rose up from the stone—perfectly smooth, side by side, like they had always been there and just waited for the right moment to show themselves.

On the left, a small hand mirror.

Its frame was carved with starlight—silver etched like constellations across obsidian black. It shimmered faintly, glowing from within. I could feel it humming. Almost breathing. The Starlit Mirror of Ortygia.

On the right, a bow.

Not just a bow. The bow.

The same one from my dreams. The one I saw slung over my back when I talked to Hades in my dream. Silver as moonlight, impossibly light and curved like a sliver of night itself. I could almost feel its grip already in my hands.

And for the first time in all of this…

I hesitated.

"What is this?" I whispered. "Another test?"

Silence.

Of course.

No answer now. No whisper. No riddle. The mirrors had spoken. The voice had guided. But this—this was mine.

Just me.

My breath caught in my throat as I stepped closer.

I looked at the mirror. It glowed softly. Warm. Familiar, in the way a campfire is familiar. It felt like Eli’s laugh. Like Dorian’s stupid dramatic sword swings. Like Andros making too-strong lemonade during training breaks. Like home.

Then I turned to the bow.

Gods, it was beautiful.

It gleamed under the cavern light, the silver of it untouched by time. The curve was elegant, dangerous, sacred. It belonged to someone like me—or someone I wanted to be.

I could already picture myself drawing it, standing beside Zoë, cloaked in moonlight, forever strong, forever loyal. I could hear Artemis’ voice asking me again.

Will you run with me?

And yet…

I looked back at the mirror.

It wasn’t for me. It was for them.

My friends.

My dad.

Even the camp.

I couldn’t be the girl who picked power or destiny or the thing that made her feel special. Not now. Not when everything I’d been fighting for was on the line.

"I need a weapon," I said aloud, voice cracking slightly.

The bow didn’t move.

"But I need them more."

I reached forward.

My fingers brushed the cold metal of the mirror’s handle.

It pulsed once in my grip, like a heartbeat. Like it understood.

I lifted it.

"I choose my friends," I said, breath shaking.

I turned to the darkness, holding the mirror tight to my chest.

"And I choose my father."

The moment the words left my mouth, the cavern trembled.

The pedestals began to sink into the earth again, the bow vanishing beneath the stone like it had never been there.

The trembling stopped and the cavern faded, peeling away like a dream at dawn. The ground beneath my boots softened. Moss replaced stone. Damp leaves rustled in a wind I hadn’t felt in hours.

I blinked.

Trees.

Tall ones—pines and oaks mostly, thick and ancient, their trunks wrapped in shadow. Moonlight filtered through the branches like falling ribbons. Everything smelled like rain and bark and wildflowers. The kind of place where time didn’t mean much. Or maybe didn’t exist at all.

The mirror was still in my hands.

But I was alone again.

Or… so I thought.

A warm glow sparked in front of me—like firelight but purer, with no source I could see. It grew slowly at first, a whisper of brightness, then faster, bolder, until the entire clearing shimmered.

And then she stepped out of it.

Lady Artemis.

I froze, breath hitched somewhere between my ribs and throat. I’d never seen her this close before—not truly. Not outside of dreams or visions or the flickers of stories half-whispered by other campers.

But here she was.

Real. Alive. Radiant.

She looked like a woman in her twenties—tall, poised, with auburn hair braided down her back and silver eyes that gleamed like moonlight. Her silver tunic shimmered, and a bow rested over one shoulder. She didn’t need to speak; the forest quieted for her.

I couldn’t move.

I didn’t want to.

She regarded me like someone seeing a puzzle finally solved. Then she smiled.

“You completed your challenge, young archer.”

I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath since the Trials started.

“My Lady…” I dropped to one knee, head bowed. “Lady Artemis—thank you. For the mirror. For guiding me. I—I mean I don't even know what to say, I thought I was losing it back there, but then you—”

She lifted a hand gently, and I fell silent.

“You chose right,” she said. “And you chose for the right reasons.”

She stepped past me, eyes lifting toward the sky. I followed her gaze.

“Do you see that?” she asked softly.

I squinted through the trees. Between two thick boughs, the stars glittered like frost.

A familiar pattern blinked through the dark.

“Orion’s Belt,” I said. “Three stars.”

Artemis nodded. Her expression shifted—just slightly. Something old, something heavy flickered in her gaze.

“There was a time,” she said, “when that name made me laugh. Orion. He was reckless. Loud. Impossible. But I loved him once.”

I blinked. “You… loved him?”

She nodded once, barely perceptible. “Not the way mortals do. Not with flowers and songs. But I loved his spirit. His defiance. He challenged me to see the world in ways I had long shut away. I let him hunt beside me, when no man had ever dared. I let him in.”

The air around us felt colder now. Still, I didn’t interrupt.

“And because of that… I broke my vow.”

Her silver eyes didn’t blink.

“The vow I made before Olympus, before my Hunters, before the world knew my name. I thought I could bend it just enough. That I could protect what mattered and still remain whole.”

“What happened?” I asked quietly.

Artemis looked at me, but her gaze seemed far away. “The gods whispered. Apollo warned me. I did not listen. Then Orion—he boasted. Of me. Of us. Of how not even Artemis herself could resist a mortal.”

She closed her eyes.

“My pride… my shame… my duty. They twisted together like snakes. And so I did the only thing I could. I put an arrow through his heart before he could become something that would destroy us both.”

The clearing was quiet. Not even a breeze stirred.

I didn’t know what to say. My heart thudded painfully against my ribs.

“You made a vow,” I said slowly, “and you kept it… but it cost you everything.”

Artemis turned to me, her expression unreadable.

“I tell you this, Lyssa Silverpine, not for pity. I do not mourn him as the moon mourns the stars. I did what I had to. But I want you to understand something.”

I stood. Her eyes bore into mine.

“You are standing on the edge of two futures,” she said. “Both born of love. One from loyalty. One from longing.”

“I don’t—”

“You will,” she said. “You are brave. But bravery without wisdom is a wildfire. You must not choose paths because they look right, or feel right, or make others proud of you.”

She stepped forward and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek—motherly, almost.

I flinched at the touch, not because I feared her. But because it felt… warm. Familiar. Safe in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Do not destroy your future trying to hold too tightly to your past,” Artemis whispered. “I made choices once. And they remade me. They will remake you, too. But not yet.”

I wanted to ask her what she meant.

But I couldn’t.

Artemis’s gaze softened.

She raised her hand and flicked her fingers through the air like she was brushing aside stardust. A shimmer sparked in the space between us—first a glow, then the distinct curve of polished silver. It was the bow. The one from the cavern. The one from my dreams.

It materialized fully in her hands.

Silent. Radiant. Beautiful.

She held it out to me.

I reached forward, almost afraid to touch it. But the moment my fingers closed around the grip, it pulsed. A hum ran up my arms. The weight was perfect—light but solid. As if it had waited its whole life just for me.

“For the path ahead,” Artemis said, her voice quiet. “You may not always have me. But you will have this.”

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “I… thank you, my Lady. I don’t know if I deserve—”

“You chose love,” she said simply. “That is always deserving.”

She stepped back again. The glow around her began to fade, like the moon slipping behind clouds.

“I will see you soon, Lyssa Silverpine.”

And with that, she turned and vanished into the light—leaving only the trees, the stars, the bow in my hand, and the mirror cradled against my side.

Chapter Text

The trees thinned as I stepped through the forest's edge and into the quiet hush of the wind. Morning mist coiled low along the grass, catching silver in the early light. The night still clung to my skin, thick with sweat, memory, and magic.

Zoë Nightshade stood just outside the cabins, flanked by a few of her Huntress sisters. She turned at the sound of my footsteps. Her sharp silver eyes fell instantly to the bow slung across my back.

For a moment, no one said a word.

Then one of the girls whispered, “Is that…?”

Zoë raised a hand and the Huntresses fell silent.

Her gaze lingered on the bow, but she said nothing about it. Instead, she looked me in the eye and spoke softly. She spoke carefully. “That bow… it is not given lightly.”

I nodded. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking. She gave it to me. Lady Artemis.”

Her voice was steady, but there was something unspoken behind it. Pride, maybe. Or worry.

“I can’t stay,” I said, clutching the cold whistle in my hand. “It’s almost sunrise.”

Zoë inclined her head. “If ever thou hast need of us… we’ll be here”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Thank you. Really.”

She looked at me with something like affection—though, in true Zoë fashion, it was more like a silent blessing than a hug.

I took a breath and brought the whistle to my lips. It was cold as ice, dark and faintly shimmering with something deeper than Stygian iron—something older. As I blew, it let out a high, clear note that rang through the trees like a forgotten bell. Then it shattered in my hand, scattering like obsidian dust.

From the shadows, the ground rumbled.

Out stepped a creature the size of a Buick Regal. Black fur, thick as armor, rippled with muscle. A massive Rottweiler stood before me, eyes glowing with crimson heat. Its claws sank into the dirt like daggers. One head. Not three. But everything else screamed Cerberus—or something bred from the same nightmare.

The Huntresses backed up instinctively.

Zoë’s hand went to her knife. “Thy steed, I presume?”

“Yeah,” I whispered, unable to stop staring. “Hades sent him.”

The hound padded forward and lowered its head in what might’ve been a bow—or a threat. I didn’t wait to find out. I climbed onto its back, gripping the silver bow tightly across my shoulder.

“Be careful,” Zoë said at last. “Thy path is not yet safe.”

“I know,” I murmured. “But I have to finish it.”

I noticed a collar around the hellhound’s neck—Jeremy, it read. I almost laughed. A massive, shadow-leaping underworld dog named Jeremy? Seriously? Shaking my head, I climbed onto his back and held tight to the collar, still grinning like an idiot as we sped off into the forest.

The wind tore past my face as the hellhound ran, its heavy paws thudding like thunder against the forest floor. Trees blurred by—pines, maples, oaks—each one looking the same in the dark. The silver bow bounced lightly against my back, and I clung tighter to the creature’s thick fur, breathing in its heat, its scent—like coal smoke and burnt leather.

The Huntresses had disappeared behind us. All gone in seconds.

The dog didn’t bark or growl or pant. It simply ran, determined, like it had done this journey a hundred times.

Then we reached the shadow of an oak tree, its trunk wide and gnarled like something ancient and watching. The hellhound didn’t slow. It leapt straight into the shadow.

I yelped—more startled than scared. “Hey—wait, wait, the tree—!”

I braced for the impact. Branches. Bark. A broken nose at minimum.

But instead—

Silence.

No crash. No leaves. No splinters.

Just... nothing.

For a breathless moment, I felt weightless, like we’d jumped off the world and were falling through some in-between place. Cold and warm at the same time. Like standing over a grate that blew fire and fog from both directions.

And then—thud.

We landed.

I blinked, breath catching in my throat. My hands unclenched from the hound’s fur as I slowly lifted my head.

We were no longer in the forest.

We were in front of a castle. No—a fortress. One that didn’t belong in any storybook or fairy tale.

Black stone walls rose into jagged towers, each one topped with gargoyles that moved ever so slightly, like they were itching to stretch their wings. A drawbridge stretched across a chasm filled with... were those souls? Wispy forms drifted just below the surface, their faint cries echoing through the cavern like wind through a hollow canyon.

Everything was gray and still. Even the sky—or what passed for a sky in the Underworld—hung above us like stretched ash.

Jeremy seemed tired, his massive shoulders rising and falling with each breath. I gave his belly a quick pat. The hellhound padded forward, unfazed, its claws clicking softly on the obsidian stone.

I slid off its back slowly, legs shaking just a little. I looked up at the massive gates and swallowed.

There was no guard. No doorbell. No welcome committee. Just the castle. Watching me.

“I guess... I knock?” I muttered.

The dog let out a low rumble. Not quite a growl. Not quite a purr. Just... acknowledgment.

“Well,” I said, brushing my hands off and adjusting the silver bow on my back. “Let’s go say hi to the Lord of the Dead.”

And with that, I stepped forward, the gates creaking open on their own as if the castle already knew I’d arrived.

The towering obsidian doors creaked open with a sound like cracking bones. I stepped into the throne room of the Underworld, and the air grew colder with every step.

There he was—Hades—lounging lazily on a throne made of jagged black stone, the shadows behind him shifting like they were alive. His crown glimmered faintly, but his grin was what really chilled me.

"Right on time, Little Pine," he said smoothly.

I clenched my fists but kept walking, ignoring the goosebumps crawling down my arms.

My heart dropped when I saw them.

Eli, Andros, and Callie—still bound by the same black, tar-like tendrils that wrapped around their ankles and wrists like chains. Their eyes widened the moment they saw me. My father stood off to the side, looking weak. Tyrynna too, snarling against her restraints.

"Let them go," I said, my voice louder than I expected. I reached into my side bag and pulled out the mirror, its silver edges gleaming in the dim firelight. "I got what you asked for."

But when I started to lift it toward him, I stopped. My fingers tightened around the frame.

"Not until they’re free."

Hades raised a single eyebrow, more amused than annoyed. "Come now, Little Pine. I don’t go back on an oath sworn on the Styx. Unlike some of my... celestial peers." He gave a meaningful glance upward and snapped his fingers.

The tendrils retracted like snakes into the floor, releasing everyone.

The instant they were free, they ran to me. Eli got to me first, nearly tackling me into a hug.

“Lyssa!” he breathed. “You’re insane. Brave. But absolutely insane.”

“You’re okay,” I said, gripping the back of his hoodie like I never wanted to let go.

Andros caught up next, slinging an arm around both our shoulders. “You actually did it. You got the thing?”

Callie stood back a moment, then gave me a thumbs-up and a crooked grin. “I would’ve come with, you know. Next time, bring your chaotic squad.”

My father approached slowly, eyes wide with something between awe and worry. “Lyssa…” he began, but the words didn’t come. He just pulled me into a side hug, silent, but strong.

I finally turned back to Hades, and—hands slightly trembling—I held out the mirror.

He accepted it with a satisfied nod, as if he’d just completed a perfectly normal business transaction.

“Come on,” he said, standing from his throne with a swish of his cloak. “Follow me. We’ll have a busy morning.”

We walked.  The path sloped downward, winding like a forgotten funeral procession carved through shadow. With each step, the world above dimmed a little more. The sounds changed too—first, the wind disappeared, then the birds, then even the crunch of our shoes dulled underfoot. Like the earth didn’t want to hear us coming.

Hades led the way, robes brushing the ground, his obsidian crown gleaming faintly in the twilight. He didn’t look back once, and none of us dared to speak. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was expectant.

Then, finally, we arrived.

Hades turned. “Well, we’re here.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Now what?”

In his hand, he still held the Starlit Mirror of Ortygia. Its silver surface shimmered faintly in the shadows—like a calm sea at midnight. I’d risked everything for that mirror. Suffered a night of trial, blood, illusions, and sacrifice.

Then, with no warning, Hades threw it.

The mirror arced through the air and shattered against the stone floor—glass spraying like starlight across the dirt. I gasped. I screamed.

“What are you doing!?” I shouted, voice cracking like a whip in the stillness. “I went to the trials for that!”

“Relax,” Hades said, waving his hand nonchalantly. “Dramatic, much?”

His fingers flickered with shadows, then drew a slow arc through the air. Space rippled and folded, and before us rose a door frame, built from smoke and stardust. A banner appeared above it, hand-stitched in eerie golden thread:

EASY DEATH

Souls and Past This Way

It should have looked terrifying. It didn’t. It looked… calm. Familiar, even. The frame stood still, glowing gently, like a doorway into a softer place.

Hades gestured toward it like a showman. “This is it. The answer to a backlog of millennia. I’ll call it Easy Death. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”

He sounded proud, like a mad inventor unveiling his masterpiece.

“What does it do?” Andros asked, arms crossed. His voice was cold, protective, and I was grateful for it.

Hades smiled thinly. “Simple. It reads the soul. Like the power o the mirror, it leads the souls to their path. No waiting in line, no standing before the three wrinkled judges, bless their bloated egos. This portal sends souls directly to their proper place. Elysium, the Fields of Asphodel, even Tartarus, if that’s what they deserve. Quick, efficient, elegant.”

“I told you,” he added, looking at me pointedly, “I’m a reasonable being. I am the Lord of the Underworld, not the Lord of anger, cruelty, or… whatever slander you campers tell around the campfire.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t trust my voice not to shake.

Hades tilted his head. “Come on. Try it. Be my guest. Though…” He gave a half-smile. “You’re still alive. Might not work the same for mortals.”

“Let me go first,” said Callie, stepping forward without hesitation.

“Callie, no—” I started.

But she was already there, her hand brushing the glowing side of the doorframe. A soft wind circled her feet as the doorway pulsed.

A half-second later, she emerged out the other side—hair windswept, eyes wide, grin bigger than I’d ever seen it.

“That. Was. AWESOME!” she cried. “I saw myself—on stage! I was playing my lyre and there was this huge crowd clapping and laughing and even crying a little—and I was wearing these amazing boots.”

She twirled, giddy. “Can I call you Lord Grand-Uncle H? You’re so cool!”

Hades recoiled like he’d been slapped with a tambourine. “Ugh. I forgot you’re a daughter of Apollo. So much sparkle, so little filter.”

“Callie, stop!” I snapped. “He threatened to trap all of you here just last night.”

Callie sobered a little, though her feet were still half-dancing. “Yeah. But this part? This feels like a win.”

I couldn’t shake the anger simmering in my chest, nor the sting of betrayal that came with the mirror’s destruction.

“You broke the one thing I came for,” I said, my voice quieter now but colder. “Why send me through all those trials if you were just going to smash it anyway?”

Hades shrugged. “Because the mirror wasn’t the point. You needed to earn the door. Understand what it cost. Sacrifice is the currency of the Underworld, Little Pine.”

He gave a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And besides… you performed well.”

I didn’t want his praise. I didn’t want any of this. But I looked at the door again—“Easy Death”—and realized the name wasn’t for us. It was for them. The souls. The ones still waiting.

And somehow, I understood.

“Who’s next?” Hades asked.

None of us moved.

Eli stood to my left, arms folded tightly across his chest, his face pale and unreadable. Andros was beside him, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a storm.

And me? My heart felt like it was being wrung dry.

Hades watched us for a moment, then clapped his hands together. “Very well. As promised, you may leave. The exit doors are open now. I suggest you use the Manhattan portal—bit drafty this time of year, but better than ending up in Toledo.”

The words bounced off my skull, meaningless until my mind caught up.

“No,” I said. “Wait.”

I turned to him. “You promised—my dad, and Tyrynna. They were supposed to go to Elysium.”

Hades blinked. “Oh, right. Yes, yes—don’t get your silver arrows in a knot. The Three Judges already passed their judgment sometime before sunrise.” He waved his hand lazily. “They’re approved. They can go through Easy Death now.”

I didn’t even notice when I started shaking.

From the far side of the clearing, Dad stepped forward.

The others gave us space, stepping back without a word. Even Hades, clearly bored, wandered over to a rock and started picking at his nails like a disinterested stagehand waiting for the final act to end.

His steps didn’t echo. The ground seemed to recognize him—accepting, already halfway gone.

He stopped a breath away. “Well… this is it, Little Pine.”

I tried to laugh, but my throat caught. “You still call me that?”

“Of course I do,” he said gently. “You were always stronger than you realized. Stronger than me. Stronger than anyone.”

Tears prickled the edges of my vision, but I held them back, stubborn like always.

“You make me proud, Lyssa,” he said. “I watched you walk into the darkest place a soul can go—and walk out again with fire in your heart. Not for glory. Not for vengeance. But for love. That’s not just courage. That’s truth.”

My lips trembled. “I can’t believe it. This time… this time it’s real. I’ll never see you again.”

He reached out, and even though his fingers were a little blurred around the edges—like a watercolor fading in sunlight—I felt the warmth in his touch. A father’s touch.

“I’ll always be in you,” he whispered. “In the way you fight for what’s right. In the way you protect others. In every choice you make that’s bigger than yourself. You carry me, Lyssa. And that’s enough.”

“I’m not ready,” I said, my voice cracking like old wood.

“No one ever is,” he replied. “But you’ll keep going. That’s what you do. You survive. You grow. Like a pine tree, even in winter.”

I leaned in and wrapped my arms around him, half-expecting to pass through mist. But he was there—just enough to feel. Just enough to break me.

He kissed the top of my head.

“I love you,” he said.

And then he stepped back.

Another figure approached. Tyrynna. She stood beside my father, gaze steady.

“Goodbye,” she said, her voice gentle. “My beautiful, brave daughter.”

I blinked. “Wait—what?”

Tyrynna smiled, a little sad, a little proud. She touched two fingers to my cheek. “You’ll understand soon. But you’ve always been mine. In all the ways that mattered.”

She pulled me into a tight embrace—firm, warm, and full of every word she wasn’t saying. I closed my eyes and held on, afraid to let go.

But eventually, she did.

Then, without another word, she turned and walked beside Dad.

They stepped into the Easy Death doorway together.

And they were gone.

I stood there for a moment, the glowing doorway flickering like the dying tail of a firework in the dark.

The warmth from Tyrynna’s embrace still lingered on my skin.

You’ve always been mine. In all the ways that mattered.

I almost teared up again—almost. But confusion shoved its way in before grief could bloom fully. What did she mean? She and my dad had always been close, sure. She’d helped raise me after Mom disappeared. But those words… they didn’t feel like metaphor.

They felt like truth.

Before I could think longer on it, Hades’s voice cut through the quiet like a fire alarm.

“Let’s go, kids!” he shouted, still picking at his fingernails with a polished black dagger. “The doors close at six A.M. sharp. Halloween night’s nearly over, and I’m not running a bed-and-breakfast for mortals.”

He clapped his hands. The echo made the ground tremble slightly.

“Unless you want to get stuck wandering Asphodel for a few millennia, I suggest hurrying up!”

That jolted us into motion.

We took off running—me, Eli, Andros, and Callie—through the pale ghost-fields of Asphodel, the long reeds brushing against our legs like whispers. Shadows swirled around us, spirits flickering past, some curious, some weeping, some merely floating as if dreaming.

The smell of distant firelight and dust followed us, along with the chill of endings.

Ahead, we saw the glowing doorframes, spectral gates in a half-circle. Each one shimmered with faint golden light, labeled with the names of cities and towns. Boston. Seattle. Savannah. Omaha.

And then—MANHATTAN.

We stopped just before it.

I let myself catch my breath. My pulse thudded in my ears, louder than before. Something inside me itched—unfinished. Not wrong exactly… but unsettled.

“I’m not going through,” I said.

The others turned toward me.

“What?” Eli asked, frowning. “Why not?”

“I have something I need to do,” I said. “Alone.”

Callie tilted her head. “You sure? You look like you’ve had enough drama for a week.”

Andros took a step forward, his brows knitting. “Lyssa… are you sure about this?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

Eli opened his mouth, already shaking his head. “No way. We’ll help you. Whatever it is—just say the word.”

I turned to him, smiling sadly. “Eli, I need to do this alone. Really. Besides…” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “Your mother’s been waiting for you for two months. She’s probably pacing the cabin floor by now, setting hearths on fire by accident.”

Eli hesitated. His eyes dropped. His expression twisted, half-shame, half-relief. “You’re not wrong,” he murmured.

I pulled him into a hug before he could argue again. “Go,” I said quietly. “Be safe. I’ll be okay.”

He hugged me back fiercely, arms wrapped like he didn’t want to let go. “You better come back. Or I’m haunting you next Halloween.”

I laughed. “Deal.”

Callie hugged me too—short, chaotic, a little teary—and Andros gave me a look. That serious, sharp gaze of his that always felt like he was measuring my soul.

“You’re braver than all of us combined,” he said.

“You say that now,” I muttered. “Ask me again when I’m stuck in another death maze.”

He gave a rare smile, then turned with the others.

And just like that, Eli, Andros, and Callie stepped through the glowing door marked MANHATTAN.

The light flared, then vanished.

And I was alone.

Chapter Text

I could hear just the sound of my footsteps in the quiet alley, and the stale wind brushing past brick walls.

I scanned the line of doors again—some with cracked wood, some rusted, some disguised with vines and faded graffiti. Most were cold and uninviting. But one pulsed faintly with that same soft blue glow I remembered. The one from last night.

There you are. Shenandoah Alley, Virginia.

I crossed the alley quickly, my boots scuffing the gravel, and placed my hand on the iron handle. It was freezing cold, almost humming.

I twisted it and pulled the door open.

A second later—something hit me.

I didn’t even see it.

An invisible force slammed into my chest, like claws made of wind and steel. Not hands. Not fists. Talons.

I was airborne for half a heartbeat before I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of me. My spine ached from the impact. I blinked up at the sky, dazed.

And then—her shadow fell over me.

No. No.

A silhouette emerged from the doorway, growing, twisting as it passed through the threshold like smoke turning solid. A pair of curved, glinting wings unfurled. Her form crackled at the edges like burned parchment trying to reform. I smelled iron, ash, and something older. Something dead.

A face. Pale as frostbite, eyes like bottomless wells of oil. A mouth that stretched into a smile far too wide to be human.

“Missed me?” she purred.

Vexthia.

The Ker that had haunted my waking hours. My childhood. My life.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no—”

Behind her, the doors—all of them—started vanishing. One by one, like candles being snuffed out. The glowing frames winked out of existence, leaving nothing but crumbling stone and wall behind them.

The Shenandoah door was last. I tried to scramble toward it, but it fizzled out with a crack, leaving cold air in its place.

I was trapped.

Alone.

With her.

Vexthia stepped toward me, her talons dragging across the pavement with a high-pitched scratch.

“You look surprised,” she said sweetly, her voice slithering. “What? You thought you could come and go from the Underworld without saying hello?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Fear clutched my throat like a second set of hands.

She circled me slowly, like a predator enjoying the cornered silence of its prey.

“I’ve been watching you, little Silverpine. All these years. Since you were nothing but a stargazing brat hiding in the woods. Your mother tried to keep you secret. But secrets…” She leaned in. “They rot.”

My hands balled into fists.

I was terrified.

But I wasn’t a child anymore.

And she wasn’t going to win.

Not this time.

I already know who my real mother is!” I shouted, my voice cracking like a whip through the empty alley. “Why do you even care?”

Vexthia tilted her head, the smile never leaving her sharp, colorless face. “Oh child,” she cooed, “you’ve only gotten half the story. That’s why you’re headed back, isn’t it? To your precious little Hunters’ camp in Virginia? I was waiting for you there.”

I glared at her, fury and confusion churning in my gut. “Let me go!”

She stepped forward, talons clicking on broken cobblestone. “Oh, I will. Eventually.”

I didn’t wait for her to finish.

In one motion, I whipped the silver bow off my back. My fingers burned with a rush of divine energy. The bow—her bow—sparkled under the weak morning light, silver veins pulsing along its surface like it was alive.

Artemis had given it to me.

I nocked an arrow made of moonlight and didn’t hesitate.

I let it fly.

Vexthia blurred—literally—vanishing in a haze of shadow as the arrow hissed through empty air.

She reappeared behind me.

I spun, already loosing another shot. This time she caught it. With her hand.

The arrow turned to dust in her clawed grip.

“You’re getting better, you killed me multiple times but I always come back” she said with a grin. “Almost makes this a little fun.”

I didn’t answer—I shot again, this time two arrows in rapid succession, one aimed low, the other at her chest.

She dodged both. Effortlessly.

I dove for cover, rolling behind, heart hammering in my ears.

But Vexthia didn’t charge.

She laughed.

It wasn’t loud, or maniacal—it was soft, like the sound someone might make watching a child try to lift a sword too big for them.

“You really think you’re ready?” she asked. “The bow’s not enough, child. Not if you don’t know what you’re really fighting for.”

She lunged.

Before I could move, she was on me, wrapping one long arm around my waist. Talons hooked beneath my ribs—not piercing, but anchoring. Her wings beat once, twice—

And we were airborne.

“Let me go!” I screamed, writhing, kicking, jabbing my elbow into her side.

Vexthia grunted but didn’t let go. “She’s waiting for you, you know.”

“Who?! Kerostes?”

“You’ll see soon enough. Don’t move. I need you alive.”

I twisted violently. My boot slammed into her thigh and her grip faltered for half a second—but it was all she needed to tighten it again, this time with her talons pressing just enough to draw a thin line of pain across my stomach.

The wind rushed past us, biting at my face, the world below a smear of gray and black.

And then I saw it.

Dark water. Glistening banks of slick stone. A jagged shore carved like broken teeth.

The River Styx.

She was flying us straight back into the Underworld.

“No,” I whispered. “Not again…”

We descended fast.

The moment her talons released me, I stumbled and nearly fell into the muck, the cold seeping into my boots instantly. I spun to face her.

“Why here?” I demanded. “Why bring me here?”

Vexthia landed gracefully, wings folding behind her like a dark veil. “Because this is where truths like yours belong.”

She smiled again.

And this time, it looked almost sad.

Almost.

The ground cracked beneath my knees as I collapsed, dust clouding in the air around me.

Then the voice came again — ancient, cold, rising from the river itself like steam from a cursed wound.

 “Your soul is bound to liars. Oaths unkept will poison you three.”

My ears split open. I screamed, clutching the sides of my head. My vision shook.

“No—! Stop—!”

“By the breach of sacred tongues, you are marked.”

It drilled straight through my skull. I curled forward, nails digging into the dirt. It felt like fire had been poured into my spine.

“Please—!”

“You are born from silence and pride. But the oathbreakers’ debt is yours to pay.”

I gasped as the words carved into me. Not my skin — deeper. Like they were being branded into my soul. My body trembled, my breath ragged.

“And when the veil parts... I will collect what is owed.”

Something snapped. I let out a raw, broken cry and fell fully onto my side, trembling in the mud.

The voice vanished. Just like before.

Only the river stirred, rippling gently.

And Vexthia stood above me, watching with a smile that made my blood run cold.

A cold laugh slithered down to me from above.

"Still so fragile," Vexthia purred.

I forced myself up, elbows shaking, dirt sticking to my palms. My ears still rang, the river’s voice clawing at the back of my skull like it had left splinters behind.

The voice.

The words.

I’d heard them before.

My chest heaved as I blinked through the ache. Yesterday. On the riverbank, stepping out of Charon’s boat. Me and Andros.

Only us.

But now…

"Three," I whispered hoarsely.

Vexthia tilted her head, curious. "What’s that, little silver thing? Whispering secrets to the dead now?"

I met her gaze. My lip trembled, but I refused to break.

"It said three this time," I muttered. "Not both. Not two."

Her smile faltered — just for a blink. Then she grinned again, all sharp teeth. “Oh, someone’s paying attention. That’s new.”

My heart thudded so loud I could barely hear anything else.

Three of us.

Not just me.

Not just Andros.

Eli.

The third.

The warning hadn’t changed, but its meaning had.

The gods had lied. Hidden us. Bound us by their oaths. And now the river itself — the Styx — had spoken. Branded us. All three.

We were forbidden.

Vexthia’s expression twisted.

The grin soured, her lips curling back like a beast baring fangs. The air grew colder—not Underworld-cold, not death-cold—but personal. Hateful. Her nails flexed, talons gleaming like obsidian in the low light.

“I should’ve let you drown in that river,” she hissed. “Would’ve saved me the trouble.”

She lunged.

I twisted, rolling across the jagged stone just in time. Her claws raked the air behind me—inches from my spine—and struck the ground with a crack like lightning.

Not to kill.

Just to hurt.

I scrambled to my feet again, breath ragged, fingers gripping the silver bow slung across my shoulder. My heartbeat was erratic, but there was strength in my limbs. Artemis had given me this. And even though it pulsed like a foreign thing in my hand, it felt right.

Vexthia circled me, her talons dragging against the ground.

"You have any idea how many times I’ve clawed my way back to life just to follow you?"

I said nothing.

"You think this is personal now, little Silverpine?" she growled. “Forty-three.”

That made me freeze.

"What?"

"Forty-three times you and your precious shadows have sent me back." Her eyes glowed like coals. “When you were young—you never saw them, did you? The silver flashes in the trees. The arrows in the dark.”

A memory surfaced. A flicker. That night in a forest—running barefoot, a chill on my neck. I had seen something… a shimmer, a blur… but I’d thought it was just moonlight.

Vexthia sneered.

“Do you know who was watching you, girl? Who kept me from slicing you open like I wanted?” She crept closer, dragging her claws across her chest in mock sorrow. “The Huntresses. Artemis’s little pets. They were always there. One step behind. Ruining my fun.”

She slashed.

I gasped as a searing pain bloomed across my arm—a deep scratch, not mortal, not clean. I stumbled back, clutching the wound, blood dripping onto the stones.

“Do you remember?” she snarled, her voice cracking now. “Your friend’s trial. When I danced through the trees with those idiot Cercopes. He slashed his sword at me. Cut through my body like I was paper!”

I narrowed my eyes. Eli.

She laughed sharply. “And then later—at the battle at your lovely camp border. Oh, he did it again. You remember that fight, don’t you? You were all so brave. You almost died from my talons.”

My grip tightened on the bow.

"And the last time…” Her face turned almost reverent. “When you walked into my fortune shop like you owned the place. When you lifted that silver bow—finally used it.” She tapped her chest. “Right here. My heart.”

She leaned closer, her breath curling like smoke around my face.

“Took you forty-two tries to grow a spine.”

My arm burned. My body ached.

“You weakling!”

My fingers clenched around the bowstring so tight they ached. The leather grip dug into my palm, but I didn’t loosen it. The river behind me murmured low, like it could still whisper warnings. Vexthia’s footsteps echoed forward—deliberate, heavy—her claws clicking against the stone like a metronome of doom.

She lunged again.

I didn’t move.

Not at first.

My instincts screamed to run, but something colder, sharper, held me in place. I twisted at the last second—just enough—her claws scraping air beside my shoulder.

My hand shot to the quiver on my back. I didn’t even need to look. My fingers found the fletching of a single arrow and pulled it free.

I nocked it.

Vexthia whirled around, already grinning, like pain was her hobby. “Still playing warrior, little Lyssa? You think that twig in your hand is going to help you?”

The bow creaked as I pulled back the string, the silver arrow glowing faintly, catching the Underworld light like it belonged here.

“Maybe you need another one,” she taunted, eyes flicking to my bleeding arm. “One arrow’s never enough, right?”

I exhaled. Let the air leave my lungs.

Let the anger settle.

The bowstring was taut. The arrow was steady. My grip no longer trembled.

“No,” I said, my voice low, firm. “I only need this one.”

She scoffed. “Please.”

I released.

The arrow flew—straight, silver-bright, and faster than I could’ve imagined. It struck her clean in the chest, the same place I’d hit her in the fortune shop, but this time, the force sent her stumbling back, a crack like thunder echoing against the stones.

Vexthia’s grin faltered.

Her eyes dropped to the arrow shaft lodged just left of her sternum, quivering. Black smoke leaked from the wound.

She looked up at me.

And I gave her a grim smile.

“Forty-four.”

She didn’t get the chance to snarl this time.

The shadows swallowed her.

Ash to wind.

And then, silence.

The river lapped quietly again behind me, as if nothing had happened. As if no one had screamed, or bled, or whispered curses through smoke.

Everything went dark after the arrow left my bow.

No—maybe a moment before. Or after. I couldn’t remember. The pain had swallowed everything. There was no sound. No sky. Just weightless falling.

Then... warmth.

When I opened my eyes again, it was to a soft golden glow dancing along a stone ceiling. I blinked. The ache in my arms came first, then my ribs, then the unmistakable sting of something wrapping my forehead.

Bandages.

Someone had cleaned and wrapped my wounds. My chest rose and fell slowly, like my body was being gentle with itself for once.

I tried to sit up, but every inch of me screamed. I winced, settling back down, one arm draped across my stomach.

The walls were carved obsidian, smooth and shadowy, veined with what looked like faint threads of gold. The bed beneath me was surprisingly soft—like silk stuffed with moss—and the air smelled like... pomegranates?

Then, the door creaked open.

I tensed. My fingers twitched for a weapon that wasn’t there.

A woman stepped inside.

Tall. Regal. Her gown shimmered in hues of wine red and ink black, flowing like water as she moved. Her dark curls were braided back, woven with what looked like silver vines. Her skin glowed like moonlight in the underworld dark, and when her eyes met mine, they were deep brown—warm, yes, but ancient. Powerful.

“Ah,” she said, her voice smooth as river glass. “You’re awake, young half-blood.”

I stared at her for a second longer than I meant to. “Where... where am I?”

“You’re in one of our private quarters,” she said. “You needed rest. And healing.”

“Who are you?” I asked, slowly trying to sit up.

She gave a small, knowing smile. “I’m Persephone. Queen of the Underworld.”

I froze.

My legs scrambled under me. It took effort, but I pushed myself upright, wobbling forward and dropping to one knee, head bowed. “I’m sorry—Your Majesty—I didn’t know—”

“No, no, child,” she hurried forward. “You mustn’t kneel, not with your wounds.”

She reached down and helped me sit back on the bed, her hands soft but steady.

I winced. “I... I feel like I’ve been trampled by a drakon.”

“That would be about accurate,” Persephone replied with a wry smile. “You’ve taken quite the beating. But I haven’t given you ambrosia or nectar. You know the rule, don’t you?”

I blinked, then nodded slowly. “If I eat anything here... I can’t go back.”

“Exactly,” she said. “We couldn’t risk you getting trapped. You’re still needed up there.”

She extended a hand toward me. “Come now. My husband’s been waiting.”

“Lord Hades?” I asked, allowing her to help me up.

“The one and only.”

With her arm around mine, we walked slowly down the polished obsidian hallway, the air cooler here, thick with ancient quiet. I leaned into her more than I’d like to admit, but Persephone didn’t mind. She supported me without question.

As we stepped into a wide, glowing chamber, the Underworld’s throne room opened around us like a palace carved from shadow and flame. And there he was.

Hades.

Sitting lazily on his throne, draped in black and iron, shadows curling at his feet like loyal dogs. When he saw me, his face broke into a sly grin.

“Finally,” he boomed. “My Little Pine!”

Despite myself, I smiled. “Your Majesty.”

I bowed slightly, careful not to reopen anything. “Thank you. I—I forgot to thank you before. You kept your promise. You helped my friends escape. And my father—he’s in Elysium.”

Hades raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “I told you I would, didn’t I?”

“I mean... yes,” I admitted. “You’re not that bad after all.”

He chuckled, the sound echoing like laughter behind a mountain. “Now that is the highest compliment a demigod’s ever given me.”

Persephone stood by his side now, watching with a small smile, arms crossed.

“You’re brave,” Hades continued, pointing at me. “Fierce. Smart. Fiesty, even. Reminds me of someone I married.”

Persephone rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”

“And the mirror you gave me?” Hades added, clapping his hands together once. “Brilliant. We’ve been tracking soul flow into the Fields of Asphodel more efficiently than ever. The number of souls walking through the Easy Death entirely is rising! Just what I hoped for.”

I blinked, surprised. “It actually worked?”

“It thrived,” Hades said proudly. “Now. I assume you’re here for a favor.”

I hesitated. “Would you help me one last time?”

Hades grinned like he’d been waiting for the question all day. “Of course! I already know what you want.”

He snapped his fingers.

From somewhere deep in the hallways beyond, I heard the thump of claws. The bark—familiar, gruff, deep—rang through the air.

My heart leapt.

“Jeremy!” I cried as the huge, shaggy black Rottweiler bolted into the room, all slobber and joy and tail wags.

He skidded to a stop in front of me and pressed his forehead against mine, panting happily. I hugged him without thinking, burying my fingers into his thick fur.

Persephone laughed softly. “He’s yours now.”

I looked up at both of them—King and Queen of the Underworld.

“Thank you. Thank you both... Your Majesties.”

Hades waved me off, looking oddly fond. “Go on, Little Pine. You’ve got someone up there waiting.”

And with Jeremy by my side, I stepped out of the shadows and toward the path back to the living.

This time... I wasn’t afraid.

Chapter Text

I blinked—and the world changed. One moment, I was in the Underworld, gripping Jeremy’s thick black fur as the shadows rose like a tide beneath us. The next, we were in the woods again. Cold air sliced across my face. The trees of Luray, Virginia, loomed in quiet welcome.

Jeremy slumped down the second his paws touched the mossy ground, letting out a deep, low huff. His tail gave a lazy wag before he curled into himself and started snoring like a dying motorboat. My stomach twisted like it was trying to tie itself in knots. I wobbled forward and grabbed a tree trunk to keep myself upright.

“Gods,” I muttered, sinking to my knees beside him. “Shadow travel still sucks.”

Jeremy groaned in agreement without opening an eye. I scratched his head. “You’re a good boy,” I whispered, even though I was pretty sure he couldn’t hear me over his own snoring. “But next time, let's teleport with style. Like a Pegasus. Or a rainbow. I’ll take either.”

My hands were shaking. The world tilted sideways. Everything felt like it had passed through a tunnel of pure ice and landed in the middle of a carnival ride gone wrong.

I reached into my side pouch and pulled out a square of ambrosia. My fingers trembled as I broke off a piece and let it melt on my tongue.

Warmth bloomed instantly in my chest, washing away the nausea like sunlight through fog. The pain in my ribs faded. My vision cleared. I took a deep breath. Okay. I could move again.

Jeremy was out cold. I left him curled in the clearing—he needed the rest—and quietly pushed into the trees. The forest here was the same one I remembered from before. Quiet, thick with leaves and shadows, touched by old magic. Somewhere nearby, the Hunters of Artemis had set up camp again.

I followed the narrow trail until I caught a glint of silver in the trees. Figures moved through the woods with practiced silence—hooded, graceful, arrow-ready. One of them broke from the others as I approached.

Zoë Nightshade stepped out of the tree line like she'd been expecting me for hours. Her braid hung over her shoulder like a rope of midnight. Her silver circlet caught the fading light, and her expression was its usual unreadable calm.

“Thou hast returned,” she said, arms crossed. “And with a beast, no less.”

I smiled. “He's sleeping it off. Shadow travel wasn't kind to either of us.”

She sniffed but didn’t comment further. “Thee look better than I expected. The Underworld seldom grants such easy favors.”

“I’m full of surprises,” I said.

Zoë gave me a sharp look, then gestured toward the hills beyond the trees. The same ones I’d hiked before. The ones where it all began.

“Go to the hills,” she said. “She waits for thee already.”

I blinked. “She?”

But Zoë was already turning back to the trees, disappearing among the silver and green like moonlight. Of course. No clarification. Just riddles and paths.

I let out a shaky breath and looked toward the hills.

The same ones from before. Where I’d faced the first trial. Where I had to let go of the past I clung to like a lifeline. It was the first place I admitted how scared I was of becoming nothing at all. The first place I heard the truth echo back in silence.

I adjusted my bow on my back and tightened the straps of my quiver. The sky was soft with dusk now, clouds streaked with gold and lavender. And even though I was tired, sore, and still a little cold from the Underworld...

My feet carried me forward. One step. Then another.

I hiked toward the hills.

Toward the waiting silence.

Toward whatever came next.

The wind was gentler at the top of the hill, like even the sky was holding its breath.

I crested the ridge, boots brushing against dew-speckled grass. The world below stretched out in layers of blue and green, fading into the orange hush of dusk.

And there she was.

Lady Artemis stood alone at the edge of the hill, where the stone circle framed the fading light. Her silver cloak shimmered in the dying sun. Her bow rested across her back. She looked like the stories—eternal, untouchable, made of starlight and shadow.

But she didn’t feel far away anymore.

She turned when she heard my steps. There was no ceremony in the way she looked at me. No fanfare. Just quiet.

I sat beside her on the ancient stone, careful, like sitting beside a statue that might vanish if I got too close. Neither of us spoke for a moment.

Then she did.

“I gave you that bow for a reason,” Artemis said, her voice calm, like moonlight on still water. “You are my child.”

I swallowed so hard it hurt.

“You can’t just say that,” I whispered. “Not like that. Like it’s a line from a letter. Like it’s... nothing.”

Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. “You are right. I suppose that wasn’t very poetic.”

She paused, then added, almost shyly, “I have this friend. A Huntress. One of mine. Her name is Tyrynna.”

I didn’t say anything.

But my chest tightened. I remembered the way Tyrynna looked at me the last time we met—like someone memorizing a goodbye they’d never say aloud. I remembered her words. “You’ve always been mine. In all the ways that mattered.”

“I watched her for many centuries,” Artemis went on. “She was fierce. Loyal. Quick to laugh, but quicker still to protect. We shared silence. We shared stories. Then, one day, she told me she had fallen in love.”

My fingers curled into the edge of my bow.

“His name was Christopher,” she said. “Your father. A mortal, but not ordinary. He had that rare kind of soul... the kind that holds space for others without even realizing it. He helped the injured. Fed the hungry. Gave shelter to birds, to dogs, to the wind itself. He was—” she paused “—good.”

She said the word like it still surprised her.

“I allowed it,” Artemis said softly. “I knew what it would cost her immortality. But how could I punish someone who had given me so much? I let her go. She lived among mortals for a short while. I watched from afar. And then... one day... she was carrying you.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“She was so happy,” Artemis said. “And so scared. But more than anything, she wanted to meet you. To hold you. Then—” Her voice faltered, just slightly. “Then something went wrong. A man, foolish and cruel, struck her by accident. Called it panic. But it took her life.”

My throat burned. “She died?”

“She was dying,” Artemis corrected gently. “And she called to me. Even in pain, even while fading, she thought only of you. She asked me to take you. To keep you safe.”

My heart cracked in two.

“She was still pregnant,” Artemis said. “So I did what I had sworn never to do. I broke my vow. My body will never be owned by a man or a child.”

She looked up at the darkening sky.

“I let you be transferred into my womb. Not by mortal means. Not by lust or sin. But by promise. By love. For five months, I carried you. In silence. In secrecy. I gave you my protection. My blood. My name.”

My voice was barely a whisper. “That’s why the warning called you an oathbreaker.”

Tears blurred my vision. My whole body felt like it wasn’t mine anymore.

“I saved my friend,” she said, “with love so fierce, even the Moon had to bend.”

That was the moment I broke.

I cried—ugly, shaking, gasping sobs. The kind I hadn’t let myself feel since I was alone in the streets. The kind I thought I’d buried with my childhood. But they came now. For everything I’d lost. For everything I’d never known I had.

She didn’t shush me.

She didn’t tell me to be strong.

She let me cry, like she had all the time in the world.

When the worst of it had passed, I leaned against her shoulder, half-expecting her to flinch or pull away. But she didn’t. She just sat there, letting me lean, letting the truth settle between us like snow.

And maybe, just maybe...

For the first time, I understood what it meant to be her daughter.

The silence after my sobs faded felt sacred. Not awkward or empty—but full, like the hush of a forest after snowfall. Artemis didn’t speak at first, and I didn’t press her. The moonlight, just rising, kissed the side of her face and made her glow with something softer than power—something like memory.

Then she spoke again, her voice low and clear.

“When your father died… I knew the world would try to take you next.”

I looked at her. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the hills folded into shadow.

“I asked my Huntresses to watch over you,” she said. “To guide you. Quietly, from a distance.”

My breath caught. “That’s why I always see the stag.”

Her eyes flicked toward me. There was pride in her smile.

“My symbol,” she confirmed. “You saw it not with your eyes, but your heart. It led you away from roads you weren’t ready for yet. Drew you out of danger. There were many monsters who tried to find you.”

My fingers trembled. I curled them into fists to still them. “They’ve been protecting me this whole time…”

“Yes,” Artemis said. “But not just them.”

She reached at the silver bow I’m holding.

She held it out. “This bow is yours. It is blessed. May it protect you as I once did.”

The moment I touched it, the world shifted. A gentle pulse, like a heartbeat, moved through my fingertips into my chest. The wood felt ancient, but alive. I could feel its truth. Its loyalty. Its wildness.

“You don’t need them anymore,” Artemis said, not unkindly. “Not the shadows. Not the protection. You are ready to protect yourself—and others.”

I looked down at the bow and back at her. The silver gleamed in my hand, already familiar, like it had been waiting for me.

“Return to camp,” she said softly. “Your friends are waiting.”

I didn’t want to move. My feet felt rooted to the stones. But I managed to find the words that pressed hardest on my tongue.

“Will I ever see you again?”

She smiled—but this time, it was more like the moon breaking through clouds.

“You’ll know.”

I didn’t fully understand what she meant. Maybe I never would. But I nodded.

And then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me.

Artemis—the eternal maiden, the untouchable goddess, the one no man or child was meant to hold—hugged me.

I closed my eyes.

Her scent was pine and moonlight and a feeling I had chased my whole life but never had a name for. Not safety, not love… something deeper.

Then she began to fade. Slowly, like mist rising off a lake at dawn.

My tears didn’t come in a rush this time. They slid down my cheeks quietly, respectfully, as if they too understood that this moment was not for wailing but for letting go.

When she vanished completely, I was alone again on the hill.

But it didn’t feel like before.

It didn’t feel empty.

I had a bow on my back, a story in my blood, and a strength I hadn’t known I carried.

I ran.

Through the woods, over roots and moss-slick stones, heart pounding not from fear but from something dangerously close to joy. The tents of the Huntresses shimmered in the distance, silver and still beneath the moonlight.

Zoë stood at the edge of camp, as if she’d been waiting.

I slowed as I reached her. “Thank you,” I said softly.

Zoë gave a short nod. “She is proud of you,” she said. “We all are.”

The rest of the Huntresses stood in silence behind her, eyes glinting like stars. I glanced at each one of them—these fierce, quiet warriors who had let me into their world, even just for a moment.

I turned away, brushing the tears from my cheeks as I walked toward the tree where Jeremy lay curled. He lifted his head, ears perked and tail thumping softly.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” I whispered.

Jeremy rose and gave a soft bark, nudging my arm. I climbed onto his back and held tight to the thick fur at his shoulders. With one final glance at the camp, I nodded.

We took off through the trees, Jeremy swift and sure-footed beneath me. The forest blurred past. Then, without hesitation, he leapt—and the shadows swallowed us whole.

The world folded in on itself, and the cold sting of shadow travel hit my skin. My stomach twisted, and I clung to Jeremy, shutting my eyes.

When I opened them, we were home.

Camp Half-Blood.

The scent of pine, fresh earth, and distant strawberries filled the air. The familiar rustle of leaves in the breeze brought a lump to my throat. It was quieter than usual—most campers had gone home for the year—but it still felt alive.

We landed just in front of the Big House. I slipped off Jeremy's back, legs unsteady, but I didn’t care.

Voices echoed around the side of the building.

Chiron was pacing, ears twitching in agitation. Mr. D slouched in a folding chair, sipping his Diet Coke and scowling like someone had interrupted his afternoon nap.

Eli stood nearby, running a hand through his messy curls as he paced a worn groove into the grass. Dorian held an old, cracked map of the Underworld, jabbing at it with increasing frustration. Andros looked like he was about to punch a tree out of sheer helplessness. Callie was trying to speak over everyone, arms crossed tightly.

Even Brandon was there, standing with his arms crossed like a statue, and Valerie was flipping through a massive book, eyes frantic.

“We need to go back to the Underworld tonight!” Callie insisted.

“It’s been more than half a day Chiron,” Eli snapped. “We can’t just stay here!”

“We have to try with Charon again!” Andros shouted. “We’re not leaving Lyssa behind!”

“Ahem,” I said.

Nobody heard me.

I crossed my arms, raised my eyebrows, and cleared my throat again—louder.

“AHEM.”

Everyone froze.

Their heads turned like one.

“LYSSA!”

Eli sprinted toward me, throwing his arms around me before I could brace for it. He squeezed so tightly I nearly choked on my own relief.

Dorian joined him next, wrapping both arms around us, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Don’t do that again.” Andros clapped me on the back like I’d just returned from battle. Callie hugged me, tight and wordless.

Even Valerie gave me a gruff nod. “Glad you’re back, Silverpine,” she muttered.

Then the world shifted.

Something... changed in the air.

Campers stopped talking. Eyes widened. They weren’t just looking at me. They were looking above me.

I followed their gaze to the sky.

Mr. D groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “Oh, not this again,” he muttered.

Chiron stepped forward, his expression unreadable, but his hands were steady as he brought a long, curved horn to his lips.

He blew it.

A low, haunting note echoed through camp, stilling even the wind.

Chiron lifted his voice, deep and clear:

“Artemis, Mistress of the Hunt, Guardian of Maidens, Lady of the Wild—hail, Lyssa Silverpine, Daughter of the Moon.”

The words rippled through me like thunder. I looked up—and there it was: a glowing silver bow and arrow etched in light above me, shimmering against the night sky.

Gasps broke out around the clearing. A few campers dropped whatever they were holding. Eli just stared at me like I’d sprouted wings.

Daughter of the Moon.

My throat closed up. My heart ached with something deeper than pride. Something sacred.

I stepped away from the circle of arms and turned toward the night sky.

The moon had climbed high above the trees, glowing silver and soft. I tilted my head and whispered, so low only the stars and she could hear:

“Thank you, Lady Artemis.”

And in that light, I felt no longer lost.

Chapter Text

The next morning came in quietly, like the camp itself was trying not to disturb me.

I woke up alone.

The Artemis cabin smelled of cedar wood and silver moonlight—if that’s even a thing. The bed was soft, perfectly made. The walls were lined with empty bunks, their blankets crisp and untouched, each one holding the shape of a girl who wasn’t there. I sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from my eyes. My silver bow rested against the wall beside me, catching the first light that slipped through the frosted windows.

This cabin was usually used by the Hunters of Artemis when they visited Camp Half-Blood. Now, it was mine. All mine.

And I would probably live here alone for many years starting net summer.

It wasn’t like I expected a welcome party. I mean, Artemis had made her claim. My life had changed. But the world? It just kept turning.

Outside, camp was unusually quiet. A few birds chirped lazily from the pine trees, and the breeze danced through the strawberry fields like it didn’t care that something major had happened the day before.

Most campers were at school. Normal mortal school. The kind with cafeteria lunches and math homework and passing notes under desks. Camp only buzzed in the summer. Right now, it felt like a ghost town with cabins instead of tombstones.

I wondered what it would be like next summer, when they all returned and saw someone actually living in the Artemis cabin. Would they stare? Whisper? Avoid me like a cursed room? Maybe.

Maybe not.

I pulled on a warm hoodie and stepped outside, letting the morning chill slap me fully awake. Jeremy, my overgrown, slobbering hellhound, was curled beneath a tree near the woods, his belly rising and falling slowly. He snored like a thundercloud. I didn’t want to wake him yet.

I had plans for today.

I crossed the clearing with a few quick steps—everything here was close, familiar. Like the layout of a dream you never forgot. The Hermes cabin stood crooked and proud, its door always slightly ajar. I didn’t have to knock.

Andros was already outside, working through sword drills like he did every morning. His shirt was damp with sweat, curls messy, jaw set in focus.

“You know it’s not a crime to take a day off,” I called out.

Andros paused mid-strike and turned, startled. “Hey, Silverpine.”

That was new. “Really? A nickname?”

He shrugged, grinning. “Figured if you get a divine mom and a cool moon bow, you deserve a title.”

I rolled my eyes, but it was hard not to smile. “I’m heading out today.”

His expression softened. “Are you leaving?”

“Just until next summer,” I said. “Didn’t sign up for year-round, remember? Harpies would probably eat me by tonight if I don’t get going.”

I looked at him for a moment—really looked. He had this way of holding himself that made it seem like he was always preparing for something. Like he didn’t know how to just... be. Maybe we had that in common.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” I said, softer now.

“I know,” he replied. “Doesn’t mean I won’t miss you in the meantime.”

I blinked. “That was weirdly sweet.”

He leaned on his sword. “Don’t get used to it.”

I gave him a quick, fierce hug. “See you next summer.”

Then I turned and made my way across the grass to the Apollo cabin. Callie would be up. She always was.

Sure enough, she was perched on the steps, cradling a golden lyre across her lap—one her dad supposedly gave her. The early sunlight gleamed off the strings as her fingers plucked out a soft, twinkling melody that danced across the clearing like sunlight on water.

“You realize you're probably waking up some ancient dryad with that thing,” I said as I walked up.

Callie didn’t look up. “If he complains, I’ll just put him back to sleep with a lullaby.”

She set the lyre gently beside her and stood, brushing pine needles off her jeans. “So, you’re heading out?”

“Yeah. Just until next summer,” I said. “Didn’t exactly sign the year-round sheet last time.”

“Camp’ll be boring without you. I only have Andros to bully.”

“I’ll miss you,” I said.

“Nahh,” she replied, “I’ll miss you more.”

We hugged without saying much else. Just two girls who’d fought monsters together. That kind of goodbye didn’t need big words.

She strummed a playful note, like punctuation to our goodbye. “See you next summer, moon girl.”

“See you, sunshine.”

Before I could step beyond the borders of camp, I knew there was one last stop I had to make.

The Big House sat like it always did—weather-worn, a little crooked on one side, and somehow still full of that warm, ancient energy. I walked up the porch steps slowly, Jeremy pacing beside me like he knew I needed time to think.

Chiron was inside, of course. He always seemed to be. He was by the fireplace, reading a scroll that looked older than my entire bloodline. When he saw me, he smiled, setting the scroll down and standing to full centaur height.

“I thought you might come,” he said, his voice as calm and familiar as ever. “I suppose you’re leaving us for now?”

I nodded. “Just until next summer.”

He looked at me for a long moment before speaking. “You’ve changed, Lyssa. Grown.”

“I met her,” I said, voice quieter than I meant it to be. “Artemis.”

His expression didn’t shift much, but I caught the glint in his eyes. Respect. Pride, maybe. And something like relief.

“I’m glad,” he said simply. Then his tone softened. “You’ve been through much for someone your age.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered. “Turns out being born a cosmic mistake is pretty time-consuming.”

Chiron didn’t chuckle, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “You’re not a mistake, Lyssa. But you are something… rare. And rarity always draws attention. Good and bad.”

That was my cue. I took a breath and reached into my pocket, pulling out the folded parchment I had copied the prophecy onto it. I held it out. “I’ve been thinking about this.”

He took the paper, read it again, and then looked back at me. “Go on.”

I paced as I spoke, thoughts unraveling aloud. “The first line—‘To the Underworld you must go, with power and healing to rescue the flame.’ That’s Eli. The flame is him. And I’m supposed to go with someone powerful—Andros—and a healer, like Callie.”

Chiron nodded slowly, saying nothing yet.

“The second part… ‘A lurking danger waits below, but not the foe you think you know.’” I paused, pressing my lips together. “I thought that meant Hades. But it’s not him. He was kind to me. He even helped me and gave one of his dog. I think the real danger is someone else. Maybe Vexthia. Or…” I swallowed. “Whoever sent that voice in the river. The one that warned me.”

Chiron’s gaze grew serious. “The River Styx holds many secrets. And many spirits who are not at rest.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, folding my arms. “Apparently someone in there hates me.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“The last line. ‘A mirrored fate the gods may give, yet the veiled one won’t let you live.’” I turned to face him fully now. “That’s me. I’m the mirror. I’m like Eli. A forbidden child. Another mistake in the system.”

“Not a mistake,” he said firmly. “But yes… a mirror. You and Eli are connected in ways the gods may not even fully understand. Two sparks in the same storm.”

I lowered my voice. “The veiled one… It’s Kerostes, isn’t it?”

Chiron didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was quiet. “I believe so.”

“She’ll return,” I said, fists clenching at my sides. “And next time… she’ll come for both of us.”

Chiron nodded once. “Then you’ll be ready.”

I stepped forward and gave him a hug around his waist. He was still half-centaur, which made it awkward, but I didn’t care. He smelled like parchment and hay and safety.

I whistled low and sharp, and within seconds, Jeremy padded up from the tree line—massive, sleek, and dark as midnight.

"Good boy," I murmured, running my hand briefly over the thick fur between his ears.

He bolted into motion, paws pounding across the grass like thunder muffled by mist. The forest passed in a blur, green and golden, until we hit the shadow near the camp’s border. I tightened my grip.

First stop, a tiny corner. Inside, I handed over a carefully folded wad of cash—pooled from Callie, Andros, and me last night—and left with a shoebox bag, neatly tied with gold ribbon.

We headed toward West Hollywood Boulevard, toward the run-down music store with the flickering neon guitar. “DOA Recording Studios,” the sign still read in half-dead lettering. But every demigod knew what lay beneath.

Dead On Arrival.

The doors creaked open as I approached, the inside still drenched in that weird combination of incense, mildew, and… something colder. Music played faintly over the speakers—Elvis this time.

And there he was.

Charon stood behind the desk, pristine in his obsidian Italian suit, slicked hair, and hands folded like a bored but handsome vampire. His eyes narrowed the moment they landed on Jeremy.

“Why’d you bring that creature,” he said flatly. “Can’t you leave it outside like a normal customer?”

Jeremy, unbothered, padded up beside me and sat with a heavy thump, his glowing eyes trained on Charon like he might bite him just for existing.

“He’s clean,” I said. “Mostly.”

Charon grimaced. “He drools on my marble.”

I held up the shoebox and grinned. “But I bring gifts.”

Charon blinked. Then carefully, almost reverently, reached for the package. He opened it slowly, revealing a brand new pair of gold lamé loafers—size twelve, gleaming under the dim lights.

His face changed. A near-religious expression overtook him. “You remembered.”

“We promised,” I said. “Thank you again for letting us in.”

“I really like you, you know, there is this energy that I can't explain,” Charon sighed, waving toward the hallway with one hand. “Also, Lord Hades said you’re his favorite demigod. Don’t let it go to your head.”

My brows shot up. “He did?”

“Mmm. Said you remind him of someone. Never clarified if it was a compliment.”

I glanced at Jeremy, who gave a soft grunt and rose to his feet. It was time.

Charon adjusted his collar and gave me a mock bow. “Good luck, little moon. Try not to bring back any more problems next time.”

“No promises,” I said.

And then I stepped through the doorway, Jeremy’s heavy paws echoing behind me, and the ground began to sink.

The streets of West Hollywood blurred around us, hazy with morning sun and exhaust. Jeremy’s shadow lengthened across cracked pavement as he galloped, a dark blur weaving between parked cars and startled pigeons. I leaned low over his back, eyes scanning for the familiar ripple of shadow between two crumbling buildings.

There. A thin slice of dark shimmer just past a boarded-up diner. Jeremy didn’t even hesitate. We leapt.

The world flipped inside out.

I landed on my feet in a quiet alleyway in Poughkeepsie, and Jeremy came down behind me with a grunt, tail wagging once before he collapsed in a lazy sprawl against the brick wall. His chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths—traveling by shadow always took it out of him.

“You rest,” I whispered, running a hand down his side. “You earned it.”

He blinked at me, eyes soft and unblinking, then dropped his head on his paws.

I turned and stepped out of the alley, making my way down the sleepy street toward the squat brick building at the corner. Eli’s apartment. It still smelled like sun-warmed iron and old trees. A few birds chattered on a wire overhead. Everything else felt… normal.

I rang the intercom for apartment 2C.

There was a short pause, then a click, and Eli’s voice crackled through. “Lyssa?”

“It’s me.”

Another buzz, and the door unlocked. I slipped inside and made my way up the steps, past faded green wallpaper and a crooked painting of a mountain. I hesitated at 2C just long enough to breathe, then knocked.

The door swung open.

Eli pulled me into a hug before I could say anything. I held him tighter than I meant to.

“You smell like smoke,” he mumbled into my shoulder.

“You smell like pancakes,” I said.

A second later, another familiar voice floated over from the kitchen. “Told you she’d show up before breakfast ended.”

I peered past Eli and grinned. Dorian was leaning on the kitchen counter, wearing a worn Camp Half-Blood t-shirt and pajama pants with little cassette tapes printed on them. His hair was a mess, sticking out at angles that somehow still worked for him.

Maria’s voice called out warmly, “Come in!”

She was in the kitchen too, still holding Grover—the baby satyr—who was chewing on a wooden spoon like it owed him money. His tiny horns peeked through his curly hair now, and his hooves made little clinks against her apron.

“I was just about to set the table,” she said. “But now I’ll add another plate.”

I eased onto a chair, glancing around the kitchen. It was cozy and sunlit. There was a pot of something steaming on the stove, and the radio played a low classical tune from the counter. Everything here felt soft. Real.

Maria turned, her expression gentling. “I haven’t thanked you, Lyssa. Not really.”

I shook my head. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” she said, more firmly now. “I do. You brought my son back from the Underworld. That’s not the kind of favor you shrug off. That’s the kind that… changes everything.”

I did not respond but I smiled and accept her gratitude.

“So, what are you up to now?” Eli asked.

“I left camp already. I’ll be back next summer.”

Dorian perked up. “So, where are you gonna crash until then?”

I hesitated. “I’ll figure it out.”

Eli looked at Maria. She didn’t even blink.

“You can stay with us,” she said. “I’m giving Grover back to Chiron later today. We’ve got the space. And honestly, I’d feel better knowing someone like you was around.”

“Maria…” I started. “That’s too much. I can’t—”

“No,” she said firmly, crossing the room to put a hand on my shoulder. “You will stay here. I owe you the life of my son. And I will do whatever it takes to pay that back.”

The words knocked something loose in my chest.

I stood up and hugged her.

Maria smelled like cinnamon and safety. Grover squealed from her arms and reached a chubby hand to grab my hair, which earned a giggle from Eli.

“I think he likes you,” Eli said.

“I think he thinks I’m food,” I replied, gently removing his tiny hoof from my thigh.

“I’m gonna miss this little guy,” Maria said, poking Grover’s nose.

“You sure Chiron won’t let us keep him?” Eli asked.

Maria laughed. “He’s already eaten one potted plant and chewed through the TV cord.”

Grover bleated like he knows we're talking about him.

We all sat down at the table as the kettle whistled. Maria poured tea into mismatched mugs while Eli cut slices of warm pancakes. Dorian grabbed a jar of blueberry jam and passed it to me without a word.

It was peaceful.

Too peaceful.

“Eli,” I said slowly, “have you… figured anything out? About Thistlebranch?”

He froze.

Grover smacked the table with his spoon.

“We don’t know where he is yet,” Eli said. “But we’re going to find him. We’ll ask Chiron for help today, when we return Grover.”

I nodded.

I’d nearly forgotten about Thistlebranch—Grover’s father. He’d taken over Kreon’s job, assigned to protect Eli after last summer. But on the night Hades pulled Eli from the mortal world, Thistlebranch had searched for Eli—searched high and low, by shadow and by scent. And then he vanished, too.

I looked down at Grover. His eyes were wide, innocent, but there was something sharp in them too. Like he already knew more than he should.

We all fell quiet for a moment.

Outside the window, the wind rattled the leaves.

Something was coming.

But for now, we had pancakes.

That night, I lay on the sofa bed beside Eli’s, the springs creaking softly as I pulled the blanket up to my chin. The room smelled like cedar and old books, the kind of warm that makes you feel safe. Moonlight slipped through the curtains, casting faint lines across the posters on the wall.

I stared at the ceiling, the day replaying in my head like one of those VHS tapes—bright and fast and already fading at the edges.

We went to camp.

Chiron met us by the border, his expression already tight with concern before we even said anything.

When we told him about Thistlebranch—how he’d gone looking for Eli after he vanished, and then vanished himself—he looked away, his jaw tense.

“The Satyr searchers will be notified immediately. We’ll cast out a call through the deeper groves. If he’s out there, they’ll find him.” He said quietly.

Eli stood very still beside me. He didn’t say much. Just nodded. But I could feel the storm behind his silence.

Chiron turned to Grover then, who was nestled in Maria’s arms, still chewing on the same battered spoon. “As for young Grover, he’ll be taken to the Council of Satyrs. They’ll decide how best to care for him… and what his path should be.”

Maria hesitated. Her hand clutched the edge of Grover’s blanket, knuckles tight.

“They won’t hurt him?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course not,” Chiron said gently. “He’s special. They’ll raise him well.”

But Maria wasn’t allowed to step past the border. She stood just outside it, holding Grover like she was afraid he might dissolve in her arms. When it was time, she leaned in and kissed the top of his head, whispering something none of us could hear. Then she passed him to Chiron’s waiting arms.

She didn’t cry. But her eyes—her eyes were that kind of sad you didn’t get over.

We watched Chiron carry Grover up the hill toward the grove. His tiny hooves peeked out from the blanket, swinging gently with every step.

“I knew he wasn’t mine forever,” Maria said after a long moment. “But it still feels like losing him.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I just stood there with her, until she finally turned back toward the road.

Andros wen outside the border, I handed Jeremy’s leash over to him just past the tree line.

He whined when I let go, big tail thudding against the grass. But Andros just smiled and rubbed behind his ears. “Don’t worry,” he said to him. “She’ll visit.”

“He can’t live with us,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. “It’d be like trying to sneak a dragon into the pantry.”

“He’s a good boy,” Andros said, scratching Jeremy under the chin. “I’ll take care of him.”

“I know,” I said. “I just… I’ll miss him.”

Andros looked at me then, serious. “He’s your hellhound. He’ll never be far.”

Callie came down the hill, her boots scuffing the dirt path. “Told you we’d see each other again,” she said with a grin, her hair tucked under a cap that had definitely seen better days.

I hugged them both.

And then Dorian stepped up beside me, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“I’m heading back to California,” he said, his voice soft.

“To your aunt’s?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He shifted the strap. “Just for now.”

There was a pause.

“See you next summer?” Eli murmured.

Dorian hugged him, lingering. “You better be here.”

They stayed like that for a beat longer, and I glanced away to give them the illusion of privacy, even if just for a second. Then Dorian pulled back, brushing Eli’s hair out of his face.

“I’ll write,” he said.

“You better,” Eli replied, his voice catching just a little.

Dorian gave me a small nod, grateful but quiet, and stepped through the shimmer of the border. The wards flared faintly as he passed, then dimmed again. We stood there for a moment after he was gone, the wind carrying the last hint of his presence down the hill.

Eli didn’t say anything, and neither did I. There wasn’t much to say.

And then he was gone too.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. We took the train back to Poughkeepsie, Maria dozing by the window, Eli scribbling something in a notebook across from me. I spent most of it staring out at the landscape, trying to memorize everything. Like if I focused hard enough, I could hold the whole day in my mind and never forget a second of it.

And now—here I am.

“Hey, Lyssa?” Eli said, quietly.

“Mm?”

“Thanks,” he said. “For dragging me out of the Underworld. Y’know, just casually rescuing me from eternal doom.”

I snorted. “Anytime.”

“No, really,” he said, turning onto his side so he could face me. “You were kind of amazing. I’m never going to forget that moment. I mean, if I were dead, I'd definitely rise just to avoid disappointing you.”

I laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re heroic.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway. “Go to sleep, fire boy.”

“You too, forest gremlin.”

We both chuckled, the sound fading into the warm quiet between us. The kind of silence that didn’t need filling.

And then Eli let out a soft yawn, already halfway asleep.

“…Lyssa?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you are my friend.”

My chest squeezed a little, in that quiet way it does when something means more than you know how to say. I didn’t answer—just let the moment sit there.

A few minutes later, his breathing slowed, evened out.

I laid back, the creaky bed groaning beneath me, and stared at the ceiling.

Outside, the city kept going. Inside, for just a little while, everything was still.

Sleep took me slow, like I was sinking into warm water. The city faded. The mattress creaked one last time as I turned over. Then—nothing.

And then—

Something cold touched my feet.

I looked down. I wasn’t in Eli’s room anymore. I was barefoot, standing in gray dust. My legs felt heavy—no, not heavy. Bone. White bone. Skeletal feet pressed against blackened earth, each step echoing like a whisper of the dead.

The Underworld.

But this wasn’t the same place I’d walked through before. The shadows here twisted unnaturally, and the air crackled with something colder than death—something unfinished.

In front of me, two shapes appeared, flickering like candlelight through smoke.

Eli.

Andros.

Both were as I remembered them—Eli in his camp hoodie, hair tousled, eyes wide with recognition. Andros stood straighter, his hand twitching like it wanted to reach for a weapon, though none hung at his side.

We all looked at each other.

Silent.

Then—

A wind, sharp and biting, curled around us like a hiss.

In the distance, a black mist formed. Slow. Rolling. Hungry. It moved like a storm that had grown teeth.

From within it, a figure emerged—veiled, faceless, gliding over the dust like a nightmare caught in motion.

The woman stopped.

She raised her hands to her veil.

She pulled it back.

Her eyes burned like smoldering coals. Her smile was too calm to be human.

“Guess who’s back,” she said softly.

Her voice echoed like it came from deep inside our bones.

I shot awake with a sharp gasp, heart hammering against my ribs. The room was dark, save for the streetlights leaking through the curtain.

Across the room, Eli sat bolt upright on his bed, staring at me.

His voice broke the silence and we muttered together.

“Kerostes.”