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Sacrificial hero blessed by primordial luck (PJO/ Celestial Grimoire SI)

Thread starter Magus explorator Start date Apr 2, 2025 Tags celestial grimoire (cyoa) percy jackson and the olympians self insert

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Ah, welcome, young demigod, to the wonderful world of modern mythology. Monsters, ancient curses, prophecies — the whole package. Perilous? Absolutely. But don't worry, your mortal parent is surely prepared to whisk you away to safety…

Oh, you live alone? That's… unfortunate.

Well, there's still hope — a satyr is closing in on your location as we speak, young half-blood.

Wait, you live in Alaska?

May the Fates be merciful and at least make it quick.

Or "Making the Divine's get grey hairs"

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You know how the saying goes — new life, new me. I like to think I took it to heart. Maybe too well. The change of scenery was a punch to the gut, though. One moment I was wading through the suffocating heat and buzzing hell that is the South American jungle, the next I was staring out at Anchorage, Alaska — cold, grey, and somehow quieter than I thought a city could be. It took some adjusting, sure, but all things considered? Manageable.

The dyslexia and ADHD were old company, like childhood friends that overstayed their welcome but you'd still defend in a bar fight. I knew how to work around them by now, make them bend just enough not to wreck everything.

The schizophrenia, though — that one was new. The doctors slapped a name and a pillbox on it. Mom had it too. Guess it runs in the family. Though, in her case, it ran a little too hard. They moved her into one of those live-in clinics when I was still young. Too young to really get it, but old enough to know it wasn't normal.

For now, I thought I was handling it better than she did. Sure, I saw the monsters too — creeping through alleyways, lingering just at the edge of streetlights, or watching from rooftops with yellow eyes that never blinked — but once the meds kicked in, things started looking... clearer. Or at least, manageable. The monsters didn't go away overnight, but they faded like old stains, the kind you just learn to ignore.

The shrinks said it was genetic. I even humored myself with half-baked theories about hormones and pineal gland calcification, but I wasn't exactly cracking open medical journals in my free time. Back then, my understanding of the brain was so bad that I thought my teacher was screwing with me when he tried to get me to memorize the parts of the brain by the "squiggly lines." I remember staring at the cadaver's brain like it was modern art and he was asking me to find hidden meaning, don't know how I passed that class honestly.

School was a breeze too. Apparently, I was a super-genius. Turns out that having already gone through school and university once, in my last life, gives you a bit of an edge the second time around. Go figure. Honestly? I liked the attention. No shame about it. Being the smartest guy in the room felt nice.

If you ignored the biochemical circus happening inside my skull, this new body also rocked. Muscle came easy, fat didn't stick around, and my hand-eye coordination was borderline unfair. I started with soccer — old habits die hard — and I was dunking on kids like I was Pelé reborn. Anchorage, though? Not exactly a soccer haven. I tried football next, and yeah, I crushed it too. Problem was, I couldn't be bothered to really learn it beyond "take the ball to the other side" and "hit people very hard."

Still, it wasn't all bad. I had a plan — simple, effective. Make some cash, wait a few years, and buy as much coin as I could get my hands on. Good old time-travel insider knowledge. That little ace up my sleeve was going to carry me straight to easy street.

Until then, I was just trying to enjoy the ride. Being a freshman was turning out better than I expected. The good grades, the ridiculous amount of whey protein I chugged for the gains, and the fact that I actually liked being here all helped.

Though, if I'm being honest, this new body was still weird sometimes. Like, who the hell starts getting chest hair at thirteen?

Walking through the halls of Southwest Anchorage High was routine by now. Locker doors slamming, half-awake students stumbling through the corridors, the usual teenage chaos — nothing I couldn't handle. After all, I wasn't exactly a nobody. People knew me. Between good grades, decent looks, and wiping the floor with most of the sports teams, I'd carved out a comfortable spot near the top of the social food chain.

Case in point, Jasper. My... friend? Stalker? Still undecided. The guy was always tagging along, hovering somewhere in my blind spot like a shy little ghost. He was weird, no way around it. He limped constantly, but the casts swapped sides every other week like it was part of a costume rotation, and I was sure it was different casts. Either he was faking for attention, or his doctor was committing malpractice on a weekly basis.

What threw me off more was the way he looked around, like the lockers themselves were whispering threats in his ears. Constant flinching. Eyes darting like he was scanning for snipers. It wasn't normal. I'd seen paranoia before, but this was something else.

I was pretty sure he thought the shadows were out to get him.

"Lucas!"

I turned just in time to catch Madison, one of the cheerleaders, waving at me like we were old friends — because we were. Blonde, athletic, annoyingly perfect like most of the squad, but I couldn't help but like her.

I gave her a grin, sliding into the conversation as smoothly as I could. "Hey, Mads. You finally learn to throw without nearly taking out half the squad?" I teased.

She giggled, playfully flipping me off behind the pom-poms. Normal. Completely normal. Except, for half a second — and maybe the meds were just slipping again — I swore I saw it.

A horse leg. No, scratch that, one normal, the other looking like it was made of polished bronze.

I blinked. Hard.

Gone. Just two legs, nothing weird. Maybe I needed to get my prescriptions checked.

Still, I kept the grin up like nothing happened. "Anyway, tell Haley I'm still waiting for her rematch. I'm not carrying her through another math quiz."

Mads laughed and promised to pass it on before trotting off, ponytail swaying like nothing was wrong.

And me? I just kept walking, Jasper glued to my heels, looking like he was about to pass out.

First period was history — and today's lesson was supposed to be on the Peloponnesian War. Riveting. At least Mr. Horner didn't give pop quizzes like the last guy.

I made my way through the crowded classroom. My usual clique had already claimed the best seats, dead center of the room, close enough to keep the teacher from calling on us too much but far enough to still crack jokes without getting caught. They shuffled around to make space the second I showed up.

"Sup, genius," Davis grunted, offering the classic jock greeting. He was the quarterback, all biceps and limited vocabulary.

"Morning, Dav," I said, sliding into my seat with all the ease of someone who'd done this routine a hundred times. The other guys nodded in greeting, a mix of linemen, wide receivers, and wannabe MMA fighters.

Normal guys, really. Loud, overly competitive, dripping with machismo — but nothing I wasn't used to. If anything, they were comfortingly predictable.

And then there was Jasper.

Before I could even settle in properly, he took the empty seat next to me like it was his by divine right. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, eyes darting between the windows and the corners of the room like he expected the walls themselves to lunge at him.

I barely managed to keep from sighing out loud. "Seriously?"

Jasper just gave me a weak, shaky smile, fiddling with his sleeve like he wasn't making my day worse by existing. Around us, the usual chatter of the class filled the air. I could practically hear the gears turning in the heads of the jocks, wondering why I tolerated the weird limping kid shadowing me like we were joined at the hip.

The cheerleaders were on the other side of the room, clustered together and pretending to pay attention as they doodled in their notebooks. Madison caught my eye for a second, waved with a pen between her fingers, and went back to scribbling something I couldn't quite make out. Looked like… stick figures? Maybe.

Mr. Horner shuffled in a few minutes later, carrying a stack of books under one arm and the kind of coffee mug that screamed I've seen too much. He adjusted his tie, cleared his throat, and started writing Peloponnesian War on the board. Standard stuff.

Except when he turned to grab a piece of chalk, I swear — I swear — I saw something twitch behind him. A tail. Barbed, reptilian, and gone before I could even register it properly. It vanished like smoke, leaving nothing but the faintest imprint on my mind.

I blinked, looked around. No one else seemed to notice. Jasper, of course, was already halfway to a panic attack beside me, eyes glued to the teacher like Mr. Horner might explode at any second.

I leaned back, arms crossed.

I glanced down at my wrist. The old watch ticked steadily, taunting me. Still a few hours early to take the meds. Great. But the hallucinations were getting harder to ignore. First the cheerleader, now Mr. Horner sprouting a tail like he was auditioning for some low-budget fantasy movie.

Screw it.

I slid a hand into my backpack, feeling for the familiar plastic bottle. The sound of pills rattling inside was almost comforting at this point. Two quick ones into the palm, pop, swallow, followed by a swig of water. Smooth, practiced, mechanical.

Around me, the classroom buzzed like nothing was wrong.

Mr. Horner was already droning on about the riveting geopolitical mess that was the Peloponnesian War, pacing slowly across the front of the room. Sparta this, Athens that, balance of power, shifting alliances — the usual. The kind of stuff I could ace in my sleep thanks to more than one past life study session.

I leaned back, trying to tune him out, eyes flicking across the room instead. The jocks were half-listening, half-doodling, the usual mix of blank stares and whispered jokes. Nothing unusual there. They might've been meatheads, but at least they were predictably human.

The cheer squad, on the other hand, still had their noses buried in their notebooks. Madison and a few others were sketching, but it wasn't idle hearts-and-stars nonsense. Their doodles were… strange. I couldn't make out the details from here, but the angles were sharp, geometric, and weirdly unsettling. It didn't look like art. It looked like diagrams. Symbols, maybe.

Jasper, beside me, was shrinking into himself like he was waiting for a piano to fall out of the sky. He was chewing the end of his pen and glancing toward the windows like whatever was bothering him might actually just climb in and say hello.

I rubbed at my eyes. The pills would kick in soon. They always did. Right?

I hoped they would.

The day went on like clockwork.

From history, I shuffled straight into math — my personal nightmare. For all the so-called genius bonus that came with living life twice, math still had me beat. Badly. I still had to resort to the old reliable trick: counting on my fingers like I was still in elementary school.

Pathetic? Maybe. But hey, whatever gets the job done.

English Lit was smoother. Way smoother. I could coast through most of it on autopilot. The teacher seemed genuinely passionate about the material, which helped, but honestly? I was working with second-life knowledge here. I'd already read most of the classics once, and some of them twice. It was basically free real estate.

Then came PE. My favorite. I was built for this. Whether it was running laps, scoring during casual basketball, or leaving classmates behind during sprints, it all came easy. I didn't even have to try too hard, and that alone probably kept me riding the high school cool-kid wave.

Afterward, I hit the showers. And let me tell you — whoever had the bright idea to make sure the school had heated water, I owe them my life. I would've personally funded it if I could. Facing Alaskan winds after a freezing shower? Pass.

I let the hot water run longer than strictly necessary, taking my time. PE took the edge off the usual static rattling around in my head. The hum, the restlessness, the flickers at the corner of my vision — textbook schizophrenia, as far as anyone could tell.

Didn't mean it wasn't annoying, but you learned to live with it. What else was there to do?

Eventually, I got dressed, packed up, and headed out.

Break time. Finally.

Lunch came fast enough. The cafeteria smelled like the kind of food that would make a dietician cry — which was exactly how I liked it. Greasy pizza, suspiciously shiny processed meats, and enough salt to make a deer keel over. Peak high school cuisine.

Obama got elected this year, so hopefully, I could enjoy this chemical-laden heaven until graduation before Michelle started cracking down on it. I planned to savor every bite while it lasted.

Besides, we had a salad bar. Free salad. As much as you wanted. I wasn't stupid — load up the plate with greens, stack the rest with pizza and meat, and suddenly you had a "balanced meal." Or at least something you could pretend passed for one.

I grabbed my tray, heavy with a mix of vegetables and food that probably violated FDA regulations, and made my way to the usual table. The jocks were already there, loud as ever, swapping insults like it was a competitive sport.

"Yo, Lucas! Took you long enough," Davis called, waving me over with a half-eaten burger.

"Had to make sure the salad bar wasn't a government conspiracy," I shot back, sliding into my usual spot.

Laughter followed, and we got to it — shooting the shit like always. Football drama, coach complaints, who had beef with who, usual locker room nonsense. Comfortable. Predictable. Even Jasper, hovering awkwardly a few tables over, didn't bother me much when surrounded by the squad. His constant anxious glances barely registered.

Midway through demolishing a slice of pizza, something slid onto my tray.

A note.

I blinked, glanced up, and caught Madison — one of the cheerleaders — giving me a cheeky smile from across the room like we were in some teenage rom-com. She twirled her pen in her fingers, looking all innocent despite obviously knowing exactly what she was doing.

Davis immediately noticed, elbowing me hard enough to make the tray rattle. "Ooooh, looks like pretty boy's got a fan."

I flicked him off without looking, eyes still on Madison.

Smooth. Real smooth.

I casually unfolded the note, half-expecting a doodle or some silly inside joke.

Instead, scrawled in neat, looping handwriting were the words:

Meet me in the PE equipment depot after last period.

— M.

I blinked, read it again just to be sure, and, yeah, it still said exactly what I thought it said.

The table exploded before I could even react.

"Oh-ho-ho! Lucas, my man!" Davis practically shouted, slapping the table hard enough to make trays jump. "You're in, bro!"

The others jumped on the bandwagon immediately, whistles and jeers echoing through the cafeteria. I barely managed to keep my expression neutral as they piled on.

"She wants you to visit the old love shack behind the gym, huh?" Mike, one of the linebackers, said with a grin. "Classic."

"Don't forget to stretch first," someone else added, sending the whole table into another round of laughter.

I just leaned back in my seat, letting them run their mouths while I chewed thoughtfully on a piece of pepperoni pizza. It wasn't the first time I'd gotten attention from the cheer squad — perks of being me — but this? This was... different. Madison wasn't usually this forward. Flirty, sure. But notes in the middle of lunch? Secret meetings?

Either this was about to turn into every teenage movie ever, or I was walking into a soap opera subplot.

"Man, you better give us the details tomorrow," Davis said, still grinning like an idiot.

"Yeah, yeah," I waved him off, folding the note and slipping it into my pocket like it was no big deal.

Jasper, a few tables over, was staring at me like I'd just accepted a death sentence.

Not that I noticed.

The rest of the school day felt like it stretched forever.

English dragged. Math insulted my intelligence. And every single class felt like someone had quietly turned up the volume on the weird.

The cheer squad? They were suddenly all very interested. Every time I passed one of them in the hallway, they'd shoot me these sly little smiles, giggles hidden behind notebooks, twirls of hair around their fingers like they were all in on some inside joke.

I didn't mind, obviously. I mean, who would? A guy could get used to the attention.

Still, it wasn't exactly normal. Sure, I'd flirted with a few of them before, but this was... different. It wasn't just Madison anymore. It was the whole squad. And at one point, in the middle of English, I caught sight of one of them shifting in her seat — and for the briefest second, there it was again.

One horse leg. One polished, metallic leg.

I blinked.

Gone.

Just a pair of perfectly normal cheerleader legs crossed at the ankle, swinging lazily under her desk. I gritted my teeth, rubbing my eyes as casually as I could. Maybe I was just tired. Or maybe the meds were slacking.

Meanwhile, Jasper was having his own personal meltdown a few rows away. He kept glancing at me, then around the room like he expected the ceiling to collapse. His pen exploded mid-sentence, ink splattering across his hand and notebook. He didn't even curse. Just stared at it like it confirmed whatever worst-case scenario was playing out inside his head.

I ignored him. I'd seen this before — people dealing with their own problems. Anxiety, paranoia, the works. I had my own brand of static to deal with, and I wasn't about to take on anyone else's.

Besides, I had bigger things to focus on. Like figuring out whether this little meeting after class was about to make my week, or just become another headache.

The bell rang.

Like clockwork, the halls flooded with students eager to escape, some heading home, others lingering for clubs, practice, or whatever high school excuse they clung to. I, on the other hand, had an appointment behind the gym.

I slipped past the crowd, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, casually making my way to the PE depot. It wasn't exactly a romantic spot. A rundown storage shed for balls, old mats, and half-broken gym equipment, stuck awkwardly between the gym and the chain-link fence that guarded the football field.

Not that I cared. I'd seen worse.

What I did notice, though, was Jasper. He was trailing me again, but this time he wasn't bothering to be subtle. His steps were quick, uneven, and panicked. He almost slipped once trying to catch up.

"Lucas—!" he called, desperate, but I kept walking.

"Not now, man," I said without even turning. "Go drink some warm milk or something, you look like you're about to pass out."

The depot wasn't empty.

Madison wasn't alone, either.

Three of them were there — Madison and two other cheerleaders I recognized, though I couldn't remember their names off the top of my head. All three leaned casually against the old gym equipment, chatting among themselves, giggling like this was just another afterschool hangout. They didn't even flinch when I walked in.

"Hey, Lucas," Madison greeted, flashing me that practiced, picture-perfect smile.

The other two followed suit, eyes glinting with something that should've probably made me nervous — but didn't. Instead, it lit up every dumb, teenage instinct in my brain.

"You actually came," one of them said, biting her lip slightly.

"We weren't sure if you'd show," Madison added, stepping a little closer.

They giggled like they'd been waiting all day just to mess with me. I couldn't help but smirk, leaning against the doorframe like I'd just scored the prize of the century. Maybe I had.

Was it weird? Sure. Was I complaining? Hell no.

They circled me casually, flirty, playful, like I was the center of the universe for a moment. A guy could get used to this.

"We're just gonna get comfortable," Madison purred, her voice honey-sweet as she toyed with the hem of her cheer uniform.

I was about to say something clever — and then came the frantic knocking.

Bang bang bang!

I turned to see Jasper through the grimy little window of the door, pale as a ghost, practically foaming at the mouth as he hammered on it like his life depended on it.

"Lucas!" he shouted. "Wait—listen—!"

Without missing a beat, I yanked the door open just enough to glare at him.

"Jasper, I am about to live out every male fantasy known to man," I snapped. "So unless you're here to give me winning lottery numbers, get out."

I slammed the door before he could even get another word in.

The knocking didn't stop, desperate and frantic. He was really losing it out there.

Inside, the girls giggled again, taking slow, deliberate steps closer. One of them slipped her arms around me from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder.

"That little guy sure does follow you around a lot," she whispered. "Kinda weird."

"Yeah," I said, brushing it off with a shrug. "He's like... I don't know, socially defective. He'll get over it."

The knocking outside turned into pounding, but I was too focused to care.

One of them, the brunette I think, gave me a grin that showed a little too many teeth. "Turn around and get ready."

Without hesitation, I did. I turned, tugging off my shirt and tossing it aside like this was just another story I'd be bragging about later.

I got fully undressed, tossing my clothes into a lazy pile on the floor, psyching myself up like I was about to win the Olympics. This was it — the teenage dream, the prize every 15-year-old wished for. I could practically hear a crowd of dudes cheering me on somewhere in the back of my mind.

Victory was near.

Behind me, I could hear the soft rustle of fabric. Shirts hitting the floor. A few giggles. Definitely not the mocking kind. No, this was happening. No prank, no punchline.

I could almost smell the laurels of victory.

When I finally turned around—

The horse and metal legs were back. Clear as day. No blinking it away, no fuzzy edges. Sharp. Real. Like they'd always been there.

Madison stood front and center, fully naked like the others, but the details were... wrong. Her hair was on fire. Not in the poetic sense. Actual flames licked and curled upwards from her scalp, casting the whole room in a flickering orange glow.

And then there were the other details.

Horns. Not costume-store nubs. Sharp, curling, proud horns like she'd stepped out of some Renaissance painting of demons. Clawed fingers lazily trailed down the wall, leaving shallow grooves behind them. The others weren't much better — pointed teeth, metal leg joints, slitted eyes — and yet there they stood, bare as the day they were born.

But not human.

Definitely not human.

I froze for half a second, brain scrambling for an explanation. Then I shrugged.

Hallucinations. Had to be. It was textbook stuff. Visual, auditory, maybe even tactile if I reached out. Probably just my messed-up chemistry taking things up a notch. And besides... they were still naked. Not exactly the worst glitch I'd ever seen.

I took a slow step forward, swaying slightly like I was moving to some phantom rhythm only I could hear. The heat rolling off Madison's flaming hair washed over me — too warm, too real. That wasn't right. Hallucinations didn't usually come with heat.

Still, I smiled, leaning into it.

"So," I said, cocky as ever. "You ladies like jazz?"

CP Bank: 1000cp

Perks earned this chapter: None

Milestones reached this chapter:

Demi-baby first steps: Get noticed by the supernatural: 500cp

Psy-op's: Get honey potted: 300cp

Beyond the Gods: Welcome to Alaska: 200cp

Authors note: Hey people, welcome to my new fic, some of you might be saying "But Magus, what about your other two fics?", the truth is that I need a little break from Dust to refill the backlog, and while brave and the bald still has two chapters in the oven its low from my usual, It's not a hiatsu, mostly because I'll get back to releasing those two when the backlog heals.

Instead of mass writing those, I looked in my docs and found this, my "first Idea" for a fic, so I thought, might as well jolt the old writers block with this one.

The rules for Grimoire are the same as the Dust one, tho I'll put my foot down on perks that would mess with the writing, so sit back and enjoy.

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The girls crowded in, closing the gap like a pack circling prey — nails trailing along my skin, sharp enough to scratch but not quite enough to cut. Just the right balance to keep me thinking this was still part of the game. The warmth of their touch, the scent of perfume — if you ignored the subtle metallic tinge — it was all... intoxicating.

Madison leaned forward, her lips pressing against mine. Soft. Warm. Familiar, even. But when her tongue slipped past my lips, it felt... long. A little too long. And sharp, like the edge of a knife sliding just barely across flesh. Her teeth grazed against me — pointed, predatory — but I barely registered it.

The body wants what it wants.

The other two were already clinging to me, pressing close enough that I instinctively let my hands find their waists. Their skin was smooth, unnaturally so, like they'd been sculpted instead of born. The flickering heat in the air felt heavier, thicker, like the walls themselves were starting to melt under it.

Madison's kisses trailed lower — my jaw, then the base of my neck, slow and deliberate like she had all the time in the world.

A little voice at the back of my head, the one that survived long enough to earn me a second life, whispered that something was very wrong.

And yet?

I didn't move.

Because even then, even with the weirdness, I kept telling myself it was just the meds, just another glitch in the system. Just another static-filled scene I'd wake up from, or laugh about later.

The pounding on the door got louder, harder, echoing like someone was trying to break it off its hinges. Jasper's voice cracked through the heavy air, muffled but frantic.

I didn't care.

Inside, the room was getting hotter by the second — steamier, thicker. The cold Anchorage air might as well have been miles away. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, but it wasn't from fear.

The girls were all over me now. Hands gliding across skin, nails tracing patterns that bordered on drawing blood, but not quite. Not yet. It was sharp, sure, but it was still on. I'd been in stranger situations. Probably.

One of the cheerleaders pressed up behind me, bare chest against my back, lips ghosting over the shell of my ear before giving it a playful nibble. I didn't even flinch. Instead, I leaned into it, half-drunk on the atmosphere. Every warning bell in my head was ringing, but I was too busy ignoring them, caught up in the sensation like a moth to a blowtorch.

Madison's hands roamed up my chest, her breath heavy against my neck. The heat rolling off her wasn't normal — it felt like standing next to a furnace — but I still didn't pull away. If anything, I tilted my head to give her more room.

She licked a spot just under my jaw, slow and deliberate, almost tasting the skin. Then I felt it — her teeth.

A lot of teeth.

Way too many teeth for anyone trying to give a harmless hickey.

Still, for some stupid reason, I just stood there. Maybe I was too far gone. Maybe I was too used to brushing things off as symptoms. Or maybe... deep down... I didn't really want to stop.

The pounding at the door turned violent, and Jasper's voice cracked into a desperate scream. "Lucas, don't let them—!"

I tuned it out.

As Madison's teeth pressed against my neck, her breath hot and steady, something changed.

A chill. A sharp, unnatural cold, like someone had dropped a chunk of ice down my spine. It shot straight through me, freezing every muscle mid-motion. My fingers twitched against bare skin, my breath hitched, but I couldn't move.

My vision swam.

Stars — no, not stars — pinpricks of pure darkness bloomed at the edge of my sight. Like the static I was used to, but clearer. More deliberate. They pulsed faintly, as if each one was a distant heartbeat pressing against reality itself.

And then...

One of them shined.

It flickered, just for a second, like someone lit a match in the abyss. A single pinpoint of light in the sea of dark. My knees nearly buckled. The room swayed around me, the oppressive heat now clashing against the impossible cold gripping my spine.

The hands still clawed at me. The lips still teased. The giggles never stopped.

I felt wrong.

Not dizzy, not overwhelmed, not even hallucinating.

Wrong.

Like my body weighted more than seconds ago as all the smells in the air got amplified.

Madison didn't seem to notice. If anything, she got hungrier, dragging her tongue across the spot on my neck, breath hot, sharp teeth pressing harder.

The banging on the door became frantic, violent, desperate.

Madison sank her teeth deep into my neck.

There was no playing around now. No teasing. No flirting. Just teeth ripping into flesh, biting down like a predator that knew it had already won. I let out a sharp gasp, the sudden surge of pain snapping me out of whatever fog I'd been drifting in.

The other two? They just giggled.

They grabbed my arms with deceptively strong fingers, holding me in place like it was nothing. Their strength didn't match their slim, delicate appearances. It was monstrous. Unnatural. I struggled, but it was like trying to fight steel cables.

One of them leaned in, nibbling at my ear, whispering in a husky, mocking voice, "Poor demigod… fell for the oldest trick in the book."

My blood ran cold.

Demigod?

I barely processed it before Madison bit harder, savagely tearing at my neck, no longer pretending to be gentle. Her claws dug into my shoulders, pinning me against the wall of bodies. I couldn't even flinch as she gnawed, sending jolts of pain down my spine.

"Stop—!" I croaked, my voice cracking in desperation. "Stop, please—!"

The banging on the door behind me was relentless, the wood bending under the strain. Jasper was going all-in now, screaming my name, throwing his weight against it, but the door refused to budge.

And then — snikt.

Three metallic claws sprang from my knuckles, tearing through skin and bone like they belonged there. Instinct took over.

The girls holding me didn't even realize what had happened until it was too late.

Since they had been clinging tight, their bodies pressed right against my arms, they practically impaled themselves. The claws pierced through them like a hot knife through butter, the resistance almost nonexistent. Their eyes went wide, mouths opening in shock rather than pain.

In unison, they let out a sharp, airy gasp — more insulted than hurt — before disintegrating into clouds of golden dust, swirling like ash caught in a breeze.

Their grip released instantly.

I stumbled forward, Madison ripping herself away from my neck with a furious snarl, blood dripping from her lips. She looked at me now with wide, disbelieving eyes, staring at the gleaming metal blades jutting from my fists.

I pressed my fingers against the wound on my neck, expecting to feel torn skin, maybe blood gushing like it should.

Instead, I felt the flesh knit itself together under my fingertips.

I could feel it. Blood clotting, muscle stitching itself back into place, the pain receding faster than it had any right to. But all I could really feel was rage.

Pure, burning rage.

It wasn't rational. It wasn't planned. It was animal.

"You—"

The word barely left her mouth before Instinct dragged me forward. My body moved like it had done this before — even though I knew damn well it hadn't.

I dropped to all fours, claws slamming into the wooden floor, sinking into it like it was nothing. My breathing went ragged, vision tunneling. The world shrank until all I could see was Madison — standing there, eyes wide, baring those sharp teeth like she was still trying to scare me.

It didn't work.

I lunged.

The ground cracked beneath me as I propelled forward like a shot, claws tearing at the floorboards for traction. Madison barely managed to raise her arms before I was on her, claws flashing like liquid steel.

We collided mid-air, smashing into a pile of old gym mats hard enough to send dust billowing out like smoke. I didn't hesitate. My claws drove downward, ripping through her forearm as she blocked, black ichor spraying where blood should've been.

She shrieked, furious, fangs bared, kicking wildly — but I didn't care. The only thing in my head was the overwhelming need to end her.

I wasn't thinking tactics. I wasn't thinking about the door still shaking under Jasper's pounding fists. I wasn't thinking about the golden dust of the others still hanging in the air.

I was thinking about teeth. About claws. About prey.

And in that moment, she was prey.

Madison barely had time to scream.

I tore into her with everything I had — claws slashing, swiping, ripping without hesitation. She thrashed, kicking and clawing, trying to dig her nails into me, but I didn't feel it. Not through the adrenaline. Not through the blinding rage.

Her shrieks echoed off the cracked walls of the depot, turning from seductive to panicked to outright terrified. Every time she tried to backpedal, I was already there, claws ripping through her like she was made of paper and spite.

Another swipe. Another.

And then — puff.

She burst into golden dust, swirling like the other two. The room went still, save for the soft drift of glowing particles settling over everything — over me.

I stood there, hunched, breathing hard, claws dripping black ichor that evaporated before it even reached the floor.

Dust clung to me. In my blond hair. On my skin. Caked across my chest and face like I'd walked through a sandstorm.

I exhaled.

Long. Shaky.

And just like that, the rage started to recede, replaced by the dull throb of reality crawling back in.

I forced myself up, wiped a hand down my face, smearing dust across my cheek, and stumbled back toward the pile of clothes I'd tossed aside not so long ago. With slow, steady movements, I slipped on a pair of boxers, teeth still clenched tight. I could feel my pulse pounding behind my eyes.

The door was still shaking behind me. Jasper was still pounding on it, shouting something I couldn't make out through the ringing in my ears.

I stared at the bolt.

Then, without a word, I raised a hand and snikt — claws snapped out again, and with a simple, practiced swipe, I sliced clean through the old lock like it was nothing. The door creaked open slightly, the wood split from the force.

I didn't open it yet.

I just stood there, breathing, covered in monster ash, claws still humming with the echo of instinct.

The door slammed open, nearly coming off its hinges.

Jasper stumbled inside, eyes wild, panic all over his face — until he actually saw me.

He froze.

The room reeked of burnt perfume, old gym mats, and blood — or whatever passed for blood with monsters. Golden dust hung in the air like a thick fog. Madison was gone. The other two were gone. Just me, shirtless, scratched up, breathing like a cornered animal, claws still extended, standing ankle-deep in the shimmering remains of three monsters.

Jasper's eyes locked on mine. Then the claws. Then the ash. His mouth moved like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

I held his stare, chest still heaving, and flicked the claws clean with a sharp shake. Dust scattered to the floor.

"What?" I managed to grunt, still feeling the residual heat in my neck where Madison had bitten me.

"You— you killed them," Jasper stammered. "You actually—you—" He looked around at the mess, then back at me, and blinked hard like he was trying to remember a script. "You're... you're a demigod."

I wiped some of the dust from my eyes. "The hell are you talking about?"

Jasper stepped back, almost slipping on the dust-coated floor. His hands trembled as he pointed at me, or maybe the claws, or maybe the wreckage. "That wasn't— that wasn't a hallucination. That was real. They were real. They were empousai."

I was still trying to process the fact that I'd just murdered three girls — or something that had looked like girls — and now this idiot was speaking another language like I was supposed to nod along.

I stared at him, claw tips still shimmering faintly. "...What the hell is an empousa?"

Jasper gulped. "Monsters. Real ones."

I stared down at the wreckage around me, finally seeing it for what it was. Dust, scorch marks, clawed floorboards, and splattered black ichor that hissed as it evaporated.

Real.

It wasn't the meds.

It wasn't schizophrenia.

It was real.

I let out a sharp breath and almost laughed.

Of course. Of course it was.

Can't let a poor soul live his time travel adventure, it had to be an Isekai.

Jasper was shaking, glancing nervously between me and the door like he expected the walls to start bleeding.

"Okay—okay," he stammered, rubbing his hands through his curly mess of hair. "Listen, I—I was gonna ease you into this, but... but, you know what? The Fates clearly had other plans."

I crossed my arms, claws still out, and gave him a flat look. "Yeah, ease me into it after the literal vampire-cheerleader gangbang attempt. Great timing."

Jasper winced. "Empousai. Not vampires. Close, but… worse."

I tilted my head, waiting. I was still trying to play it cool, but the reality was setting in like cold steel pressing against the back of my neck. The sharpness, the unnatural strength, the dust — hell, even the heat still radiating off the claw marks in the floor — it was real. All of it.

"The empousai," Jasper continued, pacing like he was about to have a breakdown, "are servants of Hecate. Magic-wielders. They lure demigods — like you, Lucas — with charm, seduction, whatever works, then drain your life force. Or blood. Depends on the girl, I guess."

I blinked. "Demigod."

Jasper nodded frantically. "Half-mortal, half-divine. One mortal parent, one Olympian god parent." He pointed directly at me. "You."

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "I'm guessing you're not just a kid with a limp, then."

Jasper huffed, tugging at his sleeve before — in the most awkward reveal possible — pulling off his sneaker.

His hoof hit the floor with a soft clop.

"Satyr," he said, wincing like he expected me to scream. "I've been assigned to you since you were, like, ten. Been watching your back. Well—trying to." His eyes darted to the golden dust still settling. "Didn't expect this, though."

I stared for a second. "Like the sex-fiend goats?"

Jasper's eye twitched. "You're half Greek god. Everyone's like that. Comes with the territory. Domain issues. Don't judge."

I blinked. "That's fair." I rubbed the back of my neck, eyes flicking between the hoof, the ruined depot, and the golden dust still swirling like snow. "Say I believe you — and I'm starting to — what now?"

Jasper exhaled, clearly relieved I hadn't tried to tackle him. "Now? Now we run. We get you out of here. To Camp Half-Blood. Before every monster in the state smells the mess you made and decides you're on the menu."

I let out a long breath, flicked some dust off my shoulder, and sighed. "Great. Field trip."

I grabbed my shirt off the floor, still dusted with gold, and threw it on lazily, not bothering to button it. "Alright, where exactly is this Camp Half-Blood supposed to be?"

Jasper perked up, clearly thankful I was asking instead of running for the hills. "Long Island. New York. Hidden from mortal eyes. Safest place for our kind."

I raised an eyebrow. "Our kind?" I pointed at him. "You're a goat."

"Satyr," he snapped. "And I mean demigods. People like you."

I crossed my arms, leaning against the busted doorframe. "Camp. As in summer camp? Are you seriously telling me I'm supposed to run from a bunch of monster groupies and hide in some arts-and-crafts day camp on the other side of the country?"

Jasper groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was used to this argument. "It's not a summer camp, it's—look, I know it sounds dumb, but it's the safest place in the world for you right now. Monsters can't get through the borders."

I stared at him for a beat. "You sure this isn't Hogwarts?"

His eye twitched again. "No wands, no British accents, no evil guy without a nose. Just gods, monsters, and a whole lot of kids who'll probably try to beat you up for fun."

I let out a breath, rubbing my neck where the bite mark had already sealed up. "Yeah. Sounds like high school with extra steps."

Jasper looked at me dead serious. "High school doesn't usually end with people getting eaten."

"…Fair."

The walk from the gym depot to the high school parking lot felt longer than it should have. Snow crunched under our feet, and Jasper kept glancing around like monsters were about to spring from the vending machines. Me? I was still processing the fact that I'd grown claws and reduced three cheerleaders to gold dust before third period was even over.

"So," I said casually, breaking the tense silence, "do you have a passport? Or are we adding border hopping to my list of crimes?"

Jasper groaned. "I've got that covered."

Didn't even blink. Like international smuggling was just part of his after-school activities. I let it slide.

"Cool," I said. "Then we'll grab a flight. Straight shot to New York. Get this whole 'Greek gods' thing wrapped up nice and easy."

Jasper nearly slipped on the ice. "No!" He spun on me like I'd just suggested skydiving into a volcano.

"What, you afraid of the TSA finding your hoof polish?"

He glared. "Planes are dangerous. Flying monsters patrol the skies looking for demigods. Not to mention Zeus isn't exactly thrilled when people wander into his domain without permission. Especially demigods."

I squinted. "Zeus. The lightning bolt guy."

"The one and only," Jasper said, rubbing his temples. "We'd be lucky to make it past the Rockies without being roasted mid-flight."

I let that hang in the air for a moment, then shrugged. "Alright, then we'll ride. Head south, cross into Canada, hit Vancouver, swing down to Portland, then take the long way to New York."

Jasper blinked at me like I'd just spoken Latin. "Ride what?"

I pulled the keys from my pocket, gave them a little spin, and pointed to the far end of the lot.

With a soft click, the old motorcycle parked under a flickering lamppost grumbled to life. A '98 Harley Standard, ugly as sin, patched up with duct tape and prayers. The cold hadn't killed it yet, but you could tell it had tried.

I turned to Jasper. "That shitbox will probably make it."

Jasper stared like he was already regretting every life choice that led him here.

I grinned. "You're paying for gas."

I strolled up to the bike, dusted off a frozen patch on the saddle, and popped open the old side bag bolted to the frame. Inside, buried under an oily rag and a handful of rusted tools, were two helmets. One was mine — scratched, scuffed, but still solid — the other was a spare I'd grabbed from a pawn shop ages ago on a whim.

I tossed the second one at Jasper, who fumbled to catch it. "You're lucky I'm prepared."

He blinked. "You were prepared for this?"

"Nah," I shrugged, sliding my helmet on, "just for when the cops got bored of my license situation."

Jasper held the helmet like it was a cursed object. "Is this thing even—"

"—Department of I Don't Care certified," I cut him off. "You need to go anywhere first? Last chance for bathroom breaks before we become fugitives."

Jasper, still staring nervously at the bike like it might bite him, shook his head. "No. I'm good."

"Alright then," I said, swinging my leg over the seat and kicking the Harley to life. It rumbled like a dying bear but settled into a steady growl. "We're making a quick stop first."

"To where?"

"My apartment," I said without missing a beat. "Gotta grab my stuff. I'm not hitting the road in school clothes."

Jasper sighed, pulled the helmet on reluctantly, and muttered something about worst assignment ever under his breath.

I couldn't help but grin.

The apartment was quiet when we stepped inside, aside from the faint creak of the floorboards and the distant hum of the radiator trying its best. I went straight for the closet and dragged out my old duffel bag, tossing it onto the couch without much ceremony.

Jasper stood awkwardly by the door, watching like I was about to pack an arsenal.

First thing in was clothes. Nothing fancy — jeans, flannels, thermal shirts, socks, underwear — the usual. Enough to last, but light enough not to weigh me down. Then came the practical stuff.

A fresh pack of batteries.

The charger for my old AirPods — one of the few luxuries I wasn't leaving behind.

A sturdier toolkit, specifically for the Harley. Wrenches, pliers, spare cables, duct tape, zip ties — all the things you bring when you don't trust your bike to cross town without complaining, let alone cross-country.

No way that piece of junk's making it to New York without breaking down at least twice, I muttered internally as I shoved it in.

Next, I pulled cash from the usual hiding spots. Folded bills from under the floorboard, the freezer, and a fake book on the shelf. Not a fortune, but enough to keep gas in the tank and food in our stomachs for a while. My important papers went in next — ID, birth certificate, all that fun stuff, just in case.

Toiletries followed. Toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, deodorant, a straight razor I barely used but liked having. Basics.

Finally, I pulled out an old, folded map of the U.S., marked up from a camping trip I half-finished last year. I tossed it on top of everything else. GPS was nice, but out there? With whatever madness was already knocking on my door? I trusted paper more than pixels.

I zipped the bag shut and slung it over my shoulder, glancing at Jasper. He hadn't moved, eyes glued to the window like he expected Cerberus himself to come strolling down the street.

"Relax," I said, grabbing my jacket from the hook. "If anything's out there, it'll have to wait until I get dinner."

We hit the road without ceremony.

The Harley rumbled awake beneath me, growling like it knew it had no business doing another cross-country trip, but was too stubborn to quit. Jasper climbed on behind me, clinging like his life depended on it — which, technically, it might.

I slipped my AirPods in, let the familiar crash of music flood into my head, and for a second, everything felt... almost normal. Wind, cold, leather, engine noise, and bass rattling in my ears. Anchorage might have been cold and grey, but there was something comfortable about the open road.

Then I blinked.

The black stars were back.

Faint at first, clinging to the edges of my vision like they'd always been there, but this time I knew better. They weren't just static or tricks of the light.

The single star from earlier still shined softly. But now, two more flared to life next to it. Brief, deliberate, like blinking signals in the dark. Then — they vanished, slipping away as if nothing happened, leaving behind only the memory of the glow.

I staggered slightly, gripping the handlebar tighter. A strange sensation crawled up my arm, like silk wrapping around my skin, tight but not uncomfortable.

Confused, I yanked my glove off.

Underneath, strips of dark leather now spiraled up my forearm and palm, tight and seamless. Intricate inscriptions ran along the wraps —nothing I recognized immediately. They looked Eastern. Japanese? No, the structure was wrong. Chinese? Maybe. Korean? Could've been. I wasn't a linguist.

Before I could even fully process it, I noticed the second change.

Blue paint — no, symbols, flowing patterns in Norse knotwork — snaked along my arms. They shifted ever so slightly with my heartbeat, circling my biceps, curling around my shoulders, and tapering off along my ribs like they were alive.

I flexed my fingers. The wraps moved with me, perfect and snug like they'd always been there.

"What the hell?" I muttered under my breath.

Jasper leaned over my shoulder, clearly having noticed my pause. "Uh, Lucas? We good?"

I tugged the glove back on quickly, hiding the leather and the glowing designs beneath the thick fabric.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a grin as the bike coughed another puff of exhaust. "We're golden."

Without another word, I twisted the throttle and rolled us out into the streets.

The streets rolled past in a blur, the Harley thundering beneath us as I weaved through empty intersections and frost-covered stop signs. Anchorage, for all its usual silence, felt different today.

And not in a good way.

I could see them now. Monsters. Plain as day.

Some looked like normal people at first glance — bundled-up pedestrians, dog walkers, late-shift workers — until you noticed the too-sharp grins, the eyes reflecting light like cat's eyes, the way some of them twitched with jerky, predatory movements.

A few of them locked eyes with me as we passed.

One of them, tall and thin with a face stretched too tight, stepped off the curb and started sprinting after us.

Two more joined in, emerging from an alley, claws tapping against the frozen pavement.

But the city, for once, did me a favor. Anchorage's famous emptiness, usually a curse, was now a blessing. The roads were wide open. No traffic, no crowds, just frost-lined streets and the distant hum of a world too cold to care.

I gunned it.

The monsters gave chase, claws scrabbling against the ice, snarling as they tried to keep up — but the Harley, stubborn as it was, roared like it had something to prove.

We sped past shuttered gas stations and darkened shops, the monsters shrinking in the rear-view mirror until they disappeared entirely, swallowed by the streets.

Soon enough, the city lights gave way to towering trees, their branches sagging under the weight of fresh snow. The road narrowed into a winding ribbon of cracked asphalt threading through the frozen forest. The mountains loomed in the distance like silent, ancient gods.

Jasper gripped the back of my jacket like his life depended on it. "Did you see them?!"

"Yup."

"Those were—"

"Monsters." I finished for him. "I'm starting to pick up on the theme."

We kept riding, the Harley chewing through the frostbitten highway like it had no right to.

And just like that — we crossed the border.

No checkpoint. No border guards. Just the slow, quiet shift as the signs changed from miles to kilometers, and the snow-lined woods of Alaska gave way to the endless forests of Canada.

CP Bank: 300cp

Perks earned this chapter: 400cp - Weapon X (Marvel Zombies) [Transformation]

You can dish out and take it back in spades. You know who this is based on. He's the best there is, so he says. You can make extremely sharp bone claws come out of your limbs. You can pick where they're situated and how many you have, up to a maximum of six. These claws are coated in Adamantium, an ultra-strong metal that can cut pretty much anything that can be cut. It won't poison you. What's more is that you can heal from just about anything at exceptional speeds. Almost nothing's truly fatal for you. It doesn't matter what happens. You can be ripped in half, thrown from Mt. Everest, and be caught in a nuclear explosion - you'll still recover. You can heal any wound in seconds, or minutes if it's particularly bad. This will extend your longevity by centuries, at least. You'll stick around much, much longer than others of your species. Finally, you possess heightened, beastlike senses.

If you are a zombie, you have the claws, metal-coated skeleton, and senses, but not the healing factor.

200cp-Lioness Warpaint (Darkest Dungeon) [Destruction]

Blue warpaint made from crushed flowers found in the north; when used, it grants increasing bonuses to damage as the wearer takes on more and more wounds.

200cp-Bands of Kwang Lao (The Elder Scrolls) [Destruction]

These leather bands are said to have belonged to a fierce warrior hailing from Akavir. Wearing them not only increases your skill with unarmed combat, but increases the force behind your strikes and makes your fists as hard as ebony. Who needs a weapon when you have your fists?

Milestones reached this chapter:

First kill: Good job Hero: 100cp

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Apr 3, 2025

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Apr 3, 2025

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By the time we rolled into Smithers, the sun was barely hanging on, casting long shadows over the snow-blanketed streets. The Harley was holding together, but just barely. I could hear every cough and sputter under the engine's grumble.

Typical.

We coasted into the first gas station on the edge of town, a small place with one flickering light and a faded Tim Hortons logo practically begging for maintenance. It was the kind of stop where you could smell the fryer oil clinging to the walls even before you stepped inside.

I pulled up to the pump and killed the engine. Jasper climbed off like he'd just survived a plane crash, legs wobbly, ears twitching under his beanie like he was expecting an ambush from the snowbanks.

"You pump. I'll get the food," I said. "And remember — you're paying for gas, like we agreed."

Jasper grumbled but grabbed the nozzle anyway, muttering about satyr nostrils under his breath.

I made my way inside the Tim's, taking in the blessed warmth and the smell of fresh coffee, grease, and enough sugar to kill a horse. A few truckers were scattered around, sipping coffee, scrolling through flip phones, or watching the small TV above the counter that played the weather with all the enthusiasm of a funeral.

I ordered two coffees, a dozen Timbits, and enough food to keep us conscious for the next leg of the trip. By the time I stepped back out, Jasper was finishing up at the pump, his hooves awkwardly scraping the icy ground.

The Harley stood there like it might fall over if you so much as looked at it funny. Steam curled from the engine in the cold.

"Here," I tossed Jasper a coffee and the bag of food. "Congratulations, you've survived the first leg of our terrible life choices."

He gave me a look but took the coffee like it was a life-saving potion.

We sat on the curb outside the gas station, coffee and warm donuts doing their best to make up for the fact that monsters had tried to eat me less than a day ago. Snow drifted lazily around us, the quiet settling over Smithers like the town itself was trying to stay out of our business.

"So," I said between bites of a chocolate-glazed Timbit, "this whole demigod thing. Real?"

Jasper gave me a flat look. "You fought a trio of empousai, sprouted claws, healed a bite wound in seconds, and you're still asking?"

"Hey, I've been wrong before," I said, licking sugar off my thumb. "Figured I'd give the universe one last chance to say 'just kidding'."

He snorted, taking a sip of his coffee. "Nope. No joke. Welcome to the club, hero."

I nodded slowly, leaning back against the side of the Harley. While Jasper rambled about gods, monsters, and how I was now officially on the monster hit list, I found myself absentmindedly playing with my claws.

Snikt.

Three of them shot out smoothly, gleaming faintly even under the grey Canadian sky. I twisted my wrist, watching the light bounce off the metal. I couldn't pop them individually — they all came out together, like a package deal — but I was getting the rhythm down. Triggered by something between flexing and thinking about it. Not perfect, but manageable.

Inside, I was fanboying.

Claws. Healing. Unnatural strength. Fast reflexes.

This wasn't just demigod stuff — this was straight-up Wolverine. I mean, sure, minus the cigar and the bad attitude, but still.

I turned the claws toward myself, hesitated for a moment, then made a small, deliberate scratch along the inside of my wrist just under the blue markings.

It stung.

For about half a second.

Then, right in front of me, the skin knit itself back together, fresh and unblemished like nothing happened.

I let out a quiet, giddy exhale.

"Hey," I said, raising the claws slightly. "This... normal?"

Jasper didn't even flinch. He just huffed, blowing steam into the cold air. "With demigods? Nothing's normal." He took a long sip of his coffee. "Get used to it."

I flexed the claws again, watching them retract with a satisfying metallic sound.

Yeah, I could get used to it.

The next few minutes were just the two of us chewing through donuts like they were the last food on earth. Jasper eventually calmed down enough to stop glancing over his shoulder every five seconds, though the twitch never fully left him.

"So," I said, flicking a bit of powdered sugar off my glove, "when you say 'demigods,' you mean actual Greek gods? Zeus, Poseidon, Ares — the whole toga-wearing, lightning-throwing crowd?"

Jasper huffed, pulling his jacket tighter as he sipped his coffee. "Look, it's not all togas and laurel wreaths anymore. The gods… they've modernized. Changed with the times."

I raised an eyebrow, flicking the claws in and out absentmindedly. "Modernized? Like what, Zeus trading the lightning bolt for a weather app?"

Jasper actually smirked. "Kinda. He still throws the lightning, but you won't catch him in a bathrobe anymore. They dress, talk, and act like mortals now. Blend in. Adapt. Olympus isn't stuck in ancient Greece either. It moves. Right now, it's sitting on top of the Empire State Building."

I blinked. "New York."

Jasper nodded. "Most western civilization's cultural power shifted there centuries ago, so the gods followed. Wherever the heart of the West is, that's where Olympus ends up. Always has."

I leaned back against the Harley, tapping the side of my helmet. "So the gods are just... walking around out there? Suits, cars, Wi-Fi passwords?"

He shrugged. "More or less. Some even run companies, social media, that kind of thing. They don't always announce who they are, but if you know what you're looking for, you can spot them."

I flexed my hand, claws sliding out and back with that satisfying snikt. "And they just let their kids run around getting eaten by monster cheerleaders?"

Jasper looked away awkwardly. "Well, you're supposed to get to camp before that happens."

I laughed, dry and humorless. "Yeah, great system."

I finished strapping the duffel onto the back of the Harley, tightening the cords until it barely budged. Jasper hovered nervously behind me, glancing down the street like he expected a minotaur to pop out of the snowbanks.

As I adjusted my gloves and reached for my helmet, something hit me.

A smell.

Sharp, bitter, and wrong.

It wasn't the usual stinkof gasoline, exhaust, or frozen pavement. It was sulfur. Thick and acrid, crawling into my nose like smoke from a bad fire.

I froze.

Slowly, I turned my head down the street.

A trio of figures rounded the corner, kicking up snow as they crashed into view. Massive, black-furred beasts, easily the size of cars, with glowing red eyes and jaws bristling with teeth that looked more like shards of obsidian than anything organic.

The first one let out a bone-rattling growl, steam curling from its jaws into the frigid air. The other two flanked it, circling like they'd already picked out which parts of me to eat first.

Jasper's voice broke behind me. "Oh, gods."

I'll be honest — I was a little scared. Okay, more than a little. Heart racing, hands sweating, brain screaming run, like any sane person would.

But then the claws popped out.

Snikt.

The cold metal shimmered faintly, catching the dull light from the snowy streetlights. The leather wraps around my forearms tightened like they approved.

"Well," I muttered, rolling my neck, forcing myself to stay loose. "Guess it's time for the first real one."

The hellhounds snarled and started advancing.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and planted my feet.

Bring it.

The first hellhound lunged, fast — way too fast for something that size.

Instinct took over.

I barely sidestepped, throwing myself to the side as its jaws snapped shut inches from where my neck had been. The cold air roared past me as the beast skidded on the ice, claws digging trenches into the frozen pavement.

The second didn't wait. It came straight at me, all teeth and glowing eyes, no subtlety whatsoever.

Snikt.

My claws met it head-on, catching it across the snout. Black ichor sprayed as three deep gashes tore through its muzzle, sending it yelping backward in surprise more than pain. Its eyes locked onto me, now burning with recognition. Like it suddenly realized I wasn't just another mortal to chew on.

My heartbeat slammed against my ribs, adrenaline pumping like jet fuel. My breaths came sharp and fast, but I wasn't freezing up. No, if anything, I felt ready. Like some old instinct was surfacing, something older than me, older than this body.

Jasper was frozen near the gas pumps, hooves scraping nervously on the pavement. "Lucas!" he shouted. "Hellhounds! You need to—"

"Yeah, I see them!" I snapped, ducking under another swipe.

The third hellhound circled behind me, trying to flank. I spun, the claws dragging deep into the pavement for balance, and lashed out. Missed. The beast danced back with an unnatural, predatory grace.

I could feel them testing me. Circling. Pack tactics.

I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth, catching a smear of black ichor from the first hit. I grinned despite myself. Scared? Yes. Stupid? Definitely. But under it all? I was wired. Alive.

The first hellhound snarled and lunged again, fangs wide, eyes like furnaces. I didn't think. I moved.

Claws up, I met it mid-air, slashing across its throat. It crumpled, momentum carrying it past me as it dissolved into golden dust the second it hit the ground.

One down.

The other two didn't hesitate.

I braced myself.

The second hellhound didn't give me time to breathe. It charged, paws pounding against the ice-crusted pavement like a freight train.

But this time, I didn't flinch. I stood my ground.

I braced my legs, claws out, and met it head-on.

The impact rattled through my bones, but I held. The sheer weight of it slammed against me like a battering ram, pushing my boots across the ice. My heels carved deep grooves as I dug in, refusing to be knocked back. The monster snarled, jaws snapping inches from my face, its hot, sulfur-stained breath washing over me.

I roared.

Not a scream. Not a human sound. Something deeper.

Then I started stabbing.

My claws plunged into its side, again and again, tearing through fur and flesh like wet paper. Black ichor sprayed across me, burning faintly on contact, but I didn't care. I kept going. Slash after slash, tearing massive chunks from its hide, ripping muscle, bone, whatever was inside these things.

The hellhound howled in pain, thrashing wildly, but I held it in place like an anchor, tearing into it with raw, desperate fury. Its legs buckled under it.

Then — puff — it burst into golden dust, dissolving against the wind.

I staggered back, panting, adrenaline flooding my system. Two down.

I barely had time to turn.

The third hellhound lunged, mouth wide — and swallowed me whole.

Darkness. Heat. The stench of sulfur and wet fur filled my lungs as I was driven straight down its throat. Everything was crushing, muscles tightening like a vise, dragging me deeper.

Jasper's distant scream echoed through the night. "LUCAS!"

Crushing pressure. The stink of bile and sulfur. Every muscle in its throat and gut squeezing, trying to mash me into pulp. My vision swam, but instinct — that raw, animal instinct — roared louder than fear.

I wasn't dying here.

Snikt.

The claws shot out, slicing into the fleshy walls around me. The hellhound convulsed, a guttural whimper echoing from deep within it as I carved upward, digging, tearing.

The space was tight, muscles constricting, but the more it tried to crush me, the harder I fought.

I could feel the leather wraps tighten around my forearms, almost guiding my strikes. Every swing became more deliberate. More natural.

I stabbed again, this time up, claws sinking into something vital. The beast shrieked, a violent, echoing howl that rattled through its entire body.

I didn't stop.

Again.

With a final savage thrust, I tore upward, claws ripping through flesh and bone like a zipper, and in one explosive burst of gore and golden dust, I burst out of the hellhound's chest, landing hard on the pavement in a shower of black ichor and shimmering particles.

The hellhound collapsed behind me and vanished into dust like the others.

I was left kneeling, panting, drenched in monster blood and golden ash, steam rising from my body as the cold hit me all at once. My heartbeat sounded like war drums in my ears.

Jasper stood frozen at the gas pumps, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, coffee dropped and forgotten in the snow.

I stood up slowly, letting the claws retract with a sharp metallic snikt, chest still heaving.

"Well," I exhaled, wiping dust and ichor from my face. "That sucked."

Jasper could only nod, completely pale.

I took another breath and looked down at myself. The wounds I'd picked up in the struggle were already knitting themselves shut, the cuts and bruises fading before my eyes.

I gave a half-smile.

"Guess I'm built different."

Jasper rushed over, nearly slipping on the ice in his panic, eyes still darting to where the hellhounds had disappeared. His breathing was ragged, borderline hyperventilating.

"You—you just—you tore out of it!" he stammered, pointing at the spot where the beast's remains were nothing but gold flecks swirling in the air. "Like—inside, you were—" He waved his arms helplessly. "That's not normal!"

I rolled my shoulder, wiping more of the ichor off on my already ruined shirt. "Thought you said nothing about demigods is normal."

"That—" Jasper sputtered. "Yeah, but this is extra not normal! You're supposed to have, like, a sword, or a magic shield, or maybe a pocketful of drachmas, not freaking bladed knuckles and a healing factor that belongs in a horror movie!"

I tilted my head. "So… this isn't standard issue?"

He flailed. "No! No it's not! I've been doing this for years and I've never seen anything like that! Most of you barely survive one hellhound, let alone three, and you—" He gestured wildly at me. "—burst out of its chest! Like a fucking chestburster!"

I couldn't help but grin. A little bit. Under all the blood and monster guts.

"You sure you don't want to lead with compliments instead?" I said, popping the claws halfway out again just to admire them.

Jasper grabbed me by the shoulders, eyes wide. "Lucas. Listen to me. You're not just another demigod. Whatever you are, whatever you inherited — this isn't normal. Even by Olympian standards. And I swear to Pan if you don't take this seriously, you're going to get us both killed."

His words lingered for a second.

And yeah, maybe he was right.

Something about those black stars, those glowing blue markings on my skin, the leather wraps that hadn't left my arms since Anchorage… none of it screamed standard issue demigod, not that I knew a lot about that.

I flexed my fingers, letting the claws slide back in.

"Alright," I said, voice steady. "Serious face on. We still heading for Camp Half-Blood?"

Jasper blinked. "What? Yeah. Yes. Yes! Immediately. As fast as that deathtrap you call a motorcycle will carry us."

I walked past him, straight to the Harley, and fired it up. The engine coughed, then settled into its usual threatening growl.

I put my helmet on and shot him a grin.

"Good." I gestured to the seat. "Hop on. We've got miles to burn."

Jasper mumbled something about not getting paid enough for this, but climbed on anyway, clutching the back of my jacket like it was a lifeline.

And just like that, we were back on the road, cutting through the snowy Canadian wilderness.

I didn't know what was waiting down the highway.

But something told me, neither did Jasper.

By the time the lights of Vancouver started peeking through the dense curtain of trees, night had fully settled in. The cold wasn't letting up, and the Harley was starting to make noises I didn't like — deep mechanical groans that said I'm tired, let me die already.

We kept off the main highways, sticking to the quieter routes like Jasper suggested. Apparently, monsters liked highways almost as much as tourists did.

I pulled us to the outskirts of the city, where the glow of civilization softened behind the trees, and started looking for a place to crash. Not exactly five-star hotel territory out here — mostly cheap motels with flickering neon signs and parking lots big enough for maybe five cars.

Perfect.

After a few turns, I found one.

"The Everpine Inn", which sounded less like a motel and more like the setting of a bad horror movie, but it would have to do. A single-story structure with moss-stained wood paneling and an ice-coated vending machine leaning against the office door.

I killed the engine and took off my helmet, blowing into my hands to fight off the cold. Jasper climbed off behind me, still visibly rattled from the last twenty-four hours but keeping it together — barely.

"This looks... sketchy," Jasper said, glancing at the boarded-up window on the far end of the building.

"Yeah," I replied, tossing the kickstand down. "Just like home."

We approached the front office, stepping carefully over an ice patch, and I leaned against the counter. The old man behind the glass didn't even blink at the fact I was covered in fading bruises, dirt, and faint streaks of what was definitely not human blood.

I slid some cash under the window. "One room."

Without a word, he handed over a key and went back to ignoring our existence like he'd seen worse.

Typical.

Jasper shuffled beside me, glancing around. "We're staying here? Aren't motels like this where serial killers hang out?"

"Relax," I said, pocketing the key. "If anything, they'll take one look at me and assume I'm the serial killer."

He didn't laugh.

I thought it was funny.

The motel room wasn't much. Faded carpet, buzzing fluorescent light, and a radiator that sounded like it was losing a fight against itself. But it had two single beds and four walls, so in my book, it was luxury.

I tossed my jacket and gear on one of the beds and made a beeline for the bathroom. I could still feel the dried monster blood caked on me, mixed with frost, sweat, and engine grease. It felt like I was wearing a second skin — and not in a good way.

The motel's soap and shampoo were the kind you could probably use to degrease an engine, but I wasn't complaining. I scrubbed hard, letting the hot water blast against me while I worked to get the stink off.

It took two rounds of shampoo just to get my blond hair to stop feeling like I'd been dipped in fryer oil. Even then, it was only mostly clean. I scrubbed harder, working at the streaks on my skin, but when I wiped the fog off the mirror—

The blue markings were still there.

Faint, but visible. Flowing like ink under the skin, coiling in runic patterns across my arms, shoulders, and ribs. They didn't fade with the water. They didn't smear. They just... stayed.

I stared at them for a long moment.

No pain. No sensation at all, really. They just were.

I sighed, dried off, and threw on some cleaner clothes before stepping back into the room.

Jasper was already flopped onto one of the beds, remote in hand, flicking through the limited cable options like a kid searching for something remotely tolerable. He settled on the CBC, because apparently even satyrs had a soft spot for the national broadcaster.

"Hey," he said without looking away from the TV. "You good?"

"Monster guts aren't as easy to wash out as you'd think," I replied, sitting on the second bed. "Took two rounds just to make sure I didn't smell like barbecue."

Jasper cracked a small smile. "Welcome to the life."

I glanced around. Two single beds. Could've been worse. At least I wasn't stuck sharing one with the goat.

I leaned back against the headboard and let out a slow breath, watching the faint glow of the blue marks under the cuff of my sleeve. They weren't going anywhere.

And somehow, I had the feeling neither was the trouble that came with them.

The next morning came too fast, as mornings tend to when you've been fighting for your life the day before.

I found myself crouched outside the motel room, breath misting in the chilly Vancouver air, giving the Harley a quick once-over. It needed it. Desperately.

The old thing had held together during the run south, but barely. The left foot peg was loose, the clutch cable was grumpy, and the chain looked like it wanted to retire. Still, she was a survivor.

With a can of WD-40 in one hand and my trusty spanner in the other, I went to work like a field medic patching up a wounded soldier. A few squirts, a couple of good turns, some gentle "please don't die on me" nudges, and the bike started looking less like scrap metal and more like something that could actually make it to Seattle.

Jasper sat on the curb nearby, nervously kicking at the ice with his hoof, pretending not to stare at the blue glow still faintly visible under the cuffs of my sleeves.

"You sure that thing's gonna survive the trip?" he asked, eyeing the bike like it was about to explode.

"Nope," I said, spinning the spanner lazily. "But I've seen worse make it further."

The Harley groaned as I adjusted the clutch, but it didn't fall apart — so I took that as a good sign.

Jasper shivered, pulling his coat tighter. "You know, most demigods don't use mortal tech for long trips. The gods kinda mess with it, on principle."

I glanced at him. "You could've mentioned that before we crossed half of British Columbia."

He shrugged. "Didn't want to freak you out more than you already were."

I chuckled dryly, tightened the last bolt, and stood. "Little late for that."

The bike gave a soft rumble as I fired it up.

Still breathing.

Good enough.

About an hour down the road, after coaxing the Harley through the twists and turns of the snowy highway, we pulled into a small Denny's clinging to the edge of civilization.

Big yellow sign. Faded parking lines. Smelled like coffee and syrup before I even killed the engine.

Jasper practically leapt off the bike like it had been trying to kill him the whole ride. To be fair, it probably was.

Inside, the place was warm, the kind of warm that hits like a soft punch after spending too long in the cold. Vinyl booths, foggy windows, and the smell of grease and pancakes working overtime. The usual.

We grabbed a booth near the window. A tired-looking waitress gave us two menus and a haven't-slept-in-three-days smile.

"Two coffees, black," I said automatically, before Jasper could start negotiating for hot chocolate.

I wasn't going to survive another hour on the road without caffeine.

When the waitress left, Jasper slouched in the booth, glancing around like he was still expecting monsters to burst through the window at any second.

"You know," I said, flipping through the menu more out of habit than curiosity, "if you keep looking like you're one wrong step from a heart attack, you're gonna give us away before anything even tries to eat us."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, still darting glances at the door. "Not all of us can shake off seeing my charge being swallowed by hellhounds like it's just a bad Tuesday."

I smirked. Fair enough.

By the time the food arrived — a stack of pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs for me, something lighter for Jasper — the tension eased just a little. Maybe it was the food. Maybe it was just the familiar dull hum of a roadside diner.

I dug in without hesitation.

The pancakes were fluffy, the bacon just the right kind of greasy, and the coffee was garbage — but it was hot garbage, and that was good enough.

"You eat like this all the time?" Jasper asked, nibbling on toast.

"Gotta bulk up somehow," I said, mouth half full. "Pretty sure fighting monsters burns more calories than football ever did."

He gave me a look but didn't argue.

For a few minutes, it actually felt normal.

Just pancakes and bad coffee.

Didn't mean it would last.

It never does.

After polishing off the last bite of pancake and draining the bitter sludge they called coffee, nature called.

I excused myself and headed toward the bathroom, pushing past a sticky door that creaked like it hadn't been oiled since the Cold War. The place was empty, thank the gods — or god — or whatever. Just cracked tiles, buzzing fluorescent lights, and a flickering EXIT sign half-hanging above the door.

I picked a urinal farthest from the door and did my business, trying to focus on anything except how cold the bathroom was.

Halfway through, I heard the door creak open behind me.

Fine, I thought, nothing weird, public bathroom, normal stuff.

Then footsteps.

And then, without hesitation, someone stepped right up to the urinal directly beside me.

I froze.

Social. Faux pas.

I didn't even have to turn my head to feel the tension in the air, sharp like a knife pressed against the back of my neck. This wasn't just some guy. Every instinct screamed wrong.

Slowly, against every survival instinct I had, I flicked my eyes sideways.

The figure was tall, wearing an old trucker jacket with frost on the shoulders. At first glance, you'd think he was just another grizzled long-hauler grabbing breakfast before hitting the road.

But there were too many things off.

His skin was pale. Not like winter pale — more like bone pale, with thin black veins faintly visible under the surface.

And his eyes? Yellow. Slitted. Like a snake's.

He gave me a sideways smile, sharp teeth just peeking out from under his chapped lips. "Mornin', hero."

I stared ahead, trying to finish without completely losing composure.

"...You could've waited," I said flatly.

He chuckled. Low. Predatory.

And then, the room felt colder. Much colder.

The silence stretched uncomfortably.

The sound of the flickering fluorescent light buzzing above was the only thing filling the air, aside from the occasional drip from a leaking pipe in the corner.

I zipped up slowly, keeping one hand near my belt — not because I had anything special tucked there, but just in case the claws needed to come out fast.

"Didn't mean to startle you," the stranger said, still staring dead ahead like this was a normal conversation to have during a bathroom break. "I've just been curious. Been following you since Anchorage."

My fingers twitched.

"Yeah?" I replied, stepping toward the sink, calm on the outside but already preparing for the worst. "Fan of my work?"

He laughed, deep and hollow. "You could say that."

I caught his reflection in the smudged mirror. The guy's pupils dilated unnaturally, and his mouth split into a grin far too wide for any mortal face. His teeth — not just sharp, but jagged, like broken glass shoved into his gums — stretched as he spoke.

"I like to keep tabs on promising little demigods," he said. "And you? You're very promising."

I kept scrubbing my hands slowly, forcing myself to breathe.

Then I noticed it.

The blue markings on my arms were glowing faintly again, visible even under my sleeves, like they knew.

The air in the bathroom thickened. The guy's skin rippled, like whatever was under it was struggling to stay contained.

I met his eyes in the mirror. "Yeah, well, I'm flattered. But I'm gonna have to cancel the fan club."

I flexed my fingers.

Snikt.

The claws snapped out, clean and smooth, glinting under the sickly fluorescent lights.

The thing next to me stopped smiling.

"Oh, you really shouldn't have done that," it hissed.

I turned slowly, claws raised. "Yeah? Sue me."

The thing moved fast.

Before I could fully square up, it lashed out, claws of its own extending from beneath its cracked fingernails. I barely ducked, its hand raking a chunk out of the grimy tile where my head had been.

I stumbled back, boots skidding on the wet floor, but instinct kicked in.

I lunged low, driving my claws upward into its ribs.

Shink.

They slid through like butter — but instead of blood, black smoke poured from the wound, curling like ash in water. The thing hissed, staggered, but didn't go down.

"Oh, you've got some bite," it grinned through sharp teeth, breath reeking of sulfur.

It lunged again, smashing me against the sink. I felt porcelain crack against my back, knocking the wind out of me. But pain wasn't sticking like it used to. It barely registered before the leather wraps tightened on my forearms, and the rage came boiling up.

I roared and drove my claws into its shoulder, forcing the thing to pinwheel backwards into a stall door. It broke through it like cardboard.

I didn't hesitate.

I charged.

We crashed into the stall, knocking the walls loose. The monster raked its claws along my jacket, but the cuts barely grazed skin before the wounds sealed up just as fast.

It snarled. "Healing factor? Who's your parent, boy?"

I didn't answer. I just kept slashing.

One.

Two.

Three deep cuts across its chest.

Black ichor sprayed, burning faintly where it hit my arms and face, but I didn't stop. The thing shrieked, slamming into the wall hard enough to leave cracks.

Then the bathroom door flew open.

Jasper stood there, wide-eyed, holding what looked like a can of pepper spray and a plastic fork.

"The hell?!" he yelped.

The monster turned its head toward him, mouth curling into a twisted grin.

Bad move.

I drove both claws straight into its back.

It arched like it'd been struck by lightning, black smoke pouring from its mouth, and then — with a violent hiss — it burst into golden dust, swirling around me in a slow spiral.

I was left panting in the middle of a wrecked stall, blood and ichor dripping off my arms and onto the floor.

Jasper just stood there frozen. "This is going to keep happening, isn't it?"

I retracted the claws with a soft snikt, wiping dust from my face.

"Yeah," I said, stepping out of the ruined stall, "I think it is."

We started making our way out, Jasper pulling me along like he expected a dozen more monsters to crash through the diner windows any second.

But just as we passed the door — I felt it.

The black suns were back.

Faint, hanging in the corners of my vision like oil stains on the edges of the world. One of them pulsed.

And then another flared to life, just like before — deliberate, steady — and vanished.

A chill ran down my spine, but this time it wasn't from the cold. Something was off.

My mouth felt... wrong. Tight. Uncomfortable. Like I had a pebble caught between my teeth, but deeper. More invasive.

I slowed down.

"Lucas? What—?" Jasper turned, confused.

"Hold up," I muttered, ignoring him as I trailed back into the diner. My eyes scanned frantically for anything reflective, anything at all.

The window glass was too fogged up, but then I spotted it — one of those old-school chrome napkin holders sitting on a table near the entrance. The polished metal wasn't perfect, but it was good enough.

I leaned in.

And froze.

My teeth —

They weren't mine.

Jagged. Sharp. Slightly uneven, like a mouth full of serrated blades. Not quite fangs, not vampire-fangs or movie monster teeth — worse. Like a shark's. Like rows designed not just to bite but to tear, grip, and never let go.

I pulled back, heart racing, touching my jaw like I could rub it away. No pain. No blood. Just... my teeth. Except they weren't.

"What the fuck," I whispered, staring at my reflection like it would somehow explain itself.

Jasper was by my side in an instant. "What? What is it?"

I spun toward Jasper, still rattled, still trying to process the jagged nightmare in my mouth.

"Who's the god of animals?" I demanded. "Wild beasts, fangs, claws — who?"

Jasper's eyes darted away like he was trying to stall. "Artemis."

I blinked. "Artemis? The huntress Artemis? Wolves, deer, all that?"

He nodded quickly. "She's the goddess of wild animals, hunting, the wilderness—"

"Okay, great." I pointed aggressively at my shark teeth. "That explains this."

Jasper winced. "She's also the virgin goddess. No demigods. Ever."

The room felt colder.

"Then Pan," I said, grasping at straws. "He's nature, animals, right?"

Jasper's face dropped. "Pan's... gone. Been gone for years. Missing. His legacy still lingers, but he's not making new kids." His voice wavered. "It's impossible."

I stared back at my reflection, my breath fogging the napkin holder.

Sharp. Predatory. Not human.

"Yeah," I muttered, stepping back. "Seems like impossible's getting a little common these days."

Jasper looked like he wanted to throw up.

I clenched my jaw and stepped away from the table, pulling my sleeve down to hide the faint blue glow still crawling along my arms.

CP Bank: 200cp

Perks earned this chapter: 100cp- Iron Fangs (The Elder Scrolls: Dovah) [Destruction]

My, Jumper, what big teeth you have. All the better to chomp down on some poor fool. Yes, there don't seem to be a lot of good offensive options for a dragon if you ignore the Thu'um, but that's forgetting about the mouth, and it's many dagger-sized teeth. Your teeth can pierce through most substances but ebony with surprising ease, while the inside of your mouth and tongue are as durable as your scales. Additionally, your teeth will never chip or break, and are always clean.

Milestones reached this chapter: none

Last edited: Apr 4, 2025

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Magus explorator

Apr 3, 2025

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Magus explorator

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Apr 4, 2025

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We hit the road again, leaving the diner and its too-quiet patrons behind. The Harley grumbled beneath us, spitting occasional protests, but it kept moving. Jasper clung to the backseat like the wind itself might snatch him off if he loosened his grip.

I tried to focus on the cold road ahead, on the cracks of frost breaking across the highway, on the rising forests swallowing the sides of the road.

But I couldn't stop thinking about my mouth.

"My tongue feels weird," I muttered over the engine and the wind. "Mouth too. Not just the teeth. Everything's... off."

Jasper leaned in closer from behind. "What do you mean off?"

I rubbed my jaw with the back of my glove, flexing it like I could work the discomfort out. "I don't know. Heavy? Too big? Feels like there's metal in there or something. Worse than the claws."

It wasn't pain exactly, more like a dull pressure, like my jaw wasn't sure what size it wanted to be anymore. I could feel the unfamiliar weight of sharper teeth tucked behind my lips, the slight stiffness of my tongue like it wasn't fitting quite right.

I gritted my teeth — carefully — and kept driving.

"It's probably a blessing," Jasper offered weakly. "Or a curse. Or a transformation. Or—"

"Not helping," I cut him off.

I hated it. The way it felt like there was more mouth than there should be. Like my body was gearing up for something it hadn't even told me about yet. And the worst part?

The metal buried inside me — the claws, the healing, whatever was fused to my bones — felt more natural than whatever was happening inside my own head now.

I flexed my jaw again. No change.

Just me, the cold wind, a faulty Harley, and a creeping suspicion that my body was still changing.

Still evolving.

The miles rolled by, the Harley growling low as we pushed deeper into the wooded backroads. Snow-laden pines pressed in from both sides like frozen sentries, and the cold gnawed at the edges of my jacket.

Then — I caught it.

A scent.

Sharp. Bitter. Coppery.

I instinctively sniffed again, subtly this time, trying not to let Jasper notice. It wasn't engine oil, gas fumes, or the usual roadside decay. It was... wild. Like wet fur, woodsmoke, and iron, all tangled together.

I adjusted my grip on the handlebars and kept riding, but my jaw tightened.

Whatever it was, it wasn't just lingering — it was fresh. Close.

I tilted my head slightly, catching the wind as it rolled off the hills and through the trees.

There, pacing us through the woods.

A shadow. Four-legged. Heavy. Smooth. It glided between the trees like it belonged there, muscles barely disturbing the snow, but every now and then I caught the glint of something unnatural.

Antlers.

Twisted.

Gnarled like old roots but sharp like blades.

And those eyes —

Not bright. Not flaming like a hellhound's.

Just dull, burning embers fading behind a veil of frost.

Jasper hadn't noticed yet.

I didn't say a word. I just kept driving, letting my instincts work quietly. But deep down, I knew it.

Something was following us.

And it wasn't hungry.

It was watching.

The creature didn't move as we passed it the first time. Just stood there between the trees, partially obscured by the frost-laced branches. Watching. Always watching.

I kept my eyes on the road, pretending I hadn't noticed, but I could feel its stare. Heavy. Ancient. It stuck to me like frostbite.

Jasper was too focused on not falling off the bike to notice.

A few miles further down, just when I started convincing myself it might've been nothing — there it was again. Same creature. Same dead stare. Same pacing alongside us.

Only now it wasn't just hidden in the brush.

This time, I caught a good look.

It stood in a small clearing just off the highway, illuminated faintly by the morning sun breaking through the treeline. The creature was caked in blood — some dried, some fresh — smearing its pale arms and mottled clothes. Except, it wasn't wearing normal clothes.

Fur.

Leaves.

And skin.

The patchwork draped over her like some demented shaman's robe. The antlers crowning her head stretched upward, jagged and twisted, making her silhouette seem massive — monstrous.

But beneath all of it, she looked like... a girl.

Too perfect. Too symmetrical. Like someone had carved her from marble but never finished the job. Something about the smoothness of her face, the way her features refused to fully emote, made my stomach knot.

And then I saw it —

Pointed ears.

Not the playful kind you see on elves in kids' cartoons. Sharp. Long. Stained dark at the tips.

Her eyes locked on mine the moment I recognized her for what she was.

I didn't wait.

I twisted the throttle hard, and the Harley screamed forward.

Jasper yelped, nearly sliding off the back. "What the—? What's wrong?!"

I didn't answer.

I just knew.

Whatever that thing was?

It wasn't just watching.

It was toying.

And I wasn't about to stick around to see what game it wanted to play.

We roared around the next bend, but there she was — again.

Standing by the roadside like she'd never moved. Twisted antlers framing her too-perfect face, blood dripping lazily from her fingers. The forest itself seemed to lean away from her, trees bending slightly as if unwilling to be too close.

Then she did something simple.

She lifted one hand, stained crimson, and pressed a single finger to her lips.

Shhhh.

Instantly, the world dimmed.

The hum of the engine muffled. The wind dulled. The trees swaying in the wind stopped swaying entirely.

And my mouth —

It snapped shut.

Not by choice. My lips pressed tight, locked, like I'd bitten down on an invisible hook. I couldn't even grunt.

Panic flared instantly.

I tried to yell, to cuss, anything, but it was like my mouth wasn't mine anymore.

The Harley kept tearing down the road, but the quiet wasn't natural. It was dead. No birds. No wind. Just the soft sound of tires against frozen pavement, and that distant, faint whisper of her finger still pressed to her lips.

Jasper was saying something behind me, I could feel him shaking me, trying to get my attention, but I couldn't hear him.

The girl's lips curled into a smile, soft and knowing, like she could hear every thought racing through my head.

Then she tilted her head slightly.

And vanished.

No dust. No flash. No sound.

Just gone.

The sound of the engine snapped back like a rubber band, wind howling, trees swaying violently as if making up for the stolen silence. My mouth unlocked all at once, and I gasped, nearly veering off the road.

Jasper screamed over the wind. "What the Hades was THAT?! Lucas?!"

But I could only grip the handlebars tighter, heart racing.

I kept driving, knuckles white on the grips, the Harley's vibrations barely registering through the adrenaline freezing my system. My heart hammered in my ears.

Jasper tapped frantically on my shoulder. "Lucas! What happened?!"

I slowed down just enough to speak, swallowing hard as I tried to process it. "You didn't see it? She was right there."

"She—?" Jasper blinked, confused. "Lucas, I didn't see anyone. There was nothing there! You just— you froze! Like you were staring at the trees!"

I shot him a glance. "She shushed me! My mouth— I couldn't even move it! The sound— it was gone. The whole world just... shut up."

Jasper's face paled, ears twitching under his beanie. He looked genuinely freaked now, but not for the reason I wanted. "Lucas... I swear on the gods, I didn't see anything. I didn't hear anything either. It's been normal since we left the diner. Nothing's been following us."

I stared ahead.

No.

No, I saw her.

Felt her.

Smelled the blood.

The silence wasn't just in my head.

But Jasper's eyes told me the truth. He hadn't seen it. He couldn't. It wasn't hiding behind trees, it wasn't invisible — it was something else. Something that could selectively play with me like I was a toy.

And that scared me more than anything.

I gritted my teeth — carefully this time, mindful of the unnatural jaggedness still scraping the inside of my mouth. The sensation was still there. The change was still real.

The road eventually spat us out onto the approach for the U.S.-Canada border crossing. Snow piled high on the shoulders of the highway, and a tired-looking checkpoint loomed ahead, complete with chain-link fencing, floodlights, and a line of cars idling with exhaust curling into the cold air.

Jasper shifted nervously behind me. "Border patrol," he muttered. "You have your papers, right?"

"Yeah," I said absently, pulling into the back of the line behind a rusted-out pickup. "Not sure they'll accept possible demigod with monster PTSD as a valid occupation, but I've got ID."

We sat there in the slow crawl of cars, the sun barely cresting through the thick gray clouds. The tension in the air hadn't left me. Not since the forest. Not since her.

I scanned the tree line, then the cars around us, trying to spot any hint of the antlered girl again. But the woods were just woods now. The road was just a road. Everyone else looked like regular, bored travelers. Families, truckers, tourists.

Jasper leaned close, voice low. "You're sure you saw something back there?"

I didn't answer.

I knew I saw something. I could still feel it crawling under my skin.

The Harley idled quietly as the line crept forward, car by car, each one getting waved through after brief checks at the booth.

I kept glancing at the woods, expecting the faint sound of hooves on snow, or the shimmer of antlers peeking between branches.

Nothing.

Just silence — but this time, normal silence. No reality-breaking hush, no oppressive stillness. Just the regular kind that blankets tired border crossings.

Jasper rubbed his arms to stay warm. "They'll just ask for papers, maybe ask where we're headed. Don't mention Camp."

"Wasn't planning to."

In truth, I wasn't worried about the border guards.

I was worried about what might be following us to the other side.

The line crawled forward at a snail's pace, each car inching closer to the checkpoint. The Harley's engine rattled quietly under me, sounding like it was just as sick of waiting as I was. The closer we got to the booth, the heavier the air felt — not magical, not like the Fae's silence, but the mundane weight of authority. Guns. Radios. The works.

Jasper adjusted his beanie nervously, hooves tapping softly against the foot pegs.

Finally, it was our turn.

I rolled up to the booth where a border guard, thick-jacketed and red-nosed, leaned out with practiced disinterest. His badge read Officer Dalca. He gave us both a once-over, eyes lingering a second too long on me.

"Morning," he said. "Papers?"

I handed over my ID and Jasper's forged documentation without hesitation. The officer flipped through them, frowning slightly, like he wasn't sure if he was bored or suspicious.

"Where you headed?" he asked, flipping Jasper's paper over as if checking for invisible ink.

"Portland," I answered smoothly. "Visiting family."

Jasper nodded too quickly beside me.

Dalca stared. Not at the papers. At me.

His eyes narrowed, and for a split second — just a second — I thought I saw the faintest shimmer. Like the same kind of shimmer I saw around the Fae girl. Faint, like heat distortion curling behind his pupils.

"You're an early riser," he said slowly, voice a little too flat. "Long way from Anchorage."

I forced a smile. "Aren't we all."

He held my gaze. The tension thickened.

I could feel the markings under my sleeves, pulsing faintly.

And then — just as suddenly — he nodded and handed the papers back. "Have a safe trip."

Relief tried to creep in, but I wasn't buying it.

I drove forward without a word, clearing the checkpoint and merging back onto the highway, Jasper still glued to my back.

Once we were safely away, Jasper leaned close and whispered, "Lucas… did you see his eyes?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

We both fell silent.

The hours rolled by in silence as the Harley chewed through the miles, taking us closer to Seattle. The highway gradually gave way to wider roads, the towering silhouettes of the city emerging from the fog like a rusted crown.

Seattle.

Gray skies. Constant drizzle. The kind of cold that didn't just bite — it lingered. Streets were busy, but not crowded, the usual bustle of a city that barely noticed its own strangeness.

I weaved through traffic, letting instinct guide me as we rolled past block after block, trying to find something cheap and forgettable for the night.

As we cut through the downtown core, one building stood out like it always did — Amazon HQ. A massive sprawl of glass and steel, reflecting the cloudy sky and towering over the other buildings like some modern temple to capitalism.

I felt it before I even saw it.

A smell.

Subtle at first. Faintly metallic. Damp. Like wet fur and rust mixed together, sour under the usual scent of city grime.

Jasper didn't seem to notice, but it hit me like a bad memory. It grew stronger the closer we got to the massive complex, lingering under the drizzle and cold like it belonged here.

I sniffed again, trying to place it, but the best I could rationalize was sewer smell. Cities had them, after all, and Seattle wasn't exactly famous for its fresh air.

Still, the closer we rode past Amazon's glass giant, the worse it got. Like something old was hiding beneath all that glass and steel, buried under conference rooms and overpriced lattes.

I forced myself to ignore it.

Probably nothing. Probably just pipes.

Still, I gunned the Harley a little harder, putting distance between us and the tower.

Jasper didn't say a word. Just held on as we kept heading deeper into the city.

We found a motel tucked between a strip mall and an abandoned laundromat, the kind of place where the lights buzzed just a little too much and the lobby smelled faintly like bleach and old coffee.

But it was cheap, and they didn't ask questions.

I grabbed a room, paid in cash, and unloaded the essentials. The Harley, however, wasn't going to survive much longer on prayers and duct tape. It needed real help.

After a bit of walking and a lot of wandering, I found a garage on the edge of an industrial park — Marty's Auto. Rusty signage, scattered tools, and enough broken cars out front to make you question its legitimacy. Looked like my kind of place.

Inside, the smell of oil, metal, and burnt coffee greeted me.

There was a guy under a beaten-up pickup, boots sticking out, country music softly playing from a dusty radio. I called out, "Hey, you do walk-ins?"

"Depends," the man's voice came from under the truck, muffled but calm. "You in a rush or just in denial about your ride falling apart?"

"Little of both," I replied.

A chuckle. "Bring it in."

I rolled the Harley inside and watched as the guy slid out from under the truck, wiping his hands on a rag. Mid-forties, broad-shouldered, wearing stained coveralls like a uniform. Grease-streaked and unbothered.

But the moment he looked up, I saw it.

Just one eye.

Set dead center on his forehead.

I stiffened instantly, reaching reflexively toward my glove.

The man caught it immediately and raised his free hand. "Easy, kid. Relax." His voice was calm, steady. "I'm one of the good ones."

I didn't lower my guard, but I didn't bolt either.

The cyclops — because, yeah, it wasn't like there was another explanation — casually tossed the rag aside and walked over to the Harley like this happened every Tuesday.

"Name's Donnie," he said. "Donnie Ferris. I'll fix her up good, promise." He gave me a once-over. "You're new, ain't ya? First time out of the bubble?"

I said nothing.

He just grinned. "Figured. Don't worry, I ain't in the monster business. Just keep machines runnin' for kids like you."

He offered me a price that was weirdly fair. Too fair.

My instincts told me I should be suspicious.

But something about the way he worked? The quiet ease? The fact that he didn't flinch when he noticed the faint blue glow under my sleeves?

I got the sense he was telling the truth.

Still, I kept one foot ready to step back.

"Deal," I said eventually.

"Good choice." He winked — or, well, blinked, since he only had the one eye.

After sealing the deal with Donnie and watching him get to work with practiced, mechanical ease, I decided not to stick around. I wasn't about to hover over a cyclops while he wrenched on my only ride — especially one who seemed way too comfortable with my situation.

The afternoon was sinking into that grey Seattle gloom as I stepped out of the garage.

I raised a hand at the first cab I saw trundling down the street, and thankfully, the driver pulled over. I slid into the back seat, giving him the name of the motel without much enthusiasm.

The cab smelled like old fries and cheap air freshener. Seattle charm, I guess.

As we rolled back toward the motel, I caught myself watching the streets a little too carefully. The city was normal enough — people going about their business, cars stuck in light traffic, rain drizzling steadily.

But that tension hadn't left me.

I couldn't shake the image of her from earlier. The antlers. The silence. The eyes.

Or the way Officer Dalca at the border had looked at me like he was reading a language I didn't know I was speaking.

I rubbed at my jaw, still hyper-aware of the strange weight inside my mouth. It wasn't just uncomfortable anymore. It was settling in, like my body had already accepted it, even if my brain hadn't.

I slumped back against the seat and tried to push the paranoia down.

When we pulled into the motel's cracked parking lot, I tossed the cabbie some cash and stepped out into the drizzle, cold air biting through my jacket.

Jasper was pacing by the room door, arms crossed tight, eyes darting like he was expecting the apocalypse to stroll up behind me.

"Took you long enough," he said, but there was no real bite in it. Just worry.

"Bike's getting patched up," I replied flatly. "And you're never gonna believe who the mechanic is."

Jasper's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

I shrugged. "Cyclops."

Jasper's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "Cyclops? Like—Polyphemus, sheep-eating, Odysseus-hating—those Cyclopes?"

"Relax," I said, waving a hand. "Name's Donnie. One eye. Smells like oil and motor grease. He gave me a fair price and didn't try to eat me. I think that qualifies as friendly."

Jasper rubbed his temples like he was catching a migraine. "Friendly Cyclopes don't exist."

"Then maybe someone forgot to send him the memo," I said, pushing past him to the door. "Anyway, he's working on the Harley."

We stepped inside, and for a moment, the quiet of the motel room almost felt like safety.

Almost.

I dropped onto my bed, letting out a long sigh while Jasper hovered near the window, pulling the curtain aside every few minutes to peek outside like we were being tailed by the mob.

"You're awfully twitchy for someone who claims nothing followed us," I said.

"I don't know what's going on!" Jasper snapped, flustered. "You're seeing things I can't, you've got these—" he gestured wildly at my hidden arms, "—markings, you're healing like a Titan, and now you're cool with random Cyclopes playing mechanic? None of this is normal!"

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Normal died in Anchorage."

Jasper sat heavily on the edge of his bed. The tension between us hung thick for a while, only broken by the faint hum of the cheap heater.

Outside, the drizzle kept tapping softly against the window.

I rubbed my face, jaw aching faintly again, and felt the markings on my arms pulse subtly under my sleeves. Not sharp, not painful, just present. Like they were reminding me they hadn't gone anywhere.

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Last edited: Apr 4, 2025

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Apr 5, 2025

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The next morning arrived wrapped in gray drizzle and the kind of cold that seeps into your bones before you even get out of bed, specially for me, the metal inside of me really didn't like the cold.

I sat up with a groan, back sore from the rock-hard motel mattress. Across the room, Jasper was already dressed, sitting on the edge of his bed and clutching a worn, weathered notebook like it was a lifeline — one of those old leather-bound ones, held together with twine and prayers.

"You ready?" I asked, tugging on my hoodie and grabbing my jacket. "Time to see if our favorite cyclops turned my bike into something roadworthy."

Jasper looked up, his expression still wary. "Do we really have to go back there?"

I gave him a look. "Yes, Jasper. We have to go back to the one-eyed man who fixed our deathtrap of a motorcycle. Try to be cool about it this time."

"I was cool on the ride over," he muttered, standing and brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. "I didn't throw up."

We walked down into the damp city morning, caught a cab the old-fashioned way — arm out, whistle sharp. I kept my gaze on the skyline as we rode.

The cab dropped us outside Marty's Auto, now thinking about it, I have no idea who Marty actually is, the garage looking exactly the same as yesterday: crusty, cluttered, and still somehow more inviting than most temples.

The Harley sat just inside the garage bay, polished, gleaming, and standing proud like it had something to prove.

Donnie slid out from under another car, covered in grease and grinning like a satisfied artist.

"Morning, boys," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "She's all set. Cleaned her up, swapped a few parts, tightened everything that could kill you on the road."

"She looks... way better than she should," I admitted, stepping closer.

"She'll ride better, too," Donnie said, then fixed his one large eye on me, narrowing it ever so slightly.

He stepped back and tossed me the keys.

Jasper looked like he was about to start chewing his nails.

I just pocketed the keys.

"Thanks," I said. "We'll be out of your hair."

Donnie chuckled. "Kid, I've had worse than you through here. Just don't die. It's bad for business."

We left Seattle behind under a ceiling of low, bruised clouds. Rain came down in steady sheets, soaking the road and misting the edges of the pine-lined highway. The Harley purred beneath us like a new beast — smoother, quieter, and finally not threatening to shake itself to pieces every five minutes. Donnie had worked some real magic under that hood.

The city faded into forest, and forest into long stretches of cold, wet asphalt. The kind of road that feels endless. The kind you don't want to break down on.

Jasper huddled behind me, hood pulled up, cloak tight around his shoulders. His voice came muffled through the wind. "How far's Portland?"

"Few hours, give or take," I called back, eyes on the winding road ahead. "If the bike holds. If nothing tries to kill us."

"Comforting," he muttered.

We didn't talk much more.

The Harley carved through the misty highway, mile by mile. No monsters. No whispers. No shadows in the trees.

But somehow… that was worse.

Because it felt like the world was holding its breath.

Waiting.

By the time we rolled into Portland, the clouds had finally scattered.

No rain.

No monsters.

No strange women with antlers.

Just crisp air, some unexpected sunshine, and the casual buzz of a city that had no idea anything weird existed beyond its artisanal donut scene.

It was... peaceful.

Too peaceful.

I kept scanning rooftops, alleyways, even storm drains as we rode — waiting for a flash of movement, a growl, a familiar chill down the spine. But nothing came. Just traffic lights, cyclists, and locals with reusable coffee cups.

Eventually, we pulled into the parking lot of a Wawa tucked between a gas station and a laundromat, the kind of place with a faded sign and way too many pigeons hanging out near the dumpsters. I parked the Harley by the side, engine ticking as it cooled.

Jasper slid off, stretching his legs. "Still alive," he said cautiously.

"No monsters in sight," I added. "Which is suspicious all on its own."

"Can't we just enjoy the quiet?" he muttered, pulling his hood up. "Just for, like, ten minutes?"

I didn't argue. I was hungry.

Inside, Wawa was brightly lit and smelled like hot pretzels, bad coffee, and fried everything — heaven, basically. I grabbed a warmed-up hoagie, a couple of protein bars, a giant bottle of water, and a pack of gum. Jasper filled a small container with fruit from the snack section and snagged a bottle of sweet tea like it was holy water.

The cashier didn't even blink at us. Just rang everything up with a bored "have a good one."

We stepped outside and leaned against the wall next to a faded newspaper vending machine. I cracked open the water, took a long drink, and stared up at the sky. Blue. Clean. No signs of doom.

I could still feel the faint pulse of the markings on my arms. No glow, no burn, just... presence. Waiting. Watching. A part of me now.

Jasper wiped juice off his mouth with his sleeve. "It's weird."

"What's weird?"

"That nothing's happening."

I nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Because the world was way too quiet.

And quiet, I'd learned, was never just quiet.

Portland slid past us, alive with its usual weirdness: street performers juggling fire near vegan bakeries, thrift stores with mannequins in wizard robes, and more bikes than cars. We weren't rushing anymore, just drifting through the streets, trying to find a cheap motel or somewhere quiet to rest.

That's when we saw it.

An empty lot, tucked between a vape shop and a shuttered laundromat. Only it wasn't empty.

It was a Greek plaza.

White marble columns rose from beds of impossibly green ivy. Vines crawled along walls that hadn't existed ten seconds ago. A wide circular fountain sat in the middle, pouring not water, but thick, red wine, the scent of it floating into the street like a slow-moving fog.

Music filled the air — not EDM or rock, but smooth, sad jazz. A pan flute, soft and mournful, echoing through the lot like it was bouncing off temple walls from a long-dead civilization.

Figures moved in the space. Satyrs danced barefoot over polished stone, hooves tapping in rhythm, laughter pouring from their mouths. Nymphs twirled through pools of torchlight, wrapped in gossamer silks that left little to the imagination, their skin glowing faintly under the wine-soaked dusk.

They were partying — truly — but there was something in the air. Not off. Not dark. Just... missing.

It was too joyous. A performance. A celebration where no one could admit they were still waiting for someone to arrive.

I pulled the Harley to a stop by the sidewalk, engine purring, and stared.

Jasper climbed off and squinted through the haze of wine vapors and torchlight.

"This—" he said quietly, "This is a Dionysian ring."

"A what?"

"A plaza. A gathering space. Made by the gods. This one's for Dionysus and Pan."

"And they aren't here?"

He shook his head. "Can't be. Zeus shackled him with that stupid punishment — stuck at Camp Half-Blood playing babysitter. They're throwing the party without him."

I looked around. The wine, the satyrs, the nymphs — they were all still going, smiling, laughing, dancing, but it had the feel of a tribute. A celebration in someone's absence.

"They're doing this for him," Jasper said, watching the satyrs pour wine into leaf-carved cups. "Trying to keep the spirit alive."

So they filled it — with wine, laughter, and divine children of Priapus and Aphrodite, who mingled at the edges, draped in robes and gold, sipping from grapes, all beauty and indulgence with nowhere else to go.

And then, off in the corner — half-shrouded in vine, shadow, and soft torchlight — sat her.

She didn't dance. Didn't talk.

She reclined lazily on a crumbling bench of moss and marble, wearing garish neon-pink leggings, an oversized "Choose Life" sweatshirt, and 80s sneakers with glowing soles. A crystal bong with winter motiff sat balanced on her knee, and every time she exhaled, thick green smoke curled upward into a strange little pattern — sometimes animals, sometimes faces, sometimes just static symbols that faded before the brain could process them.

Her eyes were half-lidded. Uninterested.

Jasper let out a breath. "...That's Despoina."

I blinked. "is she a goddess of something?"

"No one knows what," he muttered. "She doesn't talk about it. No one asks."

She didn't look at us. Just kept smoking.

The plaza pulsed with torchlight and divine laughter.

And without saying anything, we stepped in.

The party didn't pause for us.

We stepped through the marble arch into the plaza, and just like that, it was like the air changed.

Warmer. Heavier. Softer somehow.

Music wrapped around us — not loud, not urgent, just a steady, swaying rhythm that felt like it had been playing for centuries. Satyrs clapped in time, nymphs laughed and spun with wild curls of hair flying through the air, someone popped grapes into someone else's mouth while laying across a pile of cushions like it was ancient Athens meets Coachella.

Jasper hesitated, then smiled — for real, for the first time in days.

A younger satyr ran by and shouted his name, hooves skidding against the marble before vanishing into the crowd. Then another voice called out from deeper in the plaza.

"Jasper?! That you, you little bleater?"

Jasper lit up. "Uncle Marro!"

They hugged like old friends reunited at a family barbecue, patting each other's backs, one laughing, the other on the edge of tears. Marro looked older, rougher, with vines twisted into his beard and a silver ring in one horn and very naked.

"Didn't think I'd see you out here," Marro said, clapping Jasper on the shoulder. "Not many half-bloods make it this far west. Especially not ones with your track record."

Jasper laughed, then paused — gesturing toward me. "He's not just any half-blood."

Marro raised a brow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, he is my charge" said Jasper a little smug.

I took a sip from a wine-filled gourd one of the nymphs had passed me. It tasted like autumn and wildfire.

Jasper nodded toward the edge of the plaza, where the Harley sat parked just outside the gate.

"Check the license plate."

Marro squinted. "Alaska?"

I smirked. "Try north. I'm from Anchorage."

Marro gave a low whistle. "Yeesh...You're a long way from home, kid."

"Tell me about it."

We walked deeper into the crowd, satyrs clapping Jasper on the back, nymphs brushing past me with glittering smiles and curious eyes. No one asked where we were going or why. They just accepted us, like the party had always known we'd arrive.

Still, under all the dancing and wine and light, I felt it — that hollow edge. The shadow under the laughter. The sadness no one wanted to say out loud.

Dionysus wasn't here.

Pan was still gone.

But a couple goblets of wine in, I wasn't just enjoying the party — I was in it.

The satyrs drank like they were trying to outlive sorrow. And I was right there with them, shoulder to shoulder, trading jokes, stories, and shots of something purplish and fizzy that definitely wasn't mortal-approved.

A pair of nymphs had pulled me into the center of the plaza, dancing close, fingers tracing my arms, laughter spilling from their lips like perfume. Their eyes sparkled with mischief, their movements a mix of wild joy and practiced seduction. I didn't mind. Gods knew I needed a win after the cheerleader debacle.

Even Jasper — wide-eyed, awkward, terminally anxious Jasper — was smiling. He was off to the side, chatting with his uncle and a few older satyrs, some of whom were very nude and very comfortable with it. He didn't drink much, and his idea of dancing was more of a gentle shuffle in place, but even he looked relaxed.

The wine buzz was soft but bright, the kind that made the stars look closer and your limbs lighter. For a moment, I let go. Just existed. No monsters. No gods. No voices in my head. Just music and firelight and warm skin brushing against mine.

Eventually, I wandered away from the dancing, breath warm in my chest, muscles loose, and dropped myself down near the edge of the plaza — where she still sat.

Despoina.

She hadn't moved all night. Still lounged like some half-forgotten queen on her vine-draped bench, her ridiculous 80s getup glowing faintly under the torchlight. The bong was still in her hand, nestled against one thigh like a sacred object.

I didn't say anything. Just sat beside her. Not too close. Not too far. Let the wine settle in.

We sat in silence for a good minute. Two. Maybe three.

Then, without looking at me, she passed the bong to her right.

"Good taste," she said simply.

Her voice was low. Rough. Like dry leaves crushed underfoot. Not ancient exactly — just tired in a way that had nothing to do with age.

I took the bong, considered it, then grinned. "I've been told."

She didn't smile. But she didn't frown either.

The music played on. Somewhere behind us, a satyr fell into a wine basin and came up laughing.

I took a hit. It was smooth, full, like the air itself turned to honey in my lungs. The plaza shimmered just a little more after that — the torchlight a bit softer, the music slower, like it was swaying just for me.

I exhaled a thick, curling plume, watched it drift, then passed it back.

Despoina took it with lazy fingers and didn't look at me at first. Just stared at the party — at the satyrs spinning in loose circles, the nymphs laughing over the wine fountain, the divine haze of it all.

"They don't talk to me," she said quietly.

I blinked. "Huh?"

"The satyr, the spirits, the demigods...My mother," she murmured. "Demeter. She... doesn't write. Doesn't call."

Her tone was light, but the hurt under it was deep and old.

"They talks to Persephone. Sends prayers and wind-blessed wheat and all that green-and-gold crap. But me? I get frost. I get silence. I get harvests gone cold."

She leaned her head back, eyes half-lidded under her 80s bangs, voice floating like the smoke.

"I'm autumn and winter. I come when things die. When people let go. She doesn't like what I represent."

She tapped the bong once, but didn't smoke it. Just held it like something sacred. Then she smiled — just a little, sad but relaxed.

"They don't even hate me. They just forget I'm there."

I looked at her, not as a goddess, but as a person — a woman left behind by the warmth of the world, still burning quietly in the cold.

"You seem cool," I said, soft but honest, giving her a lopsided smile.

She turned to me slowly, blinking like I'd said something surprising. Then she giggled — a short, light sound, airy and just a little rough.

"Thank you, demigod," she said, voice low and warm. "Most people don't stick around long enough to say that."

I shrugged, still buzzed, still smiling. "I'm from Alaska. We live in the cold."

That earned me a real smile. Small. But real.

And the torchlight around us flickered like it agreed.

We sat in silence for a little while longer, watching the satyrs spin in lazy loops, wine sloshing over the rims of their cups, nymphs giggling like they didn't know what sorrow tasted like. The air was thick with music and grape-sweet smoke, but Despoina's presence next to me cut through all of it — like a shadow at the edge of firelight. Not unwelcome. Just present.

She finally took another slow hit, held it, then exhaled toward the sky. The smoke curled upward like vines growing in reverse, twisting into symbols that looked like they meant something just out of reach.

Then she spoke again, voice low and smooth like wind rustling through dead leaves.

"You know, demigod... your kind always gets the raw deal."

I raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

She glanced sideways at me, one eye glowing faintly under the torchlight. "You're born into a world where you're important enough to suffer, but not important enough to get any real answers. You're halfway to godhood, but stuck carrying spears for people who've lived since fire was new."

She toyed with the edge of the bong, spinning it slowly with her fingers. "The gods—our kind—we're not allowed to interfere. That's one of the Rules."

"Rules with a capital R?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. Big, ugly divine laws that keep Olympus from turning every argument into a continent-splitting war. No interfering directly. Not unless a bunch of other gods do it first, or unless someone breaks a rule so loud it echoes across the realms. But there are always loopholes. Gods can't act directly, but they can nudge. Gift. Influence. Send dreams. Or—" she smiled faintly, "—they put their faith in kids who didn't ask to be born with ichor in their veins and a target on their back."

I leaned back, letting that settle.

"You sound like you don't like it either."

"I don't," she said simply. "But I'm not one of the big ones. I'm just another corner goddess with a portfolio no one wants to claim. I don't get invited to meetings. I don't have temples. I get scraps."

She took another hit, slower this time, then passed it back to me.

"Most of us just try not to fade."

I stared at the smoke trailing from the bong. "So... is this party your way of sticking around?"

She laughed — not bitterly, but close. "No, darling. This party's for Dionysus. We just keep throwing it, hoping he'll come back. Even though we know Zeus chained him to that Camp job like a bad punchline."

She looked over the wine-drenched chaos, the dancing, the joy that didn't quite hide the emptiness underneath.

"And Pan's still gone. So there's no real wild anymore. Just noise."

I took a slow hit, letting the smoke roll in my chest like warm fog. It didn't sting. Just settled — heavy, earthy, grounding. The music blurred at the edges of the moment, fading into a slow, heartbeat rhythm.

Despoina watched the revelers through half-lidded eyes. The satyrs were still dancing, the nymphs still laughing, but something about her — the way she leaned into the smoke, the way her voice stayed low — it was like she was sitting in a different world altogether.

I passed the bong back. She took it, but didn't hit it again. Just held it loosely, staring out over the marble and wine.

Then, without looking at me, she said softly, "Can I ask you something, Demi?"

I blinked. "Sure."

Her fingers traced the rim of the glass in slow, absent circles.

"If you make it out there... if you end up being something, doing something — remember the little ones."

I frowned slightly, but said nothing. She went on.

"Everyone knows the big Thirteen," she muttered, voice distant. "Olympus this, Zeus that, Athena's favorites, Poseidon's children, blah blah blah." Thunder cries out in the distance.

She gave a dry little chuckle. "But the rest of us? The ones without temples or titles or thrones... if no one remembers us, we go. We fade. And lately... it's been getting a little sad."

She didn't say it like she was asking for pity.

She said it like someone used to being forgotten.

I nodded slowly, watching the torchlight flicker in her expression. "I'll remember."

She finally looked at me, just for a moment.

Not like a goddess.

Just like a tired woman with a quiet hope.

"Good," she said, almost smiling. "That's all we ask."

The plaza spun gently without us.

Laughter, music, the soft splash of wine into shallow cups — all of it carried on in the background, blurred and dreamlike. But here, in the edge-space where I sat beside Despoina, there was a kind of stillness. A bubble of calm. Of cold.

Not sharp, not unfriendly — just crisp. Fresh. Untouched.

A light wind curled around us, and every time a satyr or nymph danced too close, they veered off without noticing why, as if instinct told them not here. This space was different.

Despoina didn't speak. Neither did I.

And then it happened.

For just a moment — a heartbeat — the world stuttered.

The black suns blinked into my vision again, that same haunting cosmic pulse I'd come to dread. Except this time, one flared brighter than it ever had before. Not warm. Not hot. But golden.

A sound hit the air like a chime. Not loud — more like a breath held in a cathedral.

Then — bonk.

Right in front of me, something hit the marble with a soft, surreal thunk.

A golden lyre.

Simple. Elegant. The strings shimmered like sunlight on water. It wasn't glowing. It didn't need to. It was light — shaped and humming with a quiet energy that made my fingertips itch.

I stared.

So did Despoina.

Her red eyes widened slightly, then narrowed in amusement. She tilted her head, and for the first time since I met her, she let out a small, sharp giggle.

"Ohhh," she whispered, voice curling with sudden understanding. "That makes sense."

I turned toward her, confused. "What does?"

But she didn't answer.

Her smile just got a little bigger.

The lyre sat in my lap, warm and impossibly light — like it was carved from sunlight itself and dipped in gold.

I didn't know how to play.

Didn't know chords. Didn't know fingering, well not the music kind anyway. Didn't even know if I was supposed to.

But my hands moved anyway.

Fingers brushed over strings, and the sound that came out wasn't awkward or clumsy. It was smooth. Bright. Simple.

The lyre was perfectly tuned — divine in every sense of the word. Its strings didn't protest or buzz or bite. It sang, even under the touch of a complete amateur. Like it wanted to be played. Like it was designed to forgive human hands.

And I played.

Just a little tune. Happy. Light. Something that felt like a breeze through tall grass, or a laugh shared on a sunny day. It wasn't grand. Wasn't powerful. But it was good. A tune made for dancing barefoot, or sitting under a tree with your eyes closed.

The plaza around us didn't stop. The satyrs kept spinning, the nymphs kept sipping, but there was something gentle that rippled out from where we sat — a subtle hush, a tilt of ears, a quiet shift in the rhythm of the night.

Despoina leaned back against her moss-draped seat, her red eyes half-lidded.

She smiled.

Small. Sincere.

"I quite like that," she murmured, voice soft as fog. "It sounds like... a little sunlight."

I didn't say anything.

I just kept playing.

Because somehow, that felt like the right answer.

The melody danced beneath my fingers, bright and clean, drifting up through the wine-drenched air like birdsong over a lazy field.

At first, it was just me and Despoina in that little cold bubble of stillness — her lounging nearby, watching with that small, knowing smile, her red eyes soft.

But then the wind shifted.

Just a little.

And the edge of the divine revel began to lean in.

A few satyrs braved the cold breeze, hooves crunching softly on marble as they stepped closer, heads tilted like they were hearing something rare. A couple nymphs floated in with cups still in hand, their laughter quieted, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

One of them tossed something at my feet — a golden coin, stamped with symbols I didn't recognize.

Then another followed. And another.

I blinked, still playing, surprised. I guess tips were universal.

Despoina inched closer, crossing one leg over the other, settling beside me on the low stone bench, close enough now that her shoulder almost brushed mine. She didn't speak. Just listened.

I smiled without looking away from the strings.

"The next one," I said, loud enough to carry, "is dedicated to my friend over here — the goddess Despoina."

She snorted lightly, but I caught the way her head tilted — a flicker of surprise in her expression. Maybe even something warmer.

I played again. A different tune this time. Still simple — I wasn't a master — but steady, sincere. It danced a little slower. A little deeper. Still happy, but touched with something else. Something real.

Then — on the final note — it happened.

A thin beam of sunlight, golden and warm, cut through the torchlight and fog like a spotlight from the gods. It touched my hand, specifically my ring finger, and nudged it.

Gently. Subtly.

Like something unseen was repositioning it.

I pulled the string.

The note rang out sharper than the rest — but not jarring. It resonated. Like the sound itself shimmered, vibrating through the air in soft waves. The world seemed to pause — not in silence, but in attention.

The melody bloomed. Full. Beautiful.

A few in the small crowd clapped, slow and thoughtful, like the kind of applause you give something you don't quite understand but know mattered.

I looked down at the lyre, confused.

Despoina leaned in without warning.

And pressed a kiss to my cheek.

It was soft, cool, and smelled faintly of smoke and old autumn.

Then she leaned back, smirking faintly.

"You're full of surprises, Demi."

And for the first time in a while, I didn't have anything clever to say.

CP Bank: 500cp

Perks earned this chapter: 100cp: Lyre of Apollo (God of War) [Making]

The god Apollo is one who possesses a multitude of divine roles, but perhaps his most famous is as the god of music. You now find yourself in possession of his lyre, crafted of the finest materials, and virtually indestructible. It is perfectly tuned, and the music it produces will always be pleasing to hear, even if played by a complete novice, if played by a master, you could even bring the gods to tears through your craft.

Milestones reached this chapter: Cassanova: make a good impression on a female goddess: 400 cp

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Jasper sat cross-legged on a worn velvet cushion, balancing a half-eaten fig in one hand and trying very hard not to look uncomfortable as a very nude satyr — probably his cousin — talked about chasing dryads through Central Park back in the '80s.

Around them, the party pulsed on — satyrs laughing, nymphs twirling, wine spilling like waterfalls from stone bowls and mouths. A few minor gods lounged nearby, looking disinterested but clearly enjoying the attention. Everything felt like it was one step away from a Dionysian fever dream, but the vibe was soft tonight — old joy trying to remember what it felt like to matter.

Jasper forced a laugh at something his uncle said and popped the rest of the fig in his mouth. Sweet. Overripe. Too much.

He leaned back a little, trying to ease the ache in his shoulders. It had been a long trip. Too long. Too many monsters, too many miles, too many questions. The party was a reprieve, sure — but it felt like a pause before something cracked wide open.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw him.

Lucas.

Sitting with her.

Despoina.

Jasper's heart gave a little jump. Not panic — but close. Caution. Awe.

The goddess didn't usually talk to anyone, let alone sit close like that. But there she was, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, garish pink leggings glowing faintly in the torchlight, a smile playing on her lips like a secret only she understood.

And Lucas — Lucas — was there with her, with a lyre in his lap, probably a gift from her, just… casually existing next to a chthonic goddess like it was a Tuesday.

They weren't talking.

Not that Jasper could see.

But something moved between them — a kind of quiet understanding. The space around them was different. Not warded, not magical exactly. Just respected.

Even the satyrs didn't go near.

Jasper turned back to his uncle and nodded through another story, but his eyes drifted again.

Lucas strummed the lyre once, and even though it was faint, the sound cut clean through the haze of the party. Sweet. Simple. Unshaped. But it hit like something true.

She smiled a little more.

Jasper blinked, pulling his gaze away from Lucas and Despoina. He turned back to the circle of satyrs sprawled across cushions, lounging around half-eaten platters of fruit and fresh bread, trying to refocus.

His uncle Marro gave him a squinty-eyed grin. "You drifting off again, kid?"

Jasper cleared his throat and waved a hand. "No, no. Just—watching the vibes."

Another satyr, younger, bare-chested with grape-stained lips, leaned in. "Your demigod friend's got vibes, alright. Sitting with her like that? That's not normal."

Marro chuckled into his wine. "Not much about that one seems normal. You don't see many half-bloods this far west, let alone riding in from Alaska like it's no big deal."

"He's a little dramatic," Jasper said, half-defensive, half-admitting it. "Likes motorcycles, doesn't sleep much, has claws. You know. Demigod stuff."

That got a few hoots of laughter.

"But really," one of the older satyrs said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "Despoina? She doesn't cozy up to mortals. Or even the usual Olympian kids. If she's talking to him, that means she sees something."

Jasper picked at a pomegranate seed stuck in his fur. "Yeah, well... he plays things off like it's all no big deal. But stuff happens around him. Monsters show up quicker. Weird feelings. Gods pay attention."

Marro's smile faded slightly as he looked across the plaza.

"Sometimes that's the kind of demigod who makes a mess," he said. "Or... starts a new story."

Jasper looked over again too — Lucas still seated, the golden lyre glowing faintly against his lap, Despoina now leaning in as he played. Not a performance. Just... connection.

A ripple of something rolled through Jasper's chest — not jealousy, not pride.

Just the realization that Lucas wasn't walking into this world.

He was being welcomed.

And that wasn't always a good thing.

Marro nudged him with an elbow. "You sticking with him?"

Jasper nodded. "Of course."

Marro grinned. "Then you'd better start keeping pace. Because if the gods are watching your friend…"

He raised his goblet.

"…you're in the front row."

The music didn't stop.

In fact, it got... heavier.

Slower.

Like the beat was being pulled through honey and sweat. The melodies that had been light and playful earlier now pulsed low, steady — heartbeats wrapped in silk. Torchlight flickered deeper red, shadows stretched longer. Laughter turned to whispers, then to breathless sounds I didn't care to interpret.

The party wasn't ending.

But our part in it was.

Maybe if we survive a few quests we can get an invite to the real party.

I crouched beside Lucas, helping him scoop up the drachma tossed at his feet like petals at a wedding. Dozens of them. I glanced up once, saw a nymph watching him from across the plaza, licking pomegranate juice off her fingers like it was a slow promise.

I cleared my throat and kept my eyes down.

"These aren't just tips," I muttered, keeping my voice low. "Some of them wanted to invite you to the afterparty."

Lucas didn't even look up. "I figured. They've been staring like I'm the last slice of cake left."

He tried to joke, but there was a weird edge to his voice — not nerves, not pride. Just... uncertainty. Like he knew the shift in the air too, but didn't know what to do with it.

I glanced again.

The dancing now looked more like ritual. Less joy, more intention. Bodies moved with meaning. Touches lingered. The plaza was tilting into something far older than music and wine.

That's when I saw her.

A oread— tall, glowing, effortless — sauntered toward Lucas with eyes like dusk and a smile that promised things. She was halfway to him before—

Despoina looked up.

Just one look.

But it landed like frost.

The oread stopped. Blinked. Turned. Disappeared.

Lucas didn't notice. But I did.

I watched Despoina lean just slightly closer to him, the cool wind around them never breaking. Her expression hadn't changed — still relaxed, still unreadable. But that look? It wasn't possessive.

It was protective.

I realized then: we weren't just not invited to the next part of the night.

We were being kept from it.

Not out of punishment.

Out of mercy.

I tied the pouch of drachma shut and stood. Lucas followed, brushing his hands off. His expression was unreadable — thoughtful, maybe. Or just tired.

Around us, the music deepened. Nymphs slipped into shadow. Satyrs laughed low. The gods and their children prepared to worship in the old way.

We didn't belong there yet.

And that was okay.

As we turned to leave, I glanced back.

Despoina was still watching Lucas.

Poor demigod, divine attention is a two-edged sword.

I strapped the lyre to the side of the bike, right above the saddlebags. It didn't really belong there — it looked like it should be hanging in some temple beside an eternal flame, not bungeed to a Harley next to a busted toolkit and a pack of jerky.

But it didn't complain.

Jasper climbed on behind me, cloak wrapped tight, his hands settling on my shoulders with a little more weight than usual. He didn't say anything. Neither did I.

The plaza was already behind us, hidden again in the folds of the city like it had never existed. No marble, no wine, no divine music echoing through the torchlight. Just the quiet hum of Portland at night — car tires on pavement, a distant siren, a flickering neon sign over a 24-hour diner.

I kicked the bike into gear and rolled us out onto the road.

We didn't speak for a while, just let the wind carry whatever was left of that divine night off our backs. It was cold, but not bad. I liked the cold. It kept things sharp. Kept me awake.

We'd lost a day of travel.

That mattered.

We were supposed to be moving faster — coast to coast, camp to safety, monsters snapping at our heels. Wasting time wasn't exactly in the plan.

But as we rode through the sleeping city and out toward the highway, I found myself smiling a little.

Because yeah, we lost a day.

But I got something out of it.

A lyre that practically played itself.

A kiss from a goddess.

I'd call that a good deal.

We hit the I-84 just past midnight, engine rumbling like distant thunder, the Harley chewing up pavement like it was starving.

The Harley roared under us, running smoother than ever thanks to that cyclops in Seattle. The wind cut sharp and cold against my face, jacket pulled tight, fingers wrapped around the grips. Jasper sat behind me, quiet, arms around my waist, hood up and flapping like crazy in the wind.

Our next stop was Boise. Few hundred miles of dark, open road ahead, lined with trees, trucks, and the occasional glowing highway sign. If the bike held and nothing came after us, we'd be there by sunrise.

I didn't feel tired. Not yet.

Guess a kiss from a goddess and a surprise divine instrument had a way of shaking off fatigue.

I leaned forward, opened the throttle, and let the Harley run.

About an hour past Pendleton, the road dipped into a long, empty stretch of nothing. No towns. No gas stations. Just highway and scrubland. That's when I saw it — off the side of the road, maybe ten feet from the shoulder.

A short, weather-worn pillar. White. Looked like marble, but dirt-streaked and cracked. My headlights caught the faint shape of a face on it.

I slowed down, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Lucas, we shouldn't just stop in the middle of nowhere," Jasper said, his voice tight behind me.

"Relax, it's just a statue," I said, pulling over anyway. I killed the engine and the silence hit hard — no cars, no wind, just the ticking of cooling metal.

"That's not just a statue," Jasper muttered as I swung off the bike. "That's a herm."

"A what?"

"Old-school Greek roadside marker," he said, staying seated. "They were used to mark safe passage, bless travelers, stuff like that. Usually dedicated to Hermes. You leave a coin or two. Pay respect."

I walked closer. The pillar stood maybe chest-high. At the top was a carved head — a bearded man with a weird little smirk and wide, flat eyes. The carving was old, chipped. And at the base of the pillar was a small, shallow indentation — like a dish.

There was already a coin there. A golden drachma, just sitting alone in the dip.

I frowned. "This thing's active?"

"Looks like," Jasper said. "Probably from one of the minor gods. Could've been a satyr or a nymph traveling through."

I pulled two of the coins from my pouch — the ones tossed at me back at the plaza. I placed them carefully in the dish beside the old one.

Nothing happened.

No glow. No thunder. No cryptic voice.

Just the wind picking up a bit.

I turned back toward the bike, pausing only once to glance back at the herm. The face hadn't moved.

But I could've sworn that smirk looked a little more smug.

without a word.

We rode in silence for a while. The only sound was the wind cutting past us and the steady hum of the engine. The road stretched flat and empty, two lanes of cracked asphalt and nothing but darkness on either side.

After a few minutes, I called back, "That coin already being there — is that normal?"

Jasper hesitated, then answered, "Not really. Most herms don't get much attention anymore. Usually they're empty or broken."

"So someone else came through."

"Yeah," he said. "Could've been a satyr. Or a demigod."

"Right. Just weird."

He didn't argue.

We kept moving, the bike chewing up the miles. Every few exits we passed were dark, closed gas stations or empty parking lots. Even with the cold air, the ride felt calmer than before — like the night was finally giving us a little room to breathe.

The Walmart hit us like a glowing blue beacon just off the highway — a massive, overlit box in the middle of nothing. I pulled the bike into the lot, parked under a buzzing light, and stretched my arms out as I climbed off. Jasper slid down behind me, eyeing the building like it personally offended him.

"You good?" I asked.

"It smells like fried plastic and broken dreams," he muttered.

"So… standard."

We grabbed a cart and walked in, the automatic doors parting with a tired wheeze.

The cold fluorescent lights hit like a slap, and the place was mostly empty — a few late-night stockers, a couple people wandering in pajama pants. We headed straight for the camping aisle.

"Alright," I said. "First, bags. Something we can strap to the bike, something that won't fall apart if I breathe on it wrong."

Jasper pointed. "Those ones. Decent stitching, rain cover, big enough to carry your insane amount of protein bars."

"Respect the gains," I muttered, tossing two bags into the cart.

We grabbed food next. Trail mix, protein bars, jerky, peanut butter, instant soup, and enough caffeine pills to cause a minor heart palpitation. Jasper spent too long looking at water purification tablets, while I loaded a few thermal blankets and some extra socks into the cart.

"Do we need a multitool?" he asked.

"Nah," I said. "I've got claws."

He gave me a look. "That's not normal, you know."

"Sure it is," I said. "Just not for you."

He rolled his eyes and grabbed a roll of duct tape anyway. "Fine. But this stays."

"Always does."

Toiletries aisle next — deodorant, soap, toothbrushes, toothpaste. I threw in some wet wipes, which Jasper didn't argue with.

In the clothing section, I grabbed a cheap thermal shirt and a set of gloves. Jasper hesitated at a rack of discount hoodies before picking one with a weird abstract goat on it.

"This feels offensive."

"Then don't get it."

"I'm still getting it."

"Okay," I said. "Now we look like actual travelers instead of people running from something."

Jasper smirked. "We are people running from something."

"Details."

The cashier barely glanced up as we rolled forward.

We rolled up to the register behind a guy buying a frozen pizza, a gallon of milk, and an alarming amount of off-brand cheese puffs. The cashier barely looked up, just scanned with the dead-eyed precision of someone counting seconds till shift end.

Then Jasper froze.

Not dramatically — no gasping, no pointing. Just this little full-body tension like he'd seen a snake coiled under his boot. I glanced at him, then at the cashier.

He looked normal. Mid-thirties. Shaggy hair tucked under a Walmart cap. Pale skin, a little too smooth. His vest was wrinkled and faded, and his name tag read in cheap plastic letters:

PLUTUS

I blinked.

"Huh," I muttered. "Plutus?"

The cashier looked up. His eyes were… normal. Kinda dull, actually. But something behind them didn't feel quite right. Not dangerous. Just off.

"Company name," he said, voice flat. "They make the tags. Weird coincidence."

Jasper didn't say a word. Just stared like he was watching a puzzle rearrange itself.

I started unloading our gear onto the belt.

"Right," I said casually. "Well. Hope corporate's paying you overtime."

The cashier cracked a smile — too perfect. "I don't really do overtime. People bring their wealth to me all on their own."

He scanned our items without missing a beat. The scanner beeped in a soft, steady rhythm.

Jasper finally spoke, voice low. "You're not supposed to be here."

The man — god? whatever — shrugged, still smiling. "You're not either. But I'm not here to interfere, got orders"

He handed me the receipt with a weird sort of politeness, like we'd just completed some kind of transaction that went deeper than socks and granola bars.

"Good luck on your journey," he said, eyes flicking toward the lyre strapped to my bag. "Might want to cover that."

Then he looked past us, already moving on to the next customer.

We walked out without saying anything.

Just pushed the cart across the empty parking lot under those buzzing lights, the wheels squeaking slightly with every turn. The Walmart sat behind us like a blue-and-white shrine to late-stage capitalism, humming quietly in the dark.

Jasper was still stiff. I could tell. Shoulders tight, hands shoved in his hoodie, not meeting my eye. I didn't push it. Not yet.

We reached the bike and got to work.

The bags we bought were sturdy enough — we strapped one to each side of the rear wheel, using the bungee cords to tighten them down. I tossed the smaller items into the front bag, made sure the lyre was still secure along the side. I shifted its position a little, keeping it tight under one of the frame bars so it wouldn't rattle. That thing felt like it didn't belong in the world, and I didn't want to know what would happen if it fell off at 80 miles an hour.

"Get everything?" I asked.

Jasper nodded. "Yeah."

His voice was quiet, but normal. Mostly.

We checked the straps once more, gave the bags a few firm shakes to be sure they'd hold. I climbed onto the bike, kicked it once, then twice — engine roaring back to life.

That's when it happened.

The stars blinked.

Or maybe I blinked. Couldn't tell.

But just like before, the black suns returned.

One. Two. Three. Orbiting slowly in the dark space behind my eyes like they were waiting for something. Watching.

Then two of them shined.

Just for a second — gold light, sharp and unnatural — pulsing like twin flares against the void.

And then they were gone.

Just as fast as they came.

I sat there for a beat, hands frozen on the handlebars.

The bike rumbled underneath me.

No words, no visions — just instinct. Knowledge dropped into my bones like I'd always had it and just forgot.

The first was stealth — real stealth.

Not just crouching low and hoping no one noticed me. I could move through terrain like a shadow, part of the brush, silent in every step. Leaves didn't crunch. Branches didn't snap. My body just knew how to flow through the world like I belonged there.

Unless I wanted to be seen, I wouldn't be.

Better yet, I could leave small signs behind — barely noticeable marks, a bent blade of grass, a nudge in a tree's bark. Nothing anyone else would catch, but if Jasper needed to find me, he'd know exactly where I went.

I wasn't just sneaky.

I was the forest when I wanted to be.

The second gift was even more grounded — more brutal.

Hunting.

Not just chasing something down — I knew how to track. Read footprints, broken twigs, scattered feathers. I could find a creature in the wild and end it fast. Use what I needed. Bait the next kill with what I didn't. Skin it, bleed it, strip it down with clean cuts like I'd done it a hundred times.

I could feed myself anywhere.

Didn't matter if it had fur, scales, or fangs.

And then there was the spell — tucked into my head like a survival trick passed down from some ancient, starving god.

"Очисти плоть. Удали яд. Даруй пищу."

Cleanse the flesh. Remove the poison. Give food.

Three words. One chant. I say them, and any meat — no matter how rotten, venomous, or cursed — becomes safe to eat.

Not tasty. Not gourmet.

Just safe.

Which, in the right moment, is the difference between walking and dying.

I started the Harley, and we went off.

We rode into Boise just before dawn.

The city crept up on us — scattered lights on the horizon, then highway signs, then gas stations and strip malls lining the edges like a moat. The Harley rumbled through it all, steady beneath us, carrying the weight of our gear, our exhaustion, and whatever the hell was now sitting inside me.

Jasper was quiet the whole way. Not unusual. But it wasn't the tired kind of quiet — it was the watching kind.

I didn't blame him.

We rolled through empty streets until we found a cheap motel with a flickering vacancy sign. The kind of place with a cracked ice machine and carpets that smelled like mildew and someone else's cigarettes.

I pulled into the lot and shut the bike down. The engine clicked as it cooled, and silence settled in like a blanket. For a minute, we just sat there.

Then Jasper slid off and stretched. "I'll get the key," he said, voice low.

I nodded and stayed with the bike, staring at the quiet city.

I didn't feel tired. Not in the usual way. The wind and the road had worn me down, sure, but underneath that, I felt sharp. Alert. Ready to vanish into the city or follow a blood trail for miles if I had to.

Jasper came back a few minutes later, holding a plastic key card and a room number scrawled on the back of a receipt. "Room 12," he said. "And yes, I checked the sheets."

We grabbed our gear and headed toward the door, boots scuffing over cracked pavement.

CP Bank: 300cp

Perks earned this chapter:

100cp Silent Stalker (Peter Pan) [Illusion] The natives of the island are masters of stealth, and can creep around through the underbrush without making a sound. It is almost as if you have blended in with the forest. Unless you intentionally make yourself noticeable, those without significant perception skills will not spot you until you attack. In addition, you can leave small clues behind you to alert companions – and only them – of your trail so they can follow in turn.

100cp Hunter (Fate/Legends - Baba Yaga) [Benevolence] Food is necessary for all creatures with bone and skin. And in this cruel land it can be hard to come by. At least you may have an easier time than most, as you are a skilled hunter. Tracking your prey and shooting them dead, to later butcher and bleed them and even make bait out of what you don't feel like eating is all an option to you. With this also comes knowledge of a handy spell that makes poisonous flesh edible. Situational but in the right circumstances the difference between a starving or full stomach.

Milestones reached this chapter: None

Last edited: Apr 5, 2025

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Room 12 wasn't much — two lumpy beds, flickering ceiling light, and a bathroom that smelled vaguely like bleach and sadness. But it was warm, and the door locked, so we weren't complaining.

I dropped my gear by the foot of the bed and moved to the window, peeling back the curtain just enough to glance out.

Jasper was already watching.

"Something?" I asked.

"Not something," he said, nodding toward the next window over. "Someone."

I followed his line of sight.

Room 13.

The curtain on their window was cracked just like ours — and behind the glass, a pair of sharp eyes was watching us right back.

A girl.

Thirteen, maybe. Dark hair in a messy ponytail, wearing a ripped hoodie over a tank top, one leg kicked up on the chair like she owned the world. She didn't flinch when I met her gaze.

Didn't smile either.

She just stared — calm, curious, like we were animals in a cage and she was trying to figure out what kind.

She looked wild. Not in the monster sense. Just... feral energy.

She saw us watching.

Didn't hide.

Just raised one eyebrow, then disappeared behind her curtain.

I let mine fall back into place.

"Well," I said, "that's probably fine."

Jasper sat down slowly. "You think she's one of us?"

"Either that or Boise public schools got a serious discipline problem."

For most of the day, it was a low-key staring contest between us and the kid next door.

Every so often I'd pull the curtain back to check the parking lot — and there she'd be, doing the same. No attempt to hide it. Just watching, casual as anything. Sometimes she had a bag of chips. Once she flipped me off. I gave her a lazy salute back. Jasper muttered something about "having a bad feeling about this" and tried to take a nap with a towel over his face.

Eventually, late afternoon rolled in, and she finally left. Hoodie up, backpack slung over one shoulder, she walked off down the street like she had business and anyone dumb enough to ask about it was going to get decked.

"Guess that's our window," I said, pulling off my boots.

"You gonna go make friends?"

"Nah," I said, already collapsing onto the mattress. "Gonna sleep. Try not to let any divine weirdness in while I'm unconscious."

"Not promising anything."

I closed my eyes and was out within minutes.

Then the dream started.

It didn't hit all at once — it trickled in, cold and strange.

a forest — thick and dark. No light above. No path below. Just trees packed tight like bones, and somewhere in the middle of it, a roar.

Loud. Animal.

And angry.

I turned — now I was on a highway. Empty. Flat.

Dead straight into the horizon.

And barreling toward me was a wall of dust, wide as the sky, fast as a tidal wave, swallowing everything in its path.

I couldn't move.

Just watched it come.

Closer.

I woke up like I'd just been yanked out of a freezing lake.

Sweat clung to my back, my chest, the sheets — everything was damp. My heart was thumping like I'd sprinted a mile, and for a second I forgot where I was.

Just the beige walls, the whine of a weak AC unit, and the muffled buzz of traffic outside.

"...You okay?" came Jasper's voice, half-muffled through a towel covering his face.

I sat up, rubbed my eyes, still catching my breath. "Weird dream."

The towel didn't move. "Monster weird or metaphor weird?"

"Metaphor weird," I muttered. "Mostly. Dust storm, a dark forest with some kind of pissed-off roar in the middle of it."

Jasper peeked one eye out from under the towel. "Yeah, that's not a restful nap."

"Nope," I said, swinging my legs off the side of the bed. "Got like thirty minutes of actual sleep and a free trailer for a horror movie in return."

He stretched, groaning. "You think it meant something?"

"Dunno. Probably. Don't have a psychology degree."

I grabbed the bottle of water by the bed, took a swig, and wiped my face with the edge of my shirt.

"Just great," I muttered. "I finally try to catch some sleep, and my brain turns into a mythological haunted house."

Jasper flopped back and threw the towel over his face again. "Welcome to being a demigod. No refunds."

After splashing water on my face and brushing my teeth with one of those travel-size tubes that always taste like mint and regret, I climbed back into bed.

This time, I actually slept.

No dreams. No dust storms. No forest roars or cryptic chests.

Just quiet.

Darkness.

Rest.

Until the pounding on the door.

BANG-BANG-BANG.

I groaned, rolled over, and blinked at the ceiling. "You've got to be kidding me."

Jasper stirred under his towel cocoon. "What now?"

Another BANG — loud and urgent.

I swung out of bed, crossed the room, and unlocked the door.

The second the latch clicked, it burst open.

She stormed in — the girl from next door.

Her hoodie was torn, blood streaked down one arm, and there was a nasty gash across her shoulder. She was breathing hard, knuckles scraped raw, and her eyes locked on mine like I was the only thing keeping her vertical.

"Don't ask," she snapped, brushing past me into the room.

Jasper sat up slowly. "...Okay."

She dropped onto the foot of my bed, wincing as she clutched her side.

"Monster?" I asked, closing the door behind her.

"Duh."

Then she glanced at me, blood running down her forearm, and added through gritted teeth:

"You got a first aid kit, or what?"

I grabbed the first aid kit from the bag by the dresser and dropped down to one knee beside her.

"Let me see," I said.

She hesitated for half a second, then shrugged off her torn hoodie. Beneath it was a tank top soaked with blood down one side, the cut across her shoulder raw and nasty but not deep enough to be life-threatening. Still, it looked like it hurt like hell.

She hissed through her teeth as I cleaned the wound with an alcohol wipe. "God, that stings."

"Yeah," I said. "That means it's working."

She gave me a sideways look. "You always this charming?"

"Only when I'm sleep-deprived and patching up someone who kicked my motel door in."

She didn't argue.

Jasper hovered nearby, arms crossed, watching but letting me work.

"Name?" I asked.

"Rhea."

"Like the Titan?"

"No idea. Unclaimed."

That tracked. She had the vibe — rough around the edges, independent, pissed at the world but still alive. Definitely a fighter.

I wrapped her shoulder tight with gauze, then taped it down.

She winced but powered through it. "I was hitchhiking from Spokane. Heard rumors about a safe place. Camp. You know the one.

"Camp Half-Blood," Jasper confirmed quietly.

"Yeah. That." She pulled the tape from between her teeth and helped hold the wrap in place. "Driver ditched me two towns back. Car blew a tire. Next morning, he was gone. Just his boots and a half-empty soda bottle."

"Monster?" I asked.

"Probably. But he looked normal until then. I've been stuck here for a week. Every night they get a little closer. Today was the first time one got bold enough to try me in broad daylight."

"You kill it?"

She smirked. "Eventually."

I sat back on my heels, tossing the used wipes into the trash. "Well. Congrats. You found some company that isn't trying to eat you."

She rolled her neck and leaned back on one hand. "Lucky me."

Rhea let out a slow breath and leaned back against the wall, one knee propped up, the other leg dangling off the edge of the bed.

I tossed the kit back into my bag and sat across from her, arms resting on my knees.

Jasper finally spoke up from the other bed. "You said you've been stuck here a week? No contact with any other demigods?"

She shook her head. "No satyr, no godly dreams, no glowing parent symbols. Just monster patrol and motel waffles."

Jasper frowned. "That's a long time to go unnoticed. Especially for someone as... obvious as you."

She narrowed her eyes. "Obvious?"

"You've got 'Ares' written all over your posture."

"Still unclaimed," she said, crossing her arms. "So screw that."

The room went quiet for a second. Just the hum of the AC and the distant sound of a truck on the highway outside.

I stood and stretched, walking to the window. Pulled back the curtain an inch and peeked out.

Empty lot.

Empty street.

Nothing unusual.

But the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up.

I sniffed the air — nothing definite. Asphalt. Hot metal. A trace of blood, probably Rhea's. But underneath that... something dry, fluffy, moldy.

"I don't think your monster problem's finished," I said.

Rhea sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"

"Something's still out there."

She grabbed her hoodie, wincing as she slipped it back on. "Then I guess we wait for it to knock."

"Or," I said, glancing back at them, "we hunt it first."

I stepped back from the window and let the curtain fall into place. The air in the room felt too still now — like something was holding its breath just outside the walls.

"Alright," I said, grabbing my jacket and slinging it over my shoulders. "Rhea, you stay here. Patch up. Keep Jasper company."

Rhea gave me a skeptical look. "You're going out alone?"

I nodded. "If something's circling us, I'm not waiting for it to take another shot. Better to nip it in the bud before it gets bold again."

"Big talk, tough guy," she muttered, adjusting her hoodie. "You sure you're the hunter type?"

I didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

I moved to the door, quietly checking the locks and hinges. My steps were light — quieter than they should've been. The weight of the suns' gift sat easy in my muscles now, like I'd been trained for this all my life.

Jasper started to say something — probably a warning, probably telling me to wait — but I was already moving.

I slipped out into the cool Boise night, shutting the door behind me with barely a sound.

The parking lot was empty.

The motel lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement.

I breathed in.

There — that dry scent again. Tangled with old blood and ash. Faint, but close.

I kept low and moved fast, silent across the gravel, senses stretching outward.

Time to hunt.

I tracked them across two rooftops before I saw the roost.

Middle of downtown Boise, on top of an old parking garage — crumbling concrete, busted floodlights, reeking of feathers, piss, and blood. Griffons. Three of them, big ones, settled near a pile of trash and bones like they owned the place.

I moved low, silent, hugging the ledge until I was close enough to strike.

I didn't wait.

I lunged from the shadows, claws out, and tore through the nearest one before it even lifted its head — straight across the throat. Blood sprayed, and the beast let out a choking shriek as it collapsed into golden dust.

The other two were up in a flash. One took off into the air, screeching. The other came at me — fast, beak open, talons raised.

It hit hard.

Claws slashed across my chest, tore through my hoodie, and raked deep into the muscle. Hot blood ran down my ribs. I staggered, grit my teeth—

Then I snapped.

The pain didn't slow me down — it pissed me off.

I roared and slammed into it, dragging it to the roof. My claws dug into its belly, ripping straight up. Feathers and blood flew. It thrashed, but I was already on top of it, slamming my fist down again and again until it dissolved under me in a burst of gold dust and broken bone.

The last one swooped in from above, screeching like it thought it had the upper hand.

I looked up, chest bleeding, and grinned.

"Come on, then."

It dove — beak first — and I met it with a leap.

We collided mid-air. It tore into my shoulder, and I slammed my claws into its side. It shrieked as I twisted and drove both blades into its ribs, anchoring it as we crashed back onto the rooftop.

It dissolved under me just like the others.

I stood, panting, blood dripping down my arms and chest, cuts burning — but I didn't feel weak.

I felt alive.

I looked around the rooftop, scanning the nest they'd made. Bones. Shredded clothing. A few broken weapons.

And two large eggs, speckled gold and brown, nestled in the corner under a tarp.

I limped over, crouched beside them, wiped some dust from my arm, and stared.

"Huh," I muttered.

"I wonder how much protein these bad boys have?"

The walk back to the motel wasn't long, but dragging two griffon eggs while bleeding out of my side made it feel like a hike through hell.

Still, I wasn't limping, the wound was closing.

I was riding the adrenaline — chest cut up, hoodie torn, blood drying across my ribs — but my steps were steady. Calm. The city around me didn't even notice.

Halfway down the block, some guy outside a bus stop — ratty coat, holding a cup of dollar store coffee — looked up and squinted.

"Hey, man," he said, pointing at the sack. "Those ostrich eggs?"

I didn't miss a beat.

"Whole Foods. Just opened a block down."

He nodded like that made perfect sense. "Nice. Thanks."

I kept walking.

Then—

The suns came back.

My vision swam for a second — that now-familiar space behind my eyes going dark as the black suns hung in the void.

And one of them shined.

My skin stung.

The blue tattoos along my arms and chest writhed beneath my skin like ink coming to life.

Then the knowledge hit.

How to fight.

With swords. Spears. Shields. Knives. Axes. Improvised weapons. How to parry, feint, disarm. Footwork. Balance. Timing. The difference between a clean kill and a long, brutal one.

And somewhere behind it all — the memory of a woman.

Clad in golden armor, head to toe. Wings of the same gold stretched behind her, glowing. Her face hidden, her spear steady. A teacher.

She never spoke in the vision.

She just watched me learn.

When I came back to myself, I was standing outside the motel, hip shimming the door handle.

Still holding the eggs.

"…Damn," I muttered, staring down at my ink-streaked arms, the norse motif was more obvious now.

"I'm scary now."

I kicked the door open with my foot and stepped in, holding one griffon egg in each arm like they were footballs. My shirt was half-shredded, blood crusted across my side and shoulder, but I couldn't help the grin pulling at my face.

Jasper looked up from where he was sitting on the bed and blinked at the sight.

Rhea stared. Then her eyes locked on my mouth.

"Okay, what is wrong with your teeth?" she asked, pointing. "You look like you could bite through a car door."

I raised an eyebrow. "Is it obvious?"

She just kept staring, wide-eyed.

Jasper didn't even blink at the blood or the eggs.

"You got the griffons?" she asked, already putting the pieces together.

I nodded and stepped further into the room, setting the eggs carefully on the small table near the window.

"They were roosting on top of a parking garage."

Jasper looked at me again, frowning. "Griffons can fly. How'd you get them?"

"I jumped."

He squinted. "You jumped?"

"Yep."

There was a pause.

Rhea glanced between us, then down at the eggs. "Are these gonna hatch? Because I'm not cleaning up baby monster crap."

"They're not warm," I said. "Probably wouldn't have made it anyway."

She made a face and stepped away from the table. "Still creepy."

Jasper walked over, leaned down, and examined one. "And you just carried them here?"

"Had to cradle them like babies," I said, pulling off my ruined hoodie. "Real maternal bonding moment."

Rhea shook her head. "You are the weirdest person I've ever met."

"Thanks."

I flopped onto the bed with a grunt, hands behind my head.

I was tired. Caked in blood. And more dangerous than I'd ever felt in my life.

And for once?

I was comfortable.

The next morning, the motel room smelled like onions, butter, and something that definitely wasn't USDA-approved poultry.

I was hunched over the tiny, ancient stovetop by the window — the kind with the coil burners that took three hours to heat up and burned everything unevenly. I'd picked up supplies from the nearest supermarket at sunrise: onions, green peppers, mushrooms, a chunk of cheddar, some questionable deli ham, and a loaf of bread that claimed to be "artisan" but probably came from a industrial bakery.

And, of course, one griffon egg.

I cracked it into a metal mixing bowl, and the yolk was massive — rich gold, a little redder then "normal", thicker than anything from a chicken. The whites had a faint shimmer to them, almost magical-looking, but the smell? It was good. Gamey, but not rotten.

Still. Just to be safe...

I muttered the chant under my breath:

"Очисти плоть. Удали яд. Даруй пищу."

Cleanse the flesh. Remove the poison. Give food.

The yolk shimmered once, softly. Then settled. Felt right.

I poured the mix into the skillet and it sizzled like any other egg. A little darker in color, maybe, but smelled amazing once I added the onions and peppers. The mushrooms browned up nice, the cheese melted perfectly, and once I folded it all together into a heavy, golden omelet the size of my forearm, I stepped back to admire the masterpiece.

Rhea sat on the edge of her bed, eyeing it like it might explode. Jasper peeked over his book from the corner.

"You actually cooked a monster egg," he said.

"Correction," I replied, grabbing a fork. "I cooked the mother of all omelets."

Rhea sniffed the air, then slowly reached for her fork. "If I grow feathers after this, I'm kicking your ass."

"Totally fair."

I took the first bite — hot, savory, perfect.

"...Alright," I said with a grin, "someone call Gordon Ramsay. Because this is some serious gourmet shit."

CP Bank: 100cp

Perks earned this chapter:

300cp Chooser of the Slain (God Of War (2018)) [Destruction]

You have trained in the ways of the Valkyrie to the point where you now match the Queen of the Valkyrie, Sigrun, in terms of sheer skill in combat. While your physical abilities may be greater or lesser, your ability with weapons, both natural and created, now deals far more damage then they would in the hands of others.

Milestones reached this chapter:

Apes together strong!!! : Meet your first demigod: 100 cp

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Apr 6, 2025

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Rhea gave in first.

She cut off a bite, stared at it for a second, then popped it into her mouth with a shrug. Chewed. Chewed some more. Her brows lifted just slightly.

"…It's good," she admitted, surprised. "Like, actually good."

Jasper took a piece next, a little more hesitant. He chewed slowly, eyebrows furrowing.

"Tastes a bit… metallic."

I nodded. "Probably healthy. Rich in iron."

Rhea snorted. "Yeah, I can feel my hemoglobin levels rising already."

I was halfway through my own slice, and yeah, they weren't wrong. There was a faint tang — like licking a copper coin — but it wasn't bad. Just… dense. Meaty. Like the protein equivalent of getting punched in the ribs by a personal trainer.

"You think eating monster eggs is safe long-term?" Jasper asked, glancing toward the second one still sitting on the table.

I shrugged. "Safer than eating roadkill. Plus, I cooked it. And magic-chanted it. It's probably cleaner than half the stuff in fast food."

Rhea finished her portion and tossed the fork onto the plate. "If this is what the wild tastes like, I could get used to it."

"Remind me to write a cookbook," I muttered. "Camp Cuisine: Eat What You Kill."

Jasper gave me a look. "I feel like that would be banned in at least thirty states."

"Only the soft ones."

The second egg sat untouched for now, gleaming faintly in the morning light.

But for now, we had breakfast.

And it was damn good.

After breakfast, we headed out to the parking lot, the early Boise sun casting long shadows over the pavement. The Harley sat there like a faithful warhorse — clean, tuned, and somehow purring even while it was off. The cyclops mechanic back in Seattle had worked some serious magic. It looked, and felt, like it was ready to cross the continent and then some.

"Okay," I said, eyeing it. "It's in great shape. Only problem now is... us."

Rhea crossed her arms. "You're telling me that beast of a motorcycle can't fit three demigods?"

"She's a war machine," I said. "Not a minivan."

Jasper walked around the bike, tapping one of the reinforced saddlebags. "The engine can handle it now. Weight distribution's our only problem. Rhea rides on the back. I take middle. Lucas drives."

Rhea raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think you get the middle?"

"Because I'm the smallest," he said, deadpan. "And you hit things."

"…Fair."

I pulled out some extra straps and bungee cords from the rear pouch. "We'll tie the gear tight, shift the packs forward. You can lean back on the supply bag. I'll rig some paracord to give you an anchor strap if things get bumpy."

Rhea gave me a look. "If I go flying because of your rig job, I'm throwing you off the Grand Canyon."

"Noted."

She took the helmet I tossed her and gave the bike another once-over. "Alright. Not bad. Actually looks kinda mean now."

Jasper ran his hand along the tank. "It should. We've rebuilt half of it by now."

"Yeah," I said, tossing a leg over the seat. "She's not just a bike anymore."

Rhea shrugged. "Well. Let's see how long this machine lasts before fate throws something stupid at us."

I smiled. "Give it ten minutes."

The Harley was flying smooth down I-84. Engine purring like a big metal cat, tires gripping the pavement like it owed us rent. The weather was good, sky was clear, and the road was mostly empty — perfect conditions for zoning out with one IPod jammed in and Foo Fighters blasting at skull-shaking volume.

I was in the zone — throttle steady, wind in my face, music in my blood.

Behind me? Total chaos.

Rhea and Jasper were yelling at each other, probably having the loudest heart-to-heart in the history of ever. But the combination of wind, helmets, and my music meant I was only catching parts of it.

"SO I LEFT SPOKANE AFTER THE WHOLE GAS STATION BLEW UP—!"

"WHAT?!" I shouted, not turning around, still trying to hold the line.

"GAS STATION! BLEW UP!" Rhea yelled again, like that explained anything.

"WHY?!" I screamed.

"I THINK THERE WAS A MANTICORE OR MAYBE A HELLHOUND! IT HAD TENTACLES—!"

"TENTACLES?!"

"IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN TWO MONSTERS! ONE WAS ON FIRE!"

"I CAN'T HEAR SHIT!"

"I WAS HIDING UNDER A ROTTING TRUCK BED FOR SIX HOURS—!"

"WHY DID YOU STAY THERE?!"

"IT WAS WARM!!"

I almost missed a turn from laughing. Swerved a bit. Jasper made some kind of panicked noise and clutched my jacket like I was driving a roller coaster off the rails.

"THIS IS NOT HOW HUMANS TRAVEL!" he shouted toward my ear.

"WELCOME TO THE FUTURE!" I shouted back.

"SO THEN I FOUND A WRENCH IN THE TRASH AND I STABBED IT IN THE EYE—!"

"A WHAT?!"

"A WRENCH, LUCAS!! A WRENCH!! I DON'T KNOW WHY IT WORKED!"

"STOP STABBING THINGS WITH TOOLS!"

"IT WORKED!"

Jasper tried yelling something about monsters adapting, but it just came out as wind-garbled noise.

I gave up trying to hear anything. Cranked the volume a little higher, just enough for the music to drown out the backseat insanity.

But yeah. This was fine.

The tires screeched a little as I took the curve harder than I probably should've, the frame groaning under the weight of three demigods and a mountain of survival gear strapped to the back.

Jasper let out a noise somewhere between a dying bird and a scream.

"WE'RE FINE!" I shouted over my shoulder.

"No, we're not!" he yelled back, voice wobbling with every bump.

Rhea just laughed behind him like she was having the time of her life. "Come on, nerds! Where's your sense of adventure?!"

I grinned under my helmet, eyes locked on the road. The highway stretched out ahead of us, long and endless, the kind of empty that only exists in the middle of nowhere America. The sky was bright, and the engine was purring like it had something to prove.

My plan was simple: Salt Lake City by late afternoon, Fort Collins by sundown — if the wind stayed low, the roads stayed clear, and the gods didn't throw something ridiculous in our way. It wasn't impossible. Just really stupid. My favorite kind of plan.

"You know," I shouted, "we might make it just north of Fort Collins before we lose the sun!"

Jasper shouted something I didn't catch — probably "Are you insane?" or "This isn't sustainable!" but it was lost to the wind and Pearl Jam thundering in my ears.

Didn't matter.

The road was ours, the sun was climbing, and the Harley was eating up mile after mile like a beast reborn.

If nothing stopped us?

We'd make it.

If something did?

Well, I'd already fought griffons and cooked their unborn children for breakfast.

Whatever came next?

I'd find a way to kill it, too.

We were about halfway between Boise and Salt Lake when Rhea started tapping the back of Jasper's helmet like she was hitting a vending machine.

I slowed the bike and shouted, "What?!"

She leaned to the side, yelling past Jasper. "I gotta pee, dude!"

Of course.

I pulled off onto a gravel turnout on the edge of a wooded area — nothing major, just a thin line of trees between the highway and a dried-up creek bed. A few old tire tracks suggested truckers had used the spot before us, probably for similar reasons.

Rhea hopped off before the engine stopped rattling and sprinted toward the trees, flipping us off over her shoulder as she vanished into the brush.

"Charming," I muttered, pulling the kickstand down and stretching my back.

Jasper slid off next, wincing and rubbing his legs. "If you make me ride middle again tomorrow, I'm tying myself to the handlebars."

I barely heard him.

Because that's when the wind shifted.

And I smelled it.

Not rot. Not blood. Not sulfur or wet dog or any of the usual monster-scent greatest hits.

This was… earthy.

Thick fur. Wet pine. A heavy, musk-soaked scent like old forest and damp rocks.

And something else underneath it — something wrong.

Jasper caught my expression. "What is it?"

I didn't answer.

Just stood still, nose twitching slightly, letting my new senses do the work.

Rhea called from the trees, her voice casual. "I'm good! Just gimme a sec to find a not-prickly spot!"

Still no danger tone in her voice.

But I was already scanning the treeline.

Low branches moved. Birds had gone silent.

And that smell was getting stronger.

Something was nearby.

Big.

Close.

"…Stay here," I muttered, claws already starting to slip free from my knuckles with a metallic snikt.

Jasper's eyes widened. "What is it?"

I left Jasper by the bike with a sharp look that meant "stay put or get eaten."

I crept deeper into the trees, every step quiet, every breath controlled.

The smell was getting worse. Musky. Sweaty. Like old gym socks, and a zoo enclosure all stewing in the summer heat. Mixed with the sharp, coppery tang of fresh blood.

I'd smelled monsters before.

This wasn't that.

This was… something else.

I pushed past a thicket of brush and froze.

There, in a clearing not twenty feet ahead, was a thing I never thought I'd actually see.

Bigfoot.

I'm not joking.

He was real.

And he was massive — like "bend-a-stop-sign-in-half" massive. Covered in thick, matted fur the color of mulch. Arms longer than they should be. Shoulders broad enough to carry a truck bed. And crouched over something on the ground.

A deer. A stag, maybe.

Dead. Broken. Bleeding into the mossy earth.

And Bigfoot? He was eating it. Just casually pulling it apart with one giant hand and ripping hunks of meat from its side like it was jerky.

My brain kind of stalled.

This wasn't a monster from the usual playbook. This wasn't Greek or even something I could look up in a book Jasper carried.

This was Bigfoot. Bigfoot.

The cryptid.

The blurry photo.

The tabloid cover.

And here I was — standing alone in the woods — watching him have lunch.

What the hell.

What the actual hell.

I crouched instinctively, trying to stay hidden, heart pounding like a war drum. My hunter instincts said wait, watch, learn.

But the rest of me was just standing there screaming internally like:

"OH COOL, WE FOUND BIGFOOT. HE'S REAL. HE'S GIANT. HE EATS DEER RAW. AND NOW I'M HERE, GREAT."

He hadn't seen me yet.

Which was good.

Because I had no idea what you're supposed to do when you catch Bigfoot mid-snack.

Shoot it? Bow? Offer it jerky?

No idea.

But I didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Because right now, I was in a standoff with the universe's weirdest practical joke come to life.

I stayed crouched behind the brush for a good thirty seconds, heart hammering against my ribs, trying to make sense of the absolute insanity in front of me.

Bigfoot.

Real.

Furry.

And eating a deer like it owed him money.

He hadn't noticed me yet.

Which would've been a great time to back away slowly like a normal person.

But no.

I stood up.

Because apparently I don't have survival instincts — I have main character syndrome.

"Uh…" I cleared my throat, taking a slow step into the clearing. "Hey, big guy."

The thing stopped chewing.

Its massive head snapped up, blood still smeared across its face, glowing yellow eyes locking onto mine like I'd just interrupted something very private.

I held up my hands. "Not here to fight. Just… kind of amazed you exist. You, uh… you're doing great. Love the, uh—" I motioned vaguely to his bloody lunch. "—rugged wilderness aesthetic."

We stared at each other.

One long, tense beat.

Then?

Bigfoot's eyes went wide.

His whole body jerked like I'd hit him with a stun baton.

And then he bolted.

Straight into the woods, tearing through brush and trees like a moose on fire. The ground shook under his footsteps. Branches snapped like twigs. Within seconds, he was gone — just a blur of brown fur and crashing foliage.

Silence fell over the clearing, minus the buzzing of flies around the half-eaten stag.

I stood there, still frozen, hands halfway up in a surrender pose.

"…Cool," I muttered.

"Found Bigfoot. Scared the shit out of Bigfoot."

I turned around and started heading back toward the bike, shaking my head.

"Gonna be real fun explaining this one."

I broke through the brush a minute later, boots crunching gravel as I made my way back toward the bike.

Rhea was zipping up her hoodie and stretching like she'd just had the most relaxing forest moment of her life.

Jasper was pacing nervously by the Harley, eyes flicking between the trees like he expected something to leap out at any moment.

They both looked up when they saw me.

"Everything good?" Jasper asked.

Rhea raised an eyebrow. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

"Worse," I said, still catching my breath. "Bigfoot."

They both stared at me.

"…You mean like a really big foot?" Rhea asked slowly.

"No," I said. "The Bigfoot. Eight feet tall. Covered in fur. Eating a deer raw. Yellow eyes. Took off running the second I said hi."

Rhea snorted. "Dude. You saw a bear."

"That walked on two legs?"

"Some bears do that."

"This one had fingers."

Jasper folded his arms. "Are we sure it wasn't a Minotaur? Or maybe a Leshen? You've been running on griffon egg fumes all morning."

"Guys." I pointed back toward the woods. "I know what I saw. It was Bigfoot. Like, tabloid Bigfoot. Cryptid edition."

Rhea looked at Jasper, then back at me. "You get hit in the head back there?"

"No!"

Pause.

"…Maybe."

Jasper sighed, clearly trying to be the voice of reason. "Look, we believe you think you saw Bigfoot."

"Oh, don't 'we believe you think you saw it' me."

"I'm just saying," he said, raising his hands, "in our world, Bigfoot's probably just a low-level monster with a good PR team."

"Great," I muttered. "Even Bigfoot doesn't get taken seriously."

Rhea rolled her eyes and climbed back onto the bike. "Come on, Bigfoot Whisperer. We've got miles to burn and I wanna hit Fort Collins before dark."

I muttered something under my breath, threw a leg over the Harley, and started the engine.

Next time I saw him, I was getting a selfie.

We hit the road again.

The sun was riding low in the sky now, casting long gold streaks over the asphalt as the Harley tore down the highway. The engine still purred like a dream, even with the weight of three demigods and all our gear.

Rhea had taken to resting her helmet against the back of Jasper's, humming some off-key tune that vibrated through all of us.

Jasper just muttered to himself occasionally, probably calculating whether the wind resistance would kill him before the monsters did.

Me? I kept my eyes on the road.

The Bigfoot encounter was still rattling around in my brain, even if they didn't buy it. It wasn't just that he was real — it was how real. Grounded. Natural. He wasn't part of the flashy monster crew that came at you teeth-first.

He was just… there.

Existing.

Which, somehow, made it creepier.

The miles passed fast after that. Long stretches of desert and scrub, the occasional rest stop, a few signs pointing toward Salt Lake.

The sun was low by the time we rolled into the city — sky a wash of deep oranges and purples, the mountains casting jagged shadows across the buildings. The air was dry, cooler now, but sharp in the lungs after a day on the bike.

Salt Lake City rose up around us like a gridlocked oasis — wide streets, clean architecture, and a strange stillness, like the whole place was holding its breath.

We pulled into a gas station on the edge of town, one of those truck-stop joints with too many security cameras and a broken soda machine buzzing in the corner.

I killed the engine, and all three of us slowly dismounted like our bones had fused to the bike.

Rhea cracked her neck. "Gods, my spine is legally dust."

"I can't feel my knees," Jasper muttered.

I popped the helmet off and ruffled my hair. "We made it, though."

Rhea pointed at the glowing sign of a sketchy motel down the block. "You think that place has roaches or bedbugs?"

"Why not both?"

We grinned.

The motel looked like it might collapse if you sneezed too hard, so we agreed to ditch check-in for now and head a block down to a diner that had a flickering neon sign and the irresistible smell of grilled meat and grease.

"The Silver Spoon."

Charming.

Classic chrome-and-vinyl booth setup, checkerboard floors, laminated menus older than any of us, and a waitress who looked like she hadn't smiled since the Reagan administration. Perfect.

We grabbed a booth by the window. I sat on one side, stretching my legs out. Rhea and Jasper flopped into the other.

Rhea grabbed the menu and squinted at it. "What the hell is a 'Meat Mountain'?"

Jasper looked over her shoulder. "I think it's just a pile of every meat they serve… on pancakes?"

"...I want it."

"I'm going with soup," Jasper muttered. "Something soft. I think my organs are bruised."

The waitress rolled up without a word, chewing gum with the dead-eyed precision of someone who'd transcended time. We ordered. She left. And we were alone.

For a few minutes, it was actually… peaceful.

The buzz of the neon. The clink of silverware. The smell of bacon and old coffee.

Then I noticed something.

Out of the corner of my eye — a guy sitting alone in a booth near the back. Maybe thirty feet away. Didn't look special. Hoodie, ball cap, hunched over a slice of pie.

But he hadn't moved once.

Hadn't eaten.

Hadn't blinked.

I frowned. Tried not to stare.

Rhea must've caught the shift in my face because she stopped mid-rant about how she was going to demolish the Meat Mountain and muttered, "What?"

"Back booth," I said quietly. "Guy hasn't moved."

Jasper turned to glance, subtle. "Maybe he's just tired."

"No plate. Just pie. He hasn't touched it."

And something about the way he was sitting — still, too still — was tripping alarms deep in my gut.

"Don't do anything stupid," Jasper whispered.

"Define stupid," I replied.

We tried to ignore him.

The guy in the back booth stayed exactly where he was — hunched, still, not even pretending to poke at his untouched slice of pie. Rhea kept glancing at him between bites, and even Jasper had stopped stirring his soup.

But nothing happened.

No sudden movement. No demonic transformation. Just stillness, like someone had paused him mid-frame.

The food came.

Rhea absolutely demolished the Meat Mountain like she was getting revenge. Jasper stuck to his soup, throwing me side-eyes every couple minutes. I picked at a plate of eggs and hash browns, pretending not to think about the guy.

But the thing was — I couldn't stop thinking about him.

He was just there.

Still.

Like a statue in a hoodie.

Finally, I pushed my plate away and stood up.

"Gonna hit the bathroom," I said, mostly for the formality.

Rhea barely looked up. "Careful not to slip and fall on the toilet"

Jasper offered a weak smile. "Don't die."

"Not planning to."

I walked past the counter, down a narrow hallway lined with faded photos of Salt Lake in the '50s, and pushed open the men's room door.

Dim light. Flickering bulb.

Cracked mirror. One urinal. One stall.

Everything smelled like bleach and cheap air freshener trying to lose a fight with mold.

I stepped up to the sink, ran the water, splashed my face.

The cold helped.

But even in here, something felt… off.

I leaned over the sink, water dripping from my face, breathing slow and tight.

Then the suns came back.

That black space behind my eyes flared to life — three void-dark orbs hanging in the airless dark.

And one of them shined.

The pressure in my chest was building — hot, tight, coiled behind my ribs like I'd swallowed a live ember.

It crawled up my mouth, tingling behind my teeth, lighting up my sinuses with heat.

I leaned over the sink, gritting my jaw.

Then—

Burp.

A small one.

But it lit.

A golf ball-sized fireball slipped from my mouth, hissed through the air, and smacked against the tile near the soap dispenser in a quick fwump. A black scorch mark bloomed where it hit, smoke curling from it like a burnt marshmallow.

I stared at the wall, blinking.

"…Okay."

I looked up into the mirror.

And froze.

No one else.

But I felt it — that prickling sense that someone was behind me. That dense, pressure-in-the-air kind of presence that screams not alone, the smell coming from just behind me.

I turned.

And there he was.

The guy from the booth.

Standing directly behind me in the middle of the cramped bathroom — hoodie up, skin pale and dry like old paper, eyes sunken and dark. His mouth was shut, his posture too still. Not natural still — dead still.

But what made my stomach turn?

I snapped my head back to the mirror.

He wasn't there.

Just me.

I turned back to face him, pulse thudding in my ears.

He was still there.

Still watching.

No breath.

No reflection.

That was a vampire.

I stared at him — at the thing with no reflection, dead eyes, and death-still posture — and my gut said run.

But I didn't.

I just muttered:

"Fuck it."

The burning sensation in my jaw shifted, focused. I could feel the new holes inside my mouth — right next to my salivary glands — start to pulse. Pressure built behind my tongue, thick and acidic, like something coiled deep in my throat was spitting up gasoline.

I opened my mouth—

And unleashed hell.

A narrow stream of liquid fire blasted from my lips — white-hot venom igniting the second it hit air, like a miniature flamethrower bursting forward with a violent hiss. It struck the vampire dead in the chest, lighting up his hoodie in an instant.

The vampire didn't scream.

He charged.

Right through the fire.

Eyes glowing red, body smoking, fangs out.

He hit me like a train.

We slammed into the tile wall and I went full instinct.

Claws out. Arms moving faster than I could think. I hacked into him like I was carving through raw meat — slicing through his ribs, his arms, chunks of dead flesh peeling back in strips.

And he kept coming.

Even on fire. Even torn apart.

So I did the only logical thing.

I bit him.

Hard.

My teeth sank deep into his neck. I could feel the venom pouring into him, fire boiling under his skin from the inside out.

He shrieked.

First sound he'd made.

I slammed him back into the sink, he crashed through it and into the pipes, when the water touched him he screamed even harder, I tore at his throat with my teeth like a rabid animal, and didn't stop until—

Poof.

Golden dust.

Ash everywhere.

Just me, breathing hard, crouched in the middle of a scorched, wrecked diner bathroom with blood on my mouth and burn marks on the ceiling.

I stood up, wiped my face, looked at the mirror.

And muttered, grinning:

"Some motherfucker always trying to ice skate uphill."

I took a second to rinse my face on the busted pipe — mostly out of habit. It didn't help. I still looked like a bloodied-up pyro who'd just wrestled a furnace and won.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Just me again. Eyes a little wilder than before. Still grinning.

Then I stepped out into the diner.

The bell above the door jingled like nothing happened. Fryers hissed from the kitchen. A waitress refilled coffee for a trucker who hadn't looked up once.

Rhea and Jasper were still in the booth, finishing their food.

Jasper looked up first.

"Dude, were you gone for like twenty minutes or—" He froze mid-sentence. Eyes scanned my scorched hoodie, the burn marks on my sleeves, and the faint curl of smoke rising from my collar.

Rhea followed his gaze.

Then she leaned forward. "Did… did you get into a fight in there?"

I slid back into the booth like it was any other Tuesday.

"Yeah," I said, grabbing what was left of my hash browns and taking a bite. "Vampire."

Jasper blinked. "A what?"

"Vampire," I said with my mouth half full. "For real this time, a real vampire. No reflection. Spit fire at him but it didn't kill him fast enough so I had to bite him."

Rhea stared. "You bit a vampire?"

"He bit me first. I just bit harder."

Jasper covered his face with both hands. "I leave you alone for five minutes—"

I shrugged and chewed.

Behind me, the waitress passed by with a coffee pot and didn't even glance at the scorched cuffs of my hoodie.

Business as usual.

Jasper was still giving me the you-need-to-be-studied-in-a-lab look.

Rhea leaned forward across the table, eyes narrowed like she was trying to figure out if I was joking, insane, or just... me.

"So," she said slowly, "you're spitting fire now."

"Yep."

"Like, full flamethrower."

"Mini version," I said, picking up my water. "Might upgrade later."

Jasper looked from me to his barely-touched soup like it suddenly wasn't safe to eat anymore. "How? Why? You weren't doing this yesterday."

"You know," I said, wiping some ash off my sleeve. "It just… started."

They both stared at me.

I looked around to make sure no one else was watching — the diner staff couldn't care less, and the one old guy at the counter was too invested in his scrambled eggs to notice us.

So I leaned in, tilted my head back slightly, and opened my mouth.

Both of them recoiled instantly.

"Dude, what the hell—" Rhea hissed.

Inside, just under my tongue and behind my teeth, they could see it — a faint greenish fluid pooling, slick and bubbling just a bit, like it was already itching to ignite.

Jasper covered his mouth. "That's venom."

"Yeah," I said, closing my jaw carefully. "Watch this."

I turned toward the window, leaned to the side, and let loose a small luggie onto the concrete just outside.

The second it hit the air—

FWOOM.

A burst of orange flame flared up with a sharp hiss, then faded, leaving a small black scorch mark on the sidewalk.

"…Told you," I said, sipping my water like nothing happened.

Rhea blinked, then turned back to her toast like she needed to focus on something safe.

"So…" Jasper said cautiously. "This just… keeps happening to you?"

"Yeah. It's like…" I leaned back, thinking. "You know when you stare at the sun too long, and when you blink, there's that black orb burned into your vision?"

They both nodded.

"Well, I see those before I get something new. Just floating behind my eyes."

"And they… what?" Rhea asked.

"When one lights up," I said slowly, "something changes. I get something. A power. A skill."

Jasper leaned forward, whispering, "That's not a god's blessing."

"Don't think so."

They sat in silence for a second.

Finally, Rhea stabbed the last bit of her Meat Mountain and said, "Well… I'm just glad you're on our side."

Jasper nodded. "Yeah. Let's keep it that way."

I grinned.

"Anyway," I said, swallowing, "I'm good now. You guys ready to hit the road?"

Rhea raised her eyebrows. "Yeah, just as soon as I finish processing the fact that you drool venom, spit fire and mauled a vampire in a bathroom."

"I didn't maul," I said. "It was more like… tactical gnawing."

Jasper groaned.

I grinned.

We started going our way back to the bike. Road still waiting. And now, apparently, I was a walking venomous flamethrower with a mouth full of serrated teeth.

Neat.

CP Bank: 0cp

Perks earned this chapter: 100cp Bite of Uraeus (Egyptian Mythology) [Destruction] While the bite of a normal cobra burns well enough in the blood, the monsters of Duat are described as having venom even more fierce. Your teeth are now capable of producing potent venom and spitting it from your mouth, but this venom also ignites on contact with air, erupting into a great spray of flame. You are immune to the toxin of your own bite, and resistant to accidentally scorching yourself when spitting fire.

Milestones reached this chapter: none

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Apr 6, 2025

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Apr 7, 2025

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We rolled out of Salt Lake just as the sky started turning a weird hazy color.

The Harley purred beneath us, all three of us strapped in again, bags tight, gear humming with the usual "don't fall off at 80 mph" prayer.

I led us through the wide, clean streets of the city center. It was unnervingly quiet — too organized. Like a place designed by people who never expected to be chased by monsters.

As we turned a corner, we passed the Mormon temple — spires sharp against the sky, white stone almost glowing in the evening sun.

Jasper pointed at it over my shoulder. "Weird seeing a place like that after last night."

"Why?" I shouted back.

"I dunno!" he yelled. "Feels… stable. Like it doesn't belong in the same world where you bit a vampire to death."

Fair.

I didn't say anything, but I caught myself glancing at the temple as we passed.

It looked untouched.

Like nothing could ever scratch it.

Which made me wonder what it would take to get the divine to notice if something did.

We were already back on the open road before I could think too hard about it. The city faded behind us, mountains on either side, the horizon stretched long and empty.

Jasper tapped me on the shoulder.

"Where to next?"

I gave him a thumbs up and yelled back:

"Fort Collins! If the gods don't toss us into a volcano first!"

Rhea whooped behind him.

The wind picked up. The engine roared.

And the three of us kept going — one monster down, a thousand miles to go.

The sun was dipping behind the mountains when we pulled off the highway and into the woods.

Medicine Bow National Forest. Quiet, dense, the air thick with pine and the kind of peace that makes you a little nervous after too many days on the road.

We found a flat clearing tucked between some trees, far enough from the main road that the engine noise was gone, replaced by the sounds of wind in branches and birds calling out the end of the day.

I killed the engine. The Harley gave one last mechanical sigh before falling silent.

Jasper practically fell off the bike. "I can't feel my spine."

Rhea stretched with a groan. "That was way too much road in one day."

"Yeah," I muttered, popping the kickstand. "Time for a real stop."

We started setting up camp — the small folding tent we picked up at the Walmart back in Boise, unrolling sleeping bags, pulling out our stash of food and supplies. I got a small fire going with a bit of spit.

The flame glowed low and warm, painting the trees in flickering orange. Jasper laid back, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the growing field of stars above us.

"Y'know," he said, "if it weren't for the constant threat of death, this would actually be kinda nice."

Rhea snorted. "Don't jinx it."

I didn't say anything. Just sat by the fire, absently turning a stick in the flames. The forest was quiet. Too quiet.

"Let's not light the whole world up tonight," I muttered, glancing at the trees.

Jasper looked over. "What, no fire show?"

"I just wanna sleep without catching a cryptid mid-snack this time."

Rhea tossed me a protein bar. "Amen to that."

We ate. Talked a little. Watched the stars come out.

Just two half-bloods and a satyr by a fire, the woods breathing around us, and the long road still waiting tomorrow.

Rhea was lying back on her sleeping mat, chewing the last bite of her protein bar, arms folded under her head like she owned the woods. Jasper was cross-legged, staring into the flames like he was trying to read the future in the flickers.

For a while, no one spoke.

Then Rhea broke the silence.

"You know," she said, voice quiet, "I didn't think I'd make it this far."

Jasper glanced up. I kept still, watching her from across the fire.

"I was in Spokane," she went on, "hitching rides, hiding in warehouses, sleeping in a shipping crate one night. I got real good at not being seen. But every now and then, one of them would find me anyway. Some monster with too many teeth, or some guy with dead eyes who smelled like sulfur."

She paused, staring at the sky.

"I kept thinking I was just buying time. That I'd die before I figured out who my godly parent was. Before I got to that camp. Before I met anyone like me."

Jasper looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

I finally spoke.

"You're here now."

Rhea smirked. "Yeah. Chasing monsters and dodging vampires with the feral Alaska boy and the nervous goatman. Real upgrade."

"Still alive," Jasper muttered. "That counts for something."

She nodded, slowly. "It does."

The fire popped gently between us, casting soft shadows against the trees.

For a moment, the forest felt… calm.

Then I caught it.

Something in the wind.

My head turned instantly. My nostrils flared.

The warm scent of pine and smoke faded under something else — something wet. Metallic. Faint, but sharp. Like blood and moss and rotting leaves.

I sat up straight.

"What is it?" Rhea asked, already moving her hand toward the hunting knife strapped to her belt.

I didn't answer right away.

I stood up slowly, brushing ash off my palms, eyes scanning the tree line like it might blink back.

The scent was stronger now. Coppery. Reptilian. The kind of wrong that clung to your sinuses and didn't let go.

"Rhea," I said quietly, not taking my eyes off the dark.

She was already halfway to her feet, knife out.

"Protect Jasper."

Her eyes flicked to me. "You serious?"

"I'm gonna nip this in the bud."

Jasper looked up, pale. "You don't even know what it is."

"Don't need to."

Before they could argue, I was already moving — slipping into the trees, feet soft on the pine-needle-covered ground, the dark swallowing me whole like I belonged in it.

And in a way, I did.

My senses stretched out around me — ears twitching at every creak of bark, eyes adjusting to every shifting shadow. The scent trail curled between the trunks, old and heavy, slithering low to the ground.

I followed it.

I passed claw marks on a tree trunk. Long, deep grooves that looked like they'd been raked through hardwood like it was wet clay.

Droppings, too. Big. Twisted. Carnivorous.

Scales.

I crouched near one — palm-sized, black-green with a pearly underside, like armor peeled from a tank.

Whatever I was tracking, it wasn't small.

I kept going.

The trail curved up a rocky incline, past a dry creek bed, until I found the entrance — a cave tucked into the side of a hill, half-concealed by brush and shadows.

The smell hit like a wave.

Rot. Old kills. Reptile musk. Bone.

I crouched low just outside the mouth of the cave, the fire still sitting in the back of my throat like a loaded weapon.

I needed light.

So I let the pressure build.

The venom pooled under my tongue, burning softly, waiting. I leaned in just enough and hissed out a tight stream of air.

FWOOM.

A baseball-sized fireball spat from my mouth and shot into the cave, lighting up the stone like a flashbang dipped in napalm. The flame licked along the walls for a half-second before it sizzled out.

But I saw it.

Massive.

Coiled in the back of the cave like a serpent god, dark and glistening, thick as a truck's axle. Its scales shimmered black-green, blending into the rock. Smoke curled up from its nostrils. Its head was wide and blunt, with jaws lined in jagged teeth meant for shearing through bone.

And its eyes?

Gold.

Locked directly onto me.

And it did not blink.

"Yeah," I whispered, already grinning. "There you are."

My claws snikt out of my knuckles with a satisfying snap, catching the dim cave light.

I didn't wait.

I charged.

Boots slamming into the stone, heart hammering in my chest like war drums, grin wide and teeth sharp.

It let out a low growl — more like a rumble, deep and primal — just as I crossed the threshold.

The cave lit again, but not from fire.

From violence.

The Drakon reared back, its coils shifting with a low, thunderous hiss — massive body sliding against stone like a freight train coiling to strike.

I didn't slow down.

Didn't hesitate.

Didn't think.

I launched straight at its head, claws up, fire burning hot in my throat like a live grenade ready to blow.

It snapped its jaws at me—too slow.

I slid under them, hit the stone floor hard, rolled to my feet and slashed upward.

My claws tore through the soft underside of its chin — thick, rubbery skin parting like wet leather. A spurt of dark blood hit my jacket and sizzled on contact.

The Drakon roared.

It echoed through the entire forest.

It tried to coil, tried to crush — but I was already on top of it, digging into its neck, slashing at the thick hide with everything I had. The scent of burning scales filled the cave as I spat another stream of fire into its shoulder.

It thrashed, slammed me against the cave wall. Pain flared through my ribs, but I didn't stop. I bit into the thick muscle under its jaw, venom flooding into it from my fangs, igniting along the edges.

It howled, tried to retreat into the dark.

No chance.

I was on it again — claws ripping, fire spraying, my body moving on instinct now.

I sank both claws deep into the Drakon's eye — it shrieked and reared up, trying to shake me loose.

I held on.

I grinned.

"You're dinner," I snarled, and ripped.

The beast collapsed, its head smashing into the stone floor with a crunch that sent dust flying.

I stood over it, breathing hard, smoke curling from my lips, claws dripping black blood.

And for a second, I thought I'd won.

Then the cave floor shifted.

No — rose.

The Drakon's body uncoiled, muscle flexing like steel cables under pressure. One eye was gone, reduced to a sizzling pit from where I'd gouged it out — but the other flared wide and furious. Its tongue flicked once. Twice. The sound it made was deep and rattling, like the earth clearing its throat.

Then it struck.

It was faster this time — no rage-blind opening like before.

The tail came around like a whip and hit me full in the side.

I felt my organs turn to paste.

I flew across the cave, slammed into the wall hard enough to leave a dent in the stone, and crumpled in a heap.

I gasped, every nerve screaming. Blood in my mouth. I pushed myself to my knees, vision spinning.

The Drakon was already coming for me — maw wide, smoke hissing from between its teeth.

My claws twitched, half-retracted.

No time.

I lunged sideways, just avoiding the snapping jaws, and rolled behind a stalagmite.

The thing slammed into it a second later and shattered the rock like glass.

I spat blood.

Okay.

Not dead.

Definitely not dead.

It wasn't just some scaled animal — it was smart.

And angry.

The Drakon was on me before I could get to my feet.

It didn't lunge. It stomped.

One massive clawed limb came crashing down, pinning me to the cave floor like a nail through a board. I grunted, the wind knocked out of me as its full weight pressed down.

The Drakon's talons raked across my torso, tearing through skin, shredding muscle — but the adamantium frame beneath held. I could feel the flesh rip, blood pour, but my skeleton? That wasn't breaking.

Not today.

Pain burned red-hot in my nerves, but it sharpened my focus. My hands twitched, claws snikt-ing out like pure instinct.

I jammed both claws into the base of its leg — felt tendon, scale, and bone give way — and ripped sideways with a roar.

The limb tore free in a shower of thick, steaming blood.

The Drakon reared back with a bone-rattling screech, thrashing wildly as it stumbled off me.

I rolled to my feet, breath ragged, soaked in gore.

Then I rushed it.

No hesitation.

I slashed across its underbelly, opening a huge gash that spilled heat and viscera onto the cave floor.

The beast howled again — but I didn't stop there.

I dived in.

Straight into the wound, shoulder-first, carving deeper with each clawed thrust, dragging myself into the creature like a human scalpel.

It spasmed, body convulsing around me. I felt muscle clamp down, acid hissing from torn organs, the heat of a living furnace trying to cook me alive.

Didn't matter.

I carved through it all — lungs, guts, whatever passed for a heart — tearing it apart from the inside out.

I was a storm inside its chest cavity, a blur of claws, blood, and fury.

The Drakon thrashed wildly, smashing against the walls of the cave in panic.

And I was still inside it.

Still killing it.

The heat inside the Drakon was suffocating — steam, blood, smoke, and bile filling my lungs with every ragged breath.

Didn't stop me.

Couldn't.

I kept slashing, carving deeper into the pulsing meat and cords of muscle that wrapped around me. My claws tore through whatever they touched — slick organs, tough hide from the inside, arteries thicker than tree branches.

It couldn't shake me loose.

Every time it moved, I dug in deeper, claws ripping new trenches through its insides.

Then I felt the venom welling up again — bitter and sharp behind my teeth, coiled at the base of my tongue like liquid rage.

I spat it.

Again. And again.

Venom splashed across the wounds I'd torn open — and lit.

Fire exploded from the gashes, igniting the inside of the Drakon like a furnace turned inside out. The heat was unbearable, but it didn't burn me — it just added to the chaos, the pain, the destruction I was dealing from within.

I could feel its heartbeat faltering.

Could hear the air whistling wrong through its punctured lungs.

Could taste its end.

So I spat again — a fireball straight into the hollow of its chest, cooking what was left.

And then I slashed upward.

Through muscle. Bone. Scale.

And finally, with a scream that split the forest and echoed into the stars—

I burst out of the Drakon's chest, dragging myself through a hole I'd torn with tooth, claw, and fire.

The Drakon let out one final, wet, gurgling death sound — then it collapsed.

Steam rose off its corpse in thick curls. The walls of the cave were streaked with blood, scorch marks, and shredded viscera. I stood there, inside the wreckage, chest heaving, claws slick with gore, the faint smoke of venom-fire still wafting from my mouth.

Then—

Fwoosh.

It started to break down.

The massive body trembled, scales disintegrating like ash on the wind. Flesh turned to light, bones crumbled, and within seconds the entire monster exploded into a cloud of golden dust, filling the air like a god had shattered a star right in front of me.

I coughed, waved a hand through the haze, squinting into the glittering particles as they fell away.

And there — sitting on the cave floor, right where the Drakon's heart should've been — was something.

Something real.

I stepped closer, cautiously.

A pair of crocs.

Like, actual crocs.

Reptilian leather, dark green and black, a faint shimmer to them like the scales had been preserved. They looked worn in. Comfy. Lightweight. No logos. No tags.

Just… crocs.

Left behind by a death lizard from Greek nightmare zoology.

I stared at them.

Blinking.

Still dripping monster blood.

"…What the fuck."

I just stared at them.

Lying there on a patch of scorched stone, like the drakon had been hoarding comfort footwear like a dragon sitting on treasure.

They even had that weird "worn-in" curve, like they'd been custom-fit for me. Which made no sense.

Still covered in blood, I stepped forward and crouched down.

I sniffed them — purely out of instinct.

Didn't smell cursed. Didn't smell like drakon guts either. Just… leathery. Earthy. A faint trace of ozone, like old storms.

I poked one with a claw.

Nothing happened.

I sighed.

"God forgive me," I muttered.

And I took off my boots.

I slid my feet into the crocs.

They were perfect.

Like, stupidly comfortable. Cushioning. A little snug at the heel. Weirdly warm, but breathable. They even gripped well against the cave floor.

I wiggled my toes, still dripping in blood and monster ash, shirt torn, and now wearing mythic battle crocs.

I stared down at them.

"…These are amazing," I said aloud. "What the fuck."

The forest didn't make a sound as I walked back into camp.

Rhea was by the fire, sharpening her knife. Jasper sat cross-legged nearby, sketching in his notebook. Both of them looked up the moment I stepped into the clearing.

Jasper's eyes widened.

Rhea stood up fast.

They were both clocking the blood, the ripped clothes, the burns and claw marks, the dripping gore. Their faces shifted between "panic," "concern," and "are you a demon now?"

Then Rhea broke the silence.

"What the hell happened to you?"

I stepped into the firelight, flexing my fingers, claws halfway out, still caked in monster blood. "There was something in the woods."

"No shit," Jasper muttered.

"Big thing," I continued, like I wasn't drenched in gore. "Scaled. Smart. Mean. Took a bit to kill it."

Rhea narrowed her eyes. "How big are we talking?"

"About the size of a dump truck," I said. "Give or take."

Jasper blinked. "That wasn't just a monster, was it?"

"Nope." I grabbed a bottle of water from my bag and took a long swig. "It was a drakon."

That made them both go still.

"Like… Greek dragon drakon?" Rhea asked slowly.

"Yeah." I popped the cap back on the bottle. "Had to go inside it to finish the job."

They both just stared at me.

"I ripped it open from the inside," I added casually. "Venom. Claws. Bit a few organs on the way out."

Silence.

Then Jasper finally said, "You're disgusting."

"I'm effective," I corrected.

Rhea's eyes dropped to my feet. She tilted her head. "…Are those crocs?"

I looked down at the blood-splattered, beautifully reptilian leather crocs I had on.

Grinned.

"They were inside it. Gift drop. Check out the loot."

"You're telling me," Jasper said slowly, "that you murdered a drakon, exploded it from the inside, and it left you a pair of cursed jungle crocs?"

"I mean, they might be cursed. But they're super comfortable."

Rhea just dropped back to her seat and muttered, "I need therapy."

I stretched out near the fire, kicked my feet up on a log like I hadn't just committed mythic biological warfare.

"Anyway," I said, "we good for marshmallows or what?"

After the fire settled and I wiped most of the monster gunk off my face with a wet wipe, we got the marshmallows out.

Rhea found a few decent sticks nearby — and by found, I mean aggressively snapped them off a tree with a look that dared nature to complain. Jasper had a whole technique to roasting his — slow rotation, perfect browning. I stuck mine on my claw and then into the flame and let it catch fire like a caveman while my other hand played the lyre.

"Yours is charcoal," Jasper muttered, watching mine burn to a crisp.

"It's crispy," I corrected. "Texture."

The forest stayed quiet around us, just the crackle of the fire and the distant rustle of wind through pine.

Above, the stars started to really come out — not just the basic few you see in cities, but the whole sky, spilling open with constellations and cosmic dust.

Jasper leaned back on his elbows, pointed upward. "There — see that curve? That's part of the Great Bear."

"Ursa Major," Rhea said, flicking a bit of ash off her marshmallow.

"Yeah. And that one—" He pointed further left. "Orion. He's a jerk in the old stories, but he's easy to spot."

I stared upward too, jaw slack, marshmallow forgotten.

For a moment, we weren't demigods.

Just kids under a big, endless sky, listening to the world breathe around us.

Nobody was bleeding.

Nobody was hunting us.

It was… nice.

Eventually, the fire burned low. We packed up the last snacks, tossed some dirt on the coals, and crawled into our sleeping bags. Jasper mumbled something about constellations and Rhea kicked him in the shin, half-asleep.

I lay there for a while, staring at the stars between the trees, the crocs still on my feet like some ridiculous badge of honor.

And for once?

I let sleep take me without a fight.

The next morning, sunlight leaked through the trees in gold streams, cutting across our little clearing like divine spotlights. Birds were chirping again — which probably meant nothing terrifying was nearby. Yet.

Jasper was still curled in his sleeping bag, muttering in his sleep about constellations. Rhea had one arm flopped over her face to block the sun, snoring softly, knife still tucked under her pillow.

I stretched, quietly stepped out of camp, and looked down at my crocs.

They felt right. Comfortable. And somehow silent on the forest floor.

"Alright," I muttered, cracking my neck. "Let's get a real breakfast."

No more protein bars.

No more gas station jerky.

They deserved something hot.

The tracks led me deeper into the forest, where the grass grew tall and the shadows lay thick between the trees.

I dropped low, practically slithering through the brush, every step silent, controlled. My breath matched the rhythm of the wind. My scent? Buried under pine, moss, and the faint stink of drakon blood still clinging to my shirt.

Up ahead, the buck stood in the clearing — tall, broad-shouldered, antlers like a crown of bone. It was grazing, completely unaware of the apex predator slowly creeping through the undergrowth.

I got close.

Closer.

Every inch forward was deliberate. I could hear its breath now, the soft crunch of its teeth on grass. My fingers twitched. My claws itched under the skin.

Three feet.

Two.

One.

SNIKT.

My claws snapped out — and in a single motion, I swiped across its throat.

Clean.

The buck gave a soft, choking noise — stumbled — and dropped without a sound.

No mess.

Just a perfect, silent kill.

I crouched over it, one hand pressed to its side, whispering a soft thanks. Then I got to work — quick and practiced, just like I'd learned from that strange hunter's knowledge. Skin, gut, quarter. I only took what we'd eat, what I could carry.

Once I had the buck cleaned, I pulled out a coil of bungee cord from my gear bag — beat to hell, but still solid. I wrapped it tight around the deer's legs and slung it up over a sturdy branch, hauling the carcass high to keep it safe from predators and let it drain.

It swung gently in the cool morning breeze, a clean kill now prepped for final butchering.

But we weren't all meat-eaters.

I dusted my hands off and muttered, "Alright, time for Jasper's woodland buffet."

I headed back into the woods again, this time on a quieter kind of hunt. My claws stayed sheathed. I moved low through the brush, scanning the tree lines and undergrowth, letting the hunter's knowledge guide me.

I found a patch of mushrooms under a fallen log — not glowing, not slimy, not the kind that made you speak in tongues. I picked carefully, checking caps and stems just like the memory in my bones told me to.

A few yards off, a berry bush thrived in a sunlit patch — deep red, fat fruit clinging to the vine. I sampled one first. Tangy. Sweet. Not deadly. Jackpot.

I grabbed a handful of wild herbs too — soft, clean-smelling leaves that would do wonders over the fire. Maybe even make this feel like a real meal.

By the time I got back to the hanging buck, my arms were full of forest bounty and my boots—sorry, crocs—were damp with dew.

I dropped everything at the base of the tree, claws out, and got to work.

No wasted motion.

Skin, quarter, wrap.

Good cuts went into a clean backpack lined with extra cloth. Ribs, tenderloin, leg — all separated and packed.

By the time the sun was fully up, breakfast was prepped and ready for fire.

Now all that was left was waking the others.

I came strolling back into camp with a full backpack of prime cuts over one shoulder and a bundle of herbs, berries, and mushrooms in my free arm.

The sun was properly up now, slanting golden light through the trees. The fire from last night had burned down to soft coals, but still warm enough to get going again with a bit of spit.

Rhea was the first to stir — hair wild, blanket half-off, one boot still on like she'd passed out mid-sentence.

Jasper sat up second, blinking blearily through his curls like a confused housecat. "Mmh... is something cooking?"

I dropped the backpack by the fire with a heavy thump.

"Check out the haul."

Rhea sat up and squinted at me. "Wait. Is that—?"

"Fresh buck," I said casually, pulling out wrapped bundles. "Scouted, tracked, throat-slashed by yours truly."

I pulled the herbs and mushrooms from under my arm and dropped them neatly on a clean patch of cloth. "Also grabbed the forest's vegetarian section. Got berries, herbs, mushrooms—none of which will kill Jasper, probably."

Jasper blinked like he was still dreaming. "You… did all that this morning?"

"I woke up hungry."

Rhea whistled low, crawling over to check the meat. "You butchered this perfectly."

"Ripped a drakon apart from the inside yesterday," I said, crouching by the fire. "A deer's nothing."

She grinned. "Show-off."

"I think I'm gonna cry. Actual food. Like hot food. You're a monster, but you're my monster." Jasper said.

I grinned, starting to lay out the meal. "You know it."

Within minutes, the fire was back to life — flames crackling steady and hot while smoke curled lazily into the morning air.

I set up a makeshift spit between two forked branches, propped it over the fire, and started laying down strips of the buck on flat stones and skewers. The herbs went straight into the fire pit, sizzling against the heat and sending up the kind of smell that could make a monster stop hunting just to snack.

Jasper helped thread mushrooms and berries onto sticks like it was a sacred ritual, muttering something about "presentation" while his stomach growled loud enough to make Rhea laugh.

She was already tossing seasoning on one of the larger cuts like a pro, hands moving quick and practiced. "Didn't think I'd be waking up to a forest barbecue," she said.

I grinned. "Life's full of surprises."

"Most of ours involve claws and death."

"And occasionally, grilled venison."

The meat began to sizzle and pop — the sound of victory, of survival, of actual flavor. Smoke mixed with the morning breeze, rich and warm. My crocs were drying by the fire, and for the first time in days, we weren't running.

Just sitting.

Eating.

Existing.

Jasper took a bite of his herb-rubbed venison and immediately leaned back, eyes closing like he just ascended to Elysium. "Oh my gods."

"Told you," I said, chewing a mouthful of perfectly seared meat. "Not all monsters. Just most."

Rhea toasted a berry-mushroom skewer over the fire. "We should open a food truck," she said. "Call it Half-Blood Barbecue."

"Only if we serve it with a side of trauma and cryptid sightings," Jasper mumbled.

I laughed.

The forest didn't feel dangerous right now.

The shadows were still, the fire warm, and the air sweet with cooked meat and pine.

For a while, we just ate in peace.

And for demigods?

That's rare.

Rhea was on her second helping of venison — legs stretched out toward the fire, hair still a mess from sleep, but her eyes softer now, less guarded. She'd been quiet for a bit, chewing and watching the flames dance.

Then she said, out of nowhere, "I used to hunt with my mom."

Jasper and I both looked up.

She didn't sound sad — not exactly. Just… like she was remembering something with edges.

"Out in the woods," she went on. "Not like this, not full-on skinning and field-dressing, but she'd take me camping. Showed me how to track deer, how to walk quiet. How to sit still for hours without moving. We never shot anything. She just liked the quiet."

She poked at a stick of mushrooms turning golden over the coals.

"After a while, I figured out she wasn't really teaching me to hunt animals," she said. "She was teaching me how to hide. How to survive."

She looked up at us, just for a second.

"I think she knew something was going to happen. Maybe not what. But something."

The fire cracked gently between us.

"She's in a home now," Rhea said, voice steady. "Stopped recognizing me two years ago. Says weird things when she sleeps. Greek stuff. Myth words. Names. I didn't get it back then."

She glanced at me. "I do now."

Jasper looked down, his jaw tight but sympathetic. He didn't try to say anything back. Just nodded, real slow.

I reached over, handed her one of the better cuts from my stash. She took it without comment and bit in like she was starving.

"You think she was a demigod?" I asked.

"Probably not," she said around the food. "But she knew I wasn't normal."

We were finishing off the last of the food, bellies full and fire low, just riding that rare high of being not hunted for once.

Jasper was stretched out with a satisfied groan, arms behind his head, staring at the sky. "I think I actually forgot what being full felt like."

Rhea was gently cleaning her knife with a cloth, humming something under her breath. Her whole posture was looser now — more human than soldier.

I was leaning back against a log, letting the warmth of the fire seep into my legs, the weight of the food settling nicely in my gut.

And then—

I smelled it.

I sat up a little straighter, the smell still clinging to the inside of my nose.

Vanilla. Cocoa butter. Lavender.

Too far to be close — way too far. Ten miles, maybe more, just a trace riding the wind. But still strong enough for me to catch it, which meant it was loud on a scent level. Like it was meant to be noticed.

I glanced around, but nothing stirred.

Birds still chirping.

Squirrels still being annoying.

But my gut?

It didn't like it.

Rhea noticed me scanning the horizon. "Something up?"

I nodded slowly. "Caught a scent. Real faint. Way out — miles, maybe ten. But it's not normal."

Jasper blinked. "Normal how?"

"It smells like…" I shook my head, trying to piece it together. "Like someone dumped a bottle of cocoa butter lotion, vanilla extract, and sweat into a dryer sheet. Strong. Manufactured."

He wrinkled his nose. "Gross."

Rhea squinted at the treetops. "You think it's mortal?"

"That's the part that's weird," I said. "If it is, they're either soaking in perfume or… something's off. Nobody smells like that naturally."

Jasper leaned back. "We're way off the highway grid. Closest road's like twenty miles back. Nobody just wanders out here."

"Exactly," I muttered. "It shouldn't be here. Not this deep. Not this far."

And yet — there it was.

Faint.

Clinging to the wind.

"I'll check it out," I said, already rising to my feet and brushing pine needles off my pants. My voice was low, calm — like this was just another part of the morning routine.

Rhea met my eyes without hesitation. She already knew what to do.

"You know the deal."

She nodded once, sharp and steady, and pulled her dagger from its sheath in one smooth motion. The blade caught a glint of sunlight, just long enough to flash before she settled down beside Jasper.

He glanced between us, clearly not thrilled about being the protected one again, but he didn't argue. Just reached for the charm on his necklace and sat a little closer to her.

Rhea shuffled next to him, scanning the tree line as she lowered her voice. "Same drill. If it's trouble, we hold the line. If it's worse, we run."

I gave her a faint grin. "Try not to run into the deer carcass I left hanging."

"You left it up there?" Jasper asked.

"Think of it as forest security."

I took a slow breath and turned toward the northern trees, the scent still faint on the breeze. Still distant. Still wrong.

Then I slipped into the woods.

Quiet.

Invisible.

A ghost in crocs.

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Apr 7, 2025

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Apr 7, 2025

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Deeper in the Medicine Bow, where the forest grew dense and light barely touched the ground, four figures moved in silence.

They weren't just travelers.

They were Huntresses of Artemis — a forward scouting group, the sharpest edge of the goddess's spear.

Each one carried herself with discipline born from decades — or centuries — of experience. They wore light silver-and-grey cloaks, bows slung tight, blades strapped for fast draws. Moonlight caught faintly on their armor despite the thick canopy overhead.

At the front, their scout crouched low beside a patch of torn-up moss and scattered pine needles. Her fingers hovered over a gouge carved deep into the earth.

"Claw marks," she said quietly. "Heavy. At least drakon-sized."

The tallest of the group stepped forward, a black braid tucked under her hood, quiver bouncing lightly on her back. "Could be the same one. The trail leads north, just like the reports said."

Another, younger-looking girl with a silver band tied around her upper arm, frowned. "It fled here after it ate that demigod in Durango?"

"That's the theory," the scout replied. "Whatever it is, it's scared."

"Good," the fourth said — a quiet, stone-faced Huntress with two curved blades across her back. "Means it remembers what the Lady did to its kin."

The leader stepped into the center of the trail, eyes scanning the brush with practiced precision. She was older — not in looks, but in presence. Her voice carried the weight of command.

"We'll continue the sweep north. Spread ten yards apart. We find tracks, blood, ash, anything strange — signal."

"What if we run into locals?" the younger one asked.

The leader paused, then glanced back. "We're in deep woods. No locals out here. If someone's moving through this stretch of forest…It's probably also prey"

The Huntresses moved in practiced formation — four shadows gliding through the undergrowth, senses sharp, bows ready.

Conversation between them was low, clipped, professional.

"If it's injured, we'll have the advantage."

"Unless it's shedding. Drakons molt after a big feed."

"That one in the Rockies didn't. Took three of us to put it down."

"I still say that wasn't a true drakon," one muttered. "Too fast, too small, too smart."

The leader made a subtle hand signal — hold the line. They adjusted formation, spacing out into a staggered sweep across the terrain, eyes scanning the trees, the dirt, the sky.

One moment she had been there— the rookie, the one guarding their backs, bow at her side, eyes alert, breathing steady.

The next?

Just empty space where boots had touched moss, her path swallowed up without a trace. No snapped branches. No scuffed leaves. No scent trail.

The three remaining Huntresses pushed forward through the undergrowth, still sharp, still silent — unaware they were already a squad of three.

That changed when they came upon the deer carcass.

It was strung up high in a tree, legs bound neatly with bungee cord, body already quartered with brutal efficiency. A few wrapped cuts were missing, cleanly taken. But the rest?

Still hanging.

Still fresh.

Blood glistened on the bark, and beneath it the ground was dark and damp.

They slowed immediately, bows half-raised, instincts bristling.

One of them stepped closer and pointed. "Look at this."

Claw marks.

"Drakon?" one of them asked.

"No," said the leader, kneeling for a better look. "Drakons don't hang their kills. And they don't quarter game like a trained butcher."

She stood slowly, frowning at the scene. "And they don't usually touch the wildlife. Monsters go after demigods. Mortals. Anything with ichor. Not deer."

"Then what the hell does this?"

The leader's eyes narrowed.

"I saw something like this once," she said. "Back in the '30s. A thing from the south. Fed like a person. Hunted like a goddamn ghost. Needed flesh to regenerate."

She looked around the clearing, jaw tight. "If it's the same kind of thing, it's not hunting for food. It's trying to heal."

That's when they saw the tracks.

Bootprints.

Just one set.

They stared at them for a moment — then turned to each other.

And realized they were only two.

No noise.

No sign of struggle.

Just the faint rustling of leaves drifting in the wind, lazily falling where she'd stood seconds before.

The forest went still.

Too still.

The leader's hand slowly reached for an arrow.

"…We're not alone."

The leader took a slow step forward, eyes locked on the strange, heavy bootprints. Her voice was quiet but calm — a battle-worn steadiness in it.

"Fan out. Check the perimeter. Whatever did this isn't far."

She turned away from the tracks, glancing toward the treeline where the undergrowth thickened, motionless.

The other Huntress, the last one still at her side, suddenly stiffened.

Her bow snapped up.

"There—!"

Thwip.

The arrow vanished into the trees.

The leader spun back around, already reaching for her blade. "What did you see?"

But there was no answer.

Only wind.

And leaves swirling in the spot where the Huntress had stood.

She was gone.

No sound. No scream. Not even a broken twig.

Just silence.

Again.

The leader stared at the empty space, chest rising and falling, jaw clenched.

Then she slowly lowered her hand from the hilt of her blade, eyes narrowing.

Not fear.

Not panic.

Just understanding.

She was alone now.

The forest was too quiet.

No birds.

No insects.

Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath.

The last Huntress moved silently through the brush, blade drawn low, every sense straining. Her breathing was slow and deliberate — combat calm. But something was wrong. Very wrong.

She stepped over a fallen branch—

The ground exploded beneath her.

From a pile of dead leaves and dirt, arms shot up, thick and fast, wrapping around her throat in a sudden, crushing chokehold.

She reacted instantly, stabbing back over her shoulder with her dagger, quick and practiced. She felt the blade bite flesh, heard a grunt of pain — but the arms didn't let go.

She stabbed again. And again.

Red blood sprayed across the leaves.

Still, the grip held.

She could feel something hard under her blade, not armor — something dense, like bone wrapped in steel.

Her knees started to buckle. Her lungs burned. Her fingers went numb.

The world shrank.

But she kept stabbing.

Then, just before her vision went completely dark, a voice — low, surprised — hissed into her ear:

"Damn. That hurts."

The grip loosened slightly.

She turned her head, barely—

And saw a boy.

Not a man. A teenager.

Blond. Bloodied. Shirt torn and streaked with red. Eyes wild but not monstrous. Her jaw clenched in pain, but his grip wasn't crushing anymore — more like holding her up to keep her from collapsing.

And sticking out of his neck, buried clean through the muscle, was an arrow.

Her sister's.

She recognized the fletching — silver-dyed feather, black shaft, crescent-moon notch. The kind she'd only seen in one quiver.

His expression flickered. Confusion. Realization.

Then her knees gave out—

And the world went black.

I stumbled over a root with an aggravated grunt, two bodies slung over my shoulders like sacks of potatoes, a third and fourth being dragged behind me by makeshift rope harnesses around their arms.

"Gods above," I muttered through my teeth, the arrow still stuck in his neck, "do none of you believe in salads?"

The four girls were out cold — tied up, not too tight, just enough to keep them from trying to stab me again when they woke up. All of them dressed the same: moon-colored cloaks, silver trim, weapons built for speed and precision. They looked... organized. Too organized.

But they weren't monster enough to go straight for the kill.

And they looked like girls. Teenagers. Late teens, maybe a little older. So instead of carving my way through them, I had chosen the smarter option:

Drag them back to camp and let Jasper do the freak-out.

I had no idea who they were or what they were. Maybe some kind of elite monster squad. Maybe a cursed coven. Or maybe they were just mortals way too deep into cosplaying murder.

But their human shape was enough to make me pause.

Besides — Jasper was the satyr. Magical monster radar was his job.

I paused to shift the weight on my shoulders. One of the girls groaned faintly. I adjusted my grip, not unkindly, but not gently either.

"Hey, you wake up and try anything, I swear I'll roll you down a hill," I warned under my breath. "I'm very done getting stabbed today."

The arrow in my neck throbbed to remind me it was still there.

A wicked grin twitched across my face. Rhea's gonna flip when she sees this.

That alone made the haul worth it.

Still, as I kept trudging through the forest, dragging and carrying four unconscious, suspiciously armed, and definitely too-damn-heavy strangers…

I let out a wheeze.

"...At least it's a good workout."

I broke the treeline like a bad dream, dragging four bodies behind me and looking like I'd fought a wood chipper and won.

Rhea looked up from the fire. Knife in hand. Paused mid-sharpening.

Jasper froze, stick still in the pot like he was making oatmeal for gods.

"Okay," I started, already tired of myself. "Before anyone freaks out—"

"Are those PEOPLE?!" Jasper screeched.

"No idea."

I dropped two of them off my shoulders with a solid thud, then turned and gave the other two a good tug. The rope held. Still tied. Still breathing. One of them had twitched a little during the walk, but nothing dangerous. Probably.

They were dressed weird. Silver cloaks, all matching. Pretty sure one of them had moon earrings. Real cult vibes.

Rhea stood up, eyes wide, focused on—

Yeah.

The arrow still sticking out of my neck.

"Lucas—what the—why is that still in you?!"

I gave her a grin. "Wanted to show it off before I pulled it. Looks cool, right?"

"No!"

"Too late."

I grabbed the shaft and yanked.

SHNK.

Pain flared white-hot. Blood went everywhere — all down my shirt, onto the pine needles, a few splashes hit my crocs. I winced but didn't make a sound.

Jasper hit the dirt behind a log like someone threw a grenade, dodging the blood droplets.

Rhea flinched. "You absolute dumbass—"

"I'm fine," I said, spitting a little blood. "Just... wet."

I wiped my hand across my jaw, now even bloodier. Great. I looked like a horror movie extra.

"Let me guess," Rhea snapped. "You don't know who they are?"

"Not a damn clue."

She looked at the four tied-up girls like she was trying to decide if I was the monster.

"All I know," I continued, "is they were deep in the woods, shot me in the neck, didn't turn to gold dust when I knocked 'em out, and they look human enough for goat-boy to check before I start setting fires."

Jasper peeked up from the log. "You mean me?"

"Do you see another goat-legged guy within five miles?"

I sat down on a log with a groan. My hands were red, my shirt was trashed and some blood had travel down my lungs, irritating me.

"Anyway," I said, kicking my feet up on a rock, "they're all tied up. No claws, no fangs, no growling. You tell me what I'm working with, Jasper."

He crept closer, wide-eyed, nose twitching as he examined the nearest girl.

Rhea crossed her arms and stared at me like I'd brought home a bear cub and said "it followed me."

I held up both hands, still covered in blood.

"I did a nice thing, okay?"

Jasper crouched next to one of the girls, sniffed once, leaned in, sniffed again — and immediately froze.

I raised an eyebrow. "What? She got B.O. or something?"

He didn't answer right away.

Instead, he slowly turned his head toward me, ears twitching, face pale.

Then he looked at the cloaks again.

The silver trim. The pins. The whole moon-core uniform.

"Oh," he said, very softly. "Oh no."

Rhea frowned. "What?"

He sat back on his heels like someone had unplugged him. "Lucas, you idiot."

I blinked. "Not the first time I've heard that, but you're gonna have to be more specific."

"These aren't monsters."

I gestured broadly to the very tied-up, very unconscious pile of girls. "No kidding. I brought them back alive. You're welcome."

He looked at me, then Rhea, then back to me like we were children who'd just accidentally summoned a demon in gym class.

"They're Huntresses," he said flatly. "Of Artemis."

Rhea blinked. "The moon lady?"

"Yeah." Jasper pointed at the silver pins on their cloaks. "The moon lady's immortal, monster-killing death squad."

I stared at the girls.

Then back at Jasper.

"…Are they gonna be mad?"

Jasper looked like he wanted to die. "They're going to kill you."

Rhea stepped closer, now visibly more tense. "Wait, Artemis has followers? I thought she was all 'leave me alone and let me vibe with wolves'."

"They are the wolves," Jasper snapped. "They don't age, they don't date, they don't miss, and if they think you're a threat, you poof."

I looked down at them again. One had a bit of dried blood on her temple where I'd elbowed her into a tree. Another still had grass in her hair. All of them were tied like hogs and dragged through the forest.

"...So I should probably untie them?"

Jasper let out a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "You hogtied Artemis's hand-picked elite warriors."

"In my defense," I said, pointing at my neck, "one of them shot me."

"I don't think that's gonna hold up in moon court."

Rhea muttered, "This is why I carry poison."

I sighed and stood up, brushing bark off my ruined shirt. "Fine. We'll explain it to them when they wake up."

Jasper stared at me. "Explain what, exactly?"

I shrugged. "That it was a misunderstanding."

Rhea crossed her arms. "Lucas, you tackled one into the dirt, choked another unconscious, and dragged all four back like firewood."

"And yet," I said, holding up a hand, "I didn't kill them. I'm a pacifist now."

Jasper groaned. "This is how Greek tragedies start."

Jasper was pacing now, muttering something to the gods about "unwilling accomplice status" and "do not smite the satyr." Rhea had taken to sharpening her knife again with far more intensity than necessary, muttering "death squad" under her breath like it was a warning to herself.

Me?

I was standing over the tied-up warriors of a literal immortal goddess, hands on my hips, wondering how I could make "my bad" sound legally binding in celestial court.

Then one of them stirred.

The silver-haired one with the lean arms and a jaw like she'd been carved out of moonlight. Her fingers twitched. Her eyes fluttered.

And then they snapped open.

I barely had time to step back before her gaze locked on me.

She didn't scream.

Didn't struggle.

She just… stared.

At me.

At the blood.

At the rest of her squad, hogtied on the ground.

Then back to me.

"Oh. Good," I said, lifting a hand in a friendly, vaguely guilty wave. "You're awake."

She didn't respond.

But the rage in her eyes was pure moonfire.

"Okay," I said slowly, crouching beside her but staying just out of stabbing range. "Look. Before you start throwing knives or cursing my ancestors, let me explain. Big misunderstanding. I thought you were all monsters and after the first one of you guys tried to hurt me, I defended myself, you didn't explode into monster dust—so I figured, 'hey, maybe not monsters, maybe just some very aggressive forest girls,' and brought you back for... identification."

Her lips parted slightly.

"…Identification," she repeated, voice dry and cold.

"Yeah. Satyr confirmed you're not monsters. So you're free to go." I paused. "Soon."

Jasper stepped beside me, eyes wide and apologetic. "Hi. Um. Please don't smite us. Especially him."

The Huntress's eyes narrowed. She shifted slightly, testing the ropes. "Where are the others?"

"Uh… here," I said, stepping aside to show her the three other girls, still tied up and unconscious. "They're fine! Just… napping. Voluntarily. Kind of."

Rhea finally chimed in. "He dragged them all here like they were firewood."

"Rhea—"

"What?" she shrugged. "She deserves the context."

The Huntress's jaw tightened. "You tied up four of Artemis's chosen and brought us back to your camp."

I winced. "...I'm not great with first impressions."

She blinked once, then slowly, calmly said:

"I'm going to kill you when I get out of these ropes."

"Cool cool cool," I said, standing quickly. "Still gonna untie you though. Because I'm a gentleman."

"You're a corpse."

Jasper groaned behind me. "I told you."

I crouched beside the silver-haired one — the first one I clocked during the ambush — and started untying her wrists. The rope was tight; I'd made sure of that. Not because I was scared, but because I wasn't about to deal with four of them waking up mid-fight.

"I didn't kill you," I said casually, working the knots loose. "Could've. Didn't."

Her eyes were open now, cold and steady. Watching every movement I made like she was mentally calculating how many bones she'd snap if she got the chance.

"You hit me from behind," she said flatly. "Choked me out."

"Yeah, well. You girls were stalking through the woods like something out of a cryptid documentary. You didn't announce yourselves, and you were armed. I reacted."

Her eyes dropped to the blood on my shirt. The now-healed wound at my neck was nothing but dried crimson and a torn collar. She could see I was perfectly fine — no limp, no weakness, not even flinching.

"You should be dead," she muttered.

I snorted. "Welcome to the club. A lot of things have tried."

I pulled the last knot free and stepped back as she sat up. Her movements were fluid, controlled — even hogtied and unconscious five minutes ago, she carried herself like a predator. Definitely not mortal.

She rubbed her wrists but made no move to attack.

Yet, that was... Good?

I moved to the next one. A little blood on her temple. I'd caught her hard across the head. My bad. Sort of. Still breathing, though.

"You're not scared," Vala said, although I didn't know her name, watching me.

"Nope."

"You attacked us. Knocked us unconscious. Tied us up."

"Correct."

"You're not afraid of what happens when we get free?"

I looked up, grinning. "You can break all my ribs and stab me in the spleen and I'll be walking again in ten minutes. Might even fix my posture."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're insane."

"Probably."

Rhea, watching from the fire, rolled her eyes. "You're also doing this because you feel a little guilty, admit it."

I gave her a look. "If I felt guilty, I'd be cooking them breakfast."

Jasper muttered from his spot near a tree, "If Artemis hears about this, she's going to nail your soul to a wall."

"Cool," I said, moving on to the third girl. "Maybe she can explain why her squad jumped me like I stole their lunch money."

Vala spoke again, voice low. "They didn't know what you were."

"Neither did I," I said, tossing her a shrug. "That's why I tied you up instead of gutting you."

The second Huntress groaned softly as I pulled off her ropes.

Vala watched her wake up, then looked at me.

"I won't stop her if she attacks you."

I gave her a crooked grin.

"Wouldn't expect you to."

The second Huntress stirred as I finished untying her ankles.

Short black hair. Split lip. She'd been the second to go down — caught her with a body-check when she lunged at me in the trees. She hit the dirt hard. Stayed there.

Her eyes fluttered open, instantly sharpening from dazed to focused like someone flipped a switch. Her gaze shot to Vala, then to the other two girls still out, then to me — crouched beside her, still bloodstained, still breathing, still looking like I'd rolled through a war and come out on top.

"Good morning," I said. "Friendly tip — don't freak out."

She freaked out.

Not with a scream, but with a sudden lunge, fist snapping toward my face with soldier-fast reflex.

I didn't block.

Didn't flinch.

Her knuckles crashed against my cheekbone with a satisfying crack, and my head snapped to the side.

Pain flared. Dull. Fading.

Already healing.

I turned back to her, jaw twitching back into place with a little pop, blood dripping from the corner of my mouth — but I was still grinning with my shark teeth.

"Feel better?" I asked.

She blinked.

Stared.

Looked down at her now-freed limbs.

Then back at me.

"You're still alive?"

I wiped the blood off my mouth with the back of my hand. "Story of my life."

Vala made a sound — not quite a laugh. More like a huff of disbelief.

"She's the one who shot you," she said.

I gave the girl a two-finger salute. "Great aim."

She looked rattled now. Confused.

Not just because I was still alive — but because I wasn't angry.

No threats. No retribution. Just… there.

"Why aren't you fighting back?" she asked.

"Because I already won," I said simply. "And because if I fight you again, it won't be fair."

She stared at me, jaw clenched, breathing heavy.

But she didn't hit me again.

Just sat there, processing.

By the time I untied the fourth girl — taller, silver braids, moon earrings, and a mean bruise across her jaw — all four of them were sitting up, awake, and looking at me like I was either a wild animal or a particularly rude forest spirit.

They didn't talk.

Not yet.

Just stared, the tension between us tight enough to snap.

I sat back on my heels, hands resting on my knees. "Okay. You're all alive. Mostly intact. I didn't gut anyone. Can we agree that's, like, a decent baseline for conversation?"

None of them answered.

Rhea finally stood up from the fire and crossed her arms, knife still in hand. Her expression screamed 'what the actual hell are we doing'.

She pointed at the Huntresses. "Okay, look. I don't know who you four are or what sparkly murder cult you rolled in from, but I've gotta say—he's not lying. He probably could've finished it, but he didn't."

Vala turned her cold stare on Rhea. "You're defending him?"

Rhea snorted. "Please. He's a lunatic. All I'm saying is, when he came back from that griffon hunt, he was covered in blood, feathers, and looked like a meatball that lost a bar fight. And still walked it off."

I smirked. "You forgot the part where I brought back breakfast."

Rhea ignored him. "Point is, he's dumb as hell, reckless, a menace with knives for hands sometimes, but still human. He just… bounces back. Annoyingly fast."

The scarred girl squinted. "He took a direct shot through the neck. He shouldn't be able to speak, let alone smile."

Jasper, still hiding half behind a log, spoke up. "Yeah, he's… durable. Like, a lot. But he's not a monster. I'd know. I've got the built-in nose for that."

Vala watched me for a long moment, studying me like I was a puzzle with pieces she didn't want to admit might fit.

"You're not what I expected," she said finally.

"Most people don't expect to get suplexed in the woods," I replied.

She didn't smile.

But she didn't reach for a weapon either.

Progress.

"You're still reckless," she added.

"Absolutely."

"You attacked first."

"In my defense," I said, raising a hand, "you were very sneaky and also kind of scary."

"Fair," said the one with braids under her breath.

Vala exhaled through her nose. "You're lucky I don't kill you anyway."

Lucas gave her a lopsided grin. "Yeah, well… luck's kind of my thing."

The air stayed thick for another few beats. Four elite Huntresses, freed from their ropes but still coiled like wolves. Me, still bloody but grinning like an idiot. Rhea sharpening her knife, Jasper debating a full-blown panic nap.

Finally, I broke the silence.

"Alright. Can we talk like people now, or am I gonna get hit again for breathing too loud?"

Vala didn't blink. "Why would we talk to you?"

"Because you're still here," I said, sitting down on a rock, arms resting on my knees. "And I didn't kill any of you. And also, I'm curious. What the hell are Huntresses of an Olympian doing this forest?"

The girl with the braids exchanged a glance with Vala, then said, "We were tracking something. A drakon."

"Big one," added the scarred one. "It ate a demigod in Colorado. We tracked it north, lost it somewhere in this forest."

My grin widened before I could help myself.

"Ohhh. That guy."

Vala narrowed her eyes. "You saw it?"

I didn't answer right away.

Instead, I leaned back, crocs lifted slightly off the ground, the soles facing the group.

"Check 'em."

Their eyes dropped to my feet.

To the leather crocs I'd been stomping around in for less then a day.

"Reptilian leather," I said proudly. "Custom. Still warm when I carved 'em out of his gut. Little toasty, honestly."

Vala stared at the shoes like they were cursed.

"You're telling me… you killed the drakon."

"Not just killed," I said. "I went inside it and rearranged its internal design."

Rhea groaned in the background. "He's been unbearable about it."

"I earned the bragging rights."

Jasper nodded solemnly. "He did. We had marshmallows after. It was a whole thing."

The four Huntresses looked at each other, not entirely sure whether to believe it — or if they were just too tired to call me a liar.

Vala pinched the bridge of her nose. "We spent three weeks tracking that thing."

"And I stumbled into it," I said with a wink.

"Gods help me," she muttered.

"Yeah," I said, patting my croc. "They're really good for arch support too, and don't let me start about "sport mode"."

The Huntresses all stared at me like they were waiting for the punchline.

But none came.

Just me, proudly wiggling my croc-covered toes — made from monster leather, no less — like I was flexing designer boots instead of wearable evidence of violence.

The one with braids finally broke the silence, arms crossed. "You're an idiot."

"Not denying it," I said cheerfully.

"You killed the drakon alone?" asked the scarred one.

"Solo mission. Rhea and Jasper were back at camp. I followed the scent. Found the cave. Got chomped a little. Got inside a little. Spit fire. Did some manual remodeling. Boom — barbecue time."

Braids shook her head. "That's insane."

"It was hungry," I said, shrugging. "I was angrier."

Vala narrowed her eyes at me, then glanced at the others. You could see it on their faces: irritation, exhaustion, and just the tiniest hint of begrudging respect.

She sighed. "You're a mess."

"You're not the first to say that," I said, standing and dusting off my jeans. "But I'm starting to think I'm a useful mess."

"Barely," Rhea muttered, but she was smiling under it.

Jasper finally stepped out from behind his log bunker. "Can we maybe… not fight for like five minutes?"

I raised my hands. "Hey, I'm done. Look at me — peaceful, heroic, only moderately stabbed today."

Vala gave me a long look, then nodded once.

"Alright. Truce. For now."

I lowered my hands. "See? Progress."

She added, "But if you tie me up again, I will personally throw you into the next drakon we find."

"Noted."

The rest of the Huntresses began gathering themselves — straightening gear, checking weapons, brushing dirt off armor. Professionals, through and through. Even bloodied, even tied up, they carried themselves like they could still take out a war band if they had to.

And me?

I just stood there, bloody, proud, and still wearing crocs made from something I'd murdered.

Yeah. This was going great.

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Last edited: Apr 7, 2025

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Magus explorator

Apr 7, 2025

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