Before us stretched a grand table of unspeakable glory, a feast that defied reason, overflowing with fruits glistening like gemstones, vegetables rich and ripe beyond comprehension, dishes sculpted by hands far more delicate than mortal ones. It was not just food—it was longing made tangible, a banquet of hunger for the soul.

  But Persephone’s Garden did not smell of food. No roasted meats sizzling over open flames, no fresh bread steaming from golden crusts. No, the air here carried something far more insidious. It carried memories—memories of happiness, of warmth, of love lost and love nearly forgotten.

  It smelled like home.

  And that was more terrifying than anything I had faced in this cursed underworld.

  For me, the scent brought back the flower garden behind my childhood home, the one Cassidy and I had spent hours upon hours in, talking about everything and nothing, wrapped in the kind of love that defied time and consequence. That was the magic of this place—it didn’t just tempt you with desire, it tempted you with the past.

  At the head of the table sat three goddesses, their very presence making the world around them bend and hum with barely contained divinity.

  Persephone, the Queen of the Dead, sat in the center. Her beauty was sharp and cruel, like a rose thorn—delicate, enchanting, but poised to draw blood. To her right sat Demeter, the Matron of the Harvest, the Mother whose grief shaped the seasons, whose fury could freeze the world over. And to her left sat Hestia, the Hearth-Keeper, the Flame Eternal, a warmth that even the Underworld could not extinguish.

  Power circled around them, thick and suffocating. I had faced horrors, I had faced gods, but for some reason, this— this place, this table, this warmth—unnerved me the most.

  I looked at Mattie. She was smiling, soft tears slipping down her face. For the first time since we stepped into the Underworld, she looked at peace. The kid, who had been broken, beaten, and battered by this damn journey, looked like she could collapse into the embrace of this place and never rise again.

  Even Zefpyre, my favorite walking furnace, stood mesmerized, his flames flickering low and calm, as if he had found something here he never knew he was missing.

  But me?

  I felt like prey.

  This wasn’t a battlefield. This wasn’t a dungeon filled with monsters or a labyrinth with horrors waiting at every turn. This was a place of comfort. A place of peace.

  And peace was more dangerous than war.

  Persephone stood, her voice like honeyed dusk, warm but hiding something deeper—something ancient, something unyielding.

  "Welcome to my Garden." Her words wrapped around us like vines, drawing us in. She smiled, but it was the smile of a Queen, not a host.

  "You have endured trials beyond mortal reckoning, walked paths not meant for the living. And now, you stand at the precipice of the end."

  She gestured to the grand table, to the temptation of comfort, of fulfillment, of rest.

  "Please, sit at my table. Rest. You have earned it."

  I clenched my jaw, my fingers twitching toward the cigars in my coat.

  Because I knew a trap when I saw one.

  And this?

  This was the most beautiful, well-dressed, and merciless trap of them all.

  Mattie moved like a whisper in the wind, slipping down next to Hestia as if drawn by something beyond sight. The two of them sank into a private conversation, their words hushed, stolen away by the thick, perfumed air of Persephone’s garden. Something about it made my skin crawl. Maybe it was the scent—so sickly sweet it clung to my throat like a noose, or maybe it was the unnatural stillness of the place, the way every petal, every blade of grass, seemed too perfect, too deliberate.

  My breath slowed. My fingers twitched, my instincts scratching at the back of my skull like rats in the walls. Something wasn’t right.

  I scanned the garden, looking for the trap, the lie, the knife hidden beneath the golden promise of hospitality. But there was nothing. No monstrous forms waiting in the shadows. No illusions fraying at the edges. No hidden teeth gnashing behind the smiles of the goddesses before me. Just the weight of existence pressing down on my shoulders, the eternal law of the underworld screaming at me that peace had no place here.

  Zefpyre, as reckless as ever, had already found a seat across from the three goddesses, his flames dimmed but steady. The tension in my chest coiled tighter with every second, but time moved strangely here, stretching and snapping like a frayed thread.

  And then Demeter smiled at me.

  It was not a cruel smile, not the kind I had grown accustomed to in my dealings with gods and monsters alike. It was warm, regal, yet tinged with something I couldn’t quite place—a knowing.

  “I see my dear brother’s kingdom has made you cautious,” she mused, her voice like the rustling of wheat in a dying field. “While I do not blame you, and in fact, commend you for your hesitation, let me assure you—you have no enemies here.”

  Her golden eyes gleamed like sunlight over a battlefield as she lifted her hand. “I swear it on my power, I swear it on my domain, I swear it on the River Styx, and I swear it on Mount Olympus.”

  Thunder rolled overhead, shaking the very bones of the Underworld. The weight of the oath settled over me like a leaden cloak, thick with the irrefutable truth of divine law. A vow like that, spoken in this realm, was an unshackled force. Unbreakable. Absolute.

  And yet, my paranoia refused to quiet itself.

  Then, the other two goddesses—Hestia, the quiet warmth in the storm, and Persephone, the Queen of the Dead, veiled in the beauty of eternal twilight—spoke in unison:

  “The Oath has been properly heard and witnessed. Do you dare swear it twice more and make it forever binding and unbreakable?”

  Demeter’s smile didn’t waver. She spoke again.

  "You have no enemies here. I swear it on my power, I swear it on my domain, I swear it on the River Styx, and I swear it on Mount Olympus.”

  The air shuddered. The garden itself seemed to breathe with the weight of the words.

  And once more, the goddesses bore witness.

  “The Oath has been properly heard and witnessed. Do you dare swear it a third and final time, to make it eternally sealed?”

  Demeter, unwavering, unafraid, spoke a third time.

  "You have no enemies here. I swear it on my power, I swear it on my domain, I swear it on the River Styx, and I swear it on Mount Olympus.”

  The moment stretched. The entire Underworld trembled in response.

  And then, in one final echoing decree, all three goddesses spoke as one:

  “It has been thrice sworn and witnessed. The Oath is now unbreakable.”

  Silence followed. Thick, suffocating silence.

  I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke from my cigar curl around me like ghostly fingers. The tension in my shoulders loosened just a fraction.

  No enemies here.

  For the first time since setting foot in this damned place, I believed it.

  And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying thing of all.

  I slowly walked over to the table and sat next to Zefpyre. My bones ached in ways I didn’t think possible. The weight of the Underworld pressing on me like a corpse draped across my shoulders. Mattie and Hestia were deep in conversation, their words hushed but urgent, their lips moving in a dance I couldn’t decipher. It gnawed at me. I hated not knowing.

  Persephone, the Queen of the Dead, turned her golden eyes on me, her voice a whisper of silk wrapped in steel. “I assume you know that if you eat any food here, you will never be able to leave my Gardens.”

  I gave a slow nod, choosing silence over wit.

  Demeter, the mother of the Harvest, studied me with a knowing smile. “I’m surprised you’re not smoking one of your signature cigars.”

  I met her gaze, keeping my voice steady, respectful. “I’ve been taught that smoking in front of a goddess could be seen as disrespectful.”

  That made all three of them chuckle—a sound too light, too warm for this place. It unsettled me.

  Persephone tilted her head, watching me like a cat eyeing a wounded bird. “I didn’t expect Julius Holmes to have any manners, especially after what you have been through.”

  I just shrugged. “I’d like to survive long enough to make it home.”

  Demeter’s smile didn’t falter. “And believe it or not, all three of us want to see you make it home and, hopefully, one day, make it back to the Other Realm.”

  Persephone leaned back, her hands folding neatly in her lap. “Much has changed while you have been in the land of the dead. The living is at war.”

  Zefpyre stiffened beside me. I heard the sharp intake of breath, the unspoken plea forming on his lips. “Oh, goddess… please.” But the words died in his throat, suffocated by dread.

  Persephone only offered him a knowing, almost sympathetic smile. “It is not my place to speak more on the subject. You will learn soon enough.”

  I exhaled through my nose, rubbing a thumb over the edge of the onyx table. “Goddess, you know of our quest, that each of us needs a blessing to cross the River Styx.”

  She inclined her head. “I do.”

  Mattie glanced up from her conversation, something unreadable in her expression.

  Persephone continued. “Each of us can give only one blessing. Mattie is already working on hers as we speak.” She turned to Zefpyre, her expression shifting into something softer, something almost maternal. “And mine is for you.”

  Zefpyre swallowed hard, flames flickering in his throat as if words were burning to escape. But for once, he didn’t speak.

  “We have much to discuss,” Persephone said, and the weight of the Underworld pressed down harder, as if the entire realm was holding its breath, waiting to see if we’d make it out alive.

  If we even wanted to.

  Persephone’s gaze cut through me like a blade honed from the bones of kings. Her voice, silk wrapped around steel, curled into the air like an omen. “Do you know what they call someone who has bathed in the River Styx?”

  Zefpyre, ever the insufferable scholar when it came to matters of power, whispered the answer like it was some forbidden prayer. “Aníkitos.”

  The goddess smirked, her lips curling at the edges in a way that made my stomach twist. Like she already knew something we didn’t. “Now tell me, what do they call someone who has bathed in all five rivers of the Underworld?”

  I turned to Zefpyre. He only shrugged. For once, the bastard didn’t have an answer.

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  “We do not know, my Lady,” he said, voice steady, but there was something in his flames, a flicker of unease.

  Demeter, who had been standing silent like some mournful specter, finally spoke, her voice colder than the grave. “I would think not. In all of history, only ten have survived bathing in all five. None of them were mortals like you.”

  Her words settled on my skin like a death sentence.

  Persephone continued, her voice now something softer, though it only made the weight of it all the heavier. “The first was Lord Hades himself when he carved out his dominion and bent the Underworld to his will. Since then, he has tasked each of his sons with the trial. Nine have survived, each becoming a minor Lord of Death in their own right.”

  The words settled in my gut like a stone at the bottom of a deep, black sea.

  I exhaled smoke and stared at the embers at the end of my cigar, the orange glow reflecting in the goddess’s eyes. “You’re telling me we’ve gone through all of this—fought through hell, bled, suffered—without even knowing what happens next?”

  Persephone looked at Demeter. Demeter looked at Persephone. A quiet understanding passed between them like a whisper of something old and buried.

  “That,” Persephone said finally, “is the one thing we do not know.”

  For the first time in a long, long time, I felt something close to fear.

  “Most soul gems,” Persephone continued, “are consumed by necromancers, used up like fuel. The release of souls from gems, especially in this manner, is unprecedented. The outcome has only ever been theory.”

  The shock hit me like a gut punch. I had gone through all of this—crossed the rivers, stared down gods and monsters, dragged my weary bones across the halls of the dead—only to find out this whole thing was a fucking experiment?

  Before I could spiral into another wave of cynicism, Hestia stepped forward. The warmth of her presence was something I didn’t expect. It wrapped around me, seeped into the marrow of my bones, the kind of warmth I hadn’t felt in centuries. A warmth that didn’t demand. Didn’t threaten. Just was.

  She smiled at me, and for a moment, I almost believed things might turn out okay.

  “We know how hard this task has been,” she said, her voice like the flicker of a hearth on a winter’s night. “Which is why we wish to aid you. While each of us can only offer one blessing, we can do one thing more.”

  With a wave of her hand, a roaring fire burst to life beside us, crackling and golden against the darkness of the Underworld.

  “Place the basket with the soul gems inside the hearth while we finish our conversation.”

  I hesitated, but only for a second. Then I stood, took the basket, and placed it in the fire.

  The stones ignited—not with flames, but with light. Golden, vibrant, pulsating with something ancient and alive.

  I stepped back, the glow washing over me.

  Hestia turned to Mattie. “Walk with me, child.”

  Mattie looked at me, hesitation flickering in her eyes. I reached out, squeezed her arm. “Go,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “You’re safe here.”

  She gave me a nod, then followed Hestia into the gardens.

  Persephone stood next. “Zefpyre, come with me.”

  Zef was less convinced, his flames flickering with distrust, but after a moment, he sighed and stood. “

  Then, just like that, they were gone.

  And I was left alone at the table.

  Demeter, who had been silent this whole time, leaned forward. Her gaze was the weight of winter itself, the cold of the first frost before a harsh storm.

  She studied me, like she was peeling back my skin and looking at what lay underneath.

  I exhaled

  “So,” I muttered, flicking ash onto the table, “just you and me now.”

  She smiled. It wasn’t a comforting thing.

  “Indeed

  Being left alone with Demeter was nerve-wracking. She watched me with those old, knowing eyes, measuring my worth in a way no mortal ever could. Gods don’t rush—time bends for them, not the other way around. So, I waited.

  Then she laughed, low and rich, like a storm rolling over ripe fields. "Julius," she said, "you might as well take out one of those cigars. Maybe it’ll help you relax."

  I chuckled, took one out, and thought for a moment before holding it out to her. She regarded it with mild curiosity, then—before I could blink—she took it, sniffed it once, smiled… and ate the damn thing in one bite.

  I was flabbergasted.

  Demeter burst into cackling laughter, a sound that felt like it belonged more to a wrathful goddess than one of harvests and fertility. "Not what you thought I was going to do, was it, Master Wizard?" she teased, her teeth flashing like a sickle’s edge.

  It took me a second to collect myself. "We all enjoy things in different ways, I guess," I muttered, fishing out a second cigar for myself.

  As I took a long, deep drag, my body finally unwound, the tension bleeding away like ink in water. The smoke curled in the heavy air, wrapping around us like a phantom veil.

  Demeter leaned back, watching me, her expression unreadable. "Much better, isn’t it?" she mused.

  I didn’t answer, just exhaled another cloud of smoke, waiting for her to speak. Patience had never been my virtue, but in the presence of a god, it wasn’t like I had a choice.

  She twirled a golden stalk of wheat between her fingers, watching the way the firelight caught its edges. "Let me tell you a little story, Julius," she said, her voice lilting like the whisper of wind through dry stalks. "For centuries, I have kept my fields lush and fertile—a gift to the world, a blessing upon the undeserving. But do you know what I’ve learned?"

  I shook my head.

  Her gaze sharpened. "No one gets the harvest without asking for it. No one receives bounty without knowing what it costs."

  I blinked, then slowly nodded. "I think I understand what you’re saying, Oh Lady Demeter," I said carefully. "I am in need of your blessing."

  Her lips curled into a sly smile. "Right to the point. If only my followers were more like you. Farmers—oh, they take their time with everything. It’s all patience, all waiting, all watching the skies and praying for rain." She let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "But you… you are not patient, are you, Julius? You take. You demand. You carve out what you need and let the gods sort out the damage. And yet, here you are, asking."

  I flicked the ash from my cigar. "Even I know some doors won’t open unless you knock."

  Demeter chuckled again, then waved a hand. In an instant, a bushel of golden wheat materialized before me, glowing with an ethereal light.

  "Take it," she said. "My blessing, Julius. You have earned it—not for what you have done, but for all that you will do. You are not finished. Not even close."

  I reached out, wrapping my fingers around the stalks. The moment I touched them, I felt something hum through my bones—a power, old as the soil itself, whispering promises of growth and decay in equal measure.

  Demeter gave me one last knowing look. "You think your journey is ending. Foolish boy… you are only beginning to plow the fields."

  I arched a brow. "I’ve never worked a field in my life."

  Demeter sighed, deeply, as if she were already exhausted with me. "It’s a metaphor, you insufferable child."

  I smirked, pocketing the wheat. "Yeah, yeah. Gods and their riddles."

  She smiled at that, but there was something behind it—something deeper, something ancient. "Go now, Julius. And remember: the harvest is never free."

  With that, the air around me shifted. The heavy presence of the goddess faded, leaving only the scent of fresh earth and burning tobacco.

  And just like that, I was alone again.

  I sat at the grand table in Persephone’s garden, surrounded by a beauty so profound it could only be called unnatural. The air was thick with the scent of flowers that had no earthly counterpart, blossoms of deep violet and ghostly white, petals like silk woven from moonlight and shadow. The garden itself pulsed with an eerie life, vines slithering along the black marble pathways, roses shifting as though whispering secrets in a language only the dead could comprehend. Everything was perfect—too perfect. And that made it all the more terrifying.

  The stories clawed their way into my mind like restless spirits. Every hero who had ever set foot in this garden had nearly lost themselves, lulled into a stupor by its enchanting beauty. Some never left at all. I forced myself to keep breathing, to stay grounded, but the unease was settling into my bones like an old, familiar ache.

  Waiting for Mattie and Zefpyre to return felt like an eternity. The silence here was deafening, not in the absence of sound, but in the sheer weight of it. Even the rustling leaves carried a kind of hush, a muted reverence for the Queen of the Dead. I tapped my fingers against the table’s polished obsidian surface, restless, agitated. I needed a smoke, but even lighting a cigar in this place felt like an offense worthy of divine retribution.

  My thoughts drifted back to a simpler time—driving down Lake Shore Drive, the city lights flickering like fireflies in the distance, my stories spilling from my car’s speakers, the weight of the world feeling far away. Back then, I was just a man who did his job, collected his paycheck, and indulged in the minor vices that made the monotony of existence bearable. I didn’t care about destiny or duty. Protecting the Earth had been a responsibility shoved onto my shoulders, not something I had asked for. And now, here I was, knee-deep in the Underworld, playing errand boy for gods and ghosts.

  I clenched my jaw. This Necromancer, this twisted bastard playing in the shadows, had gotten under my skin in a way nothing else had. He had forced my hand, made me care about something I never wanted to care about. Worse, he had put Mattie in danger, and that was something I could not forgive.

  A soft breeze rolled through the garden, carrying with it the scent of pomegranate and decay. The flowers swayed, and for the briefest moment, I swore I saw something move between the trees. Watching. Waiting.

  I sighed, rubbing my temple. This was Persephone’s domain. Nothing here happened by accident.

  I muttered under my breath, "Let’s get this over with before I start growing roots."

  The heavy silence stretched, thick as oil, suffocating in its patience. I exhaled, watching the last embers of my cigar flicker out, snuffed like a dying star in the cold abyss of the universe.

  And then—footsteps.

  Soft, deliberate. The sound of silk gliding over marble, of a shadow moving before the body that cast it. I looked up.

  Persephone stood before me.

  There was something different about her now, something less regal, more primal, like a storm held at bay by sheer will. Her golden eyes gleamed in the unnatural light, and when she spoke, her voice was softer, stripped of its usual goddess-like poise.

  "You have come so far," she murmured. "Further than I ever expected."

  I frowned, my exhaustion making me reckless. "Expected? You mean to tell me you’ve been watching us struggle through this nightmare and didn’t think we’d make it?"

  She tilted her head, studying me with something akin to pity, something I did not like. "No, Julius. I mean that I did not expect you to remain… yourself."

  That sent a chill down my spine.

  She stepped closer, the very fabric of the garden shifting with her movement, vines tightening, the scent of pomegranate thickening in the air. "Do you know what happens to those who bathe in all five rivers?"

  I swallowed. "You said no mortal has done it before."

  She nodded. "And yet, you are here. Standing at the edge of something… new."

  A deep, unsettling pause.

  "The Underworld does not like change," she continued, her gaze piercing through me, peeling me apart layer by layer. "And you, Julius Holmes, are becoming something it does not understand."

  I scoffed, though the sound was weaker than I intended. "Great. Add ‘existential horror’ to my growing list of titles."

  But she did not laugh.

  Instead, she reached out, fingers barely grazing the sleeve of my coat. The moment she touched the fabric, something inside me cracked, like a tectonic shift beneath my very soul.

  It was cold. So, so cold.

  Not the biting chill of winter, not the emptiness of the grave, but something deeper. Something older.

  Her voice was almost tender now, a whisper edged in finality. "Be careful, Julius. You walk a path that has no name, and the Underworld does not forget its debts."

  The air grew heavier, pressing against my lungs, my bones, my very being. And for the first time, I realized—

  I had changed.

  I could feel it, slithering beneath my skin, coiling around my ribs like unseen chains. Something in me had cracked open since the River Lethe, something not entirely human anymore.

  Persephone released me, stepping back, the weight of her gaze lingering long after she was gone.

  A soft breeze rustled through the garden.

  I turned my head, and there they were.

  Mattie and Zefpyre, returning from their own conversations with the goddesses, each carrying something in their eyes that hadn’t been there before. Knowledge. Fear. Understanding.

  Zefpyre’s flames burned lower, steadier, more controlled, like he had finally been given the answer he had been seeking. Mattie… Mattie looked like she had been given a truth she could not yet speak aloud.

  Neither of them said a word as they approached, but I didn’t need them to.

  I took one last look at the garden—the trap of warmth, the illusion of peace—and I turned my back on it.

  "Come on," I said, my voice hoarse. "Let’s finish this."

  And together, we walked toward the final river.

  Toward Styx.

  Toward whatever the hell we were about to become.