CARNIFEX. jason grace

00. RETURN OF THE DAMNED

At the Doors of Death, a former hero turned villain bleeds from the glass floors and cut soul. At the Door, she tangles her fingers through a cut thread of fate, hand grasping the door handle, and yanks—

Sunlight spills. Underworld turns green. Death fades into the distance, and for the first time, the floor is not glass.

A cut string pulls free.

✵

Aisara Minh reeks of Tartarus.

The blood fills every crevice of her body, seeping into the grass. It's turned black from its thickness, but for the first time in almost a year, Aisara is alive.

And the pain is excruciating.

It has been a long time since Aisara has felt pain. When she was not Aisara, but Carnifex—killer, executioner, butcher—Krios had numbed her emotions. There had been no pain, even when Jason Grace had slid a dagger through her Achilles' and killed her.

Now, it returns full force.

Aisara gasps into living. Her vision blurs, but her spy's instinct overrules her humanity. Despite all parts of her screaming, still bleeding profusely through her hand, Aisara does not cry out. Running through her protocol, she sits up, assessing her surroundings.

She's in a field of some sort. A pine tree blooms at the edge. She feels for her rings on her bloodied hand—all there. A quick glance tells her she's not wearing her armor, but she still has her disguise kit. Good. She's still equipped, at least. Another glance, tells her she is on grass, not glass.

Not Tartarus.

Not where she died either.

She died in a cold, lonely, room, with a boy clutching her hand, and a knife through her Achilles, a toppled throne and—

There's none of that. No boy. No throne. No glass. No fire. No blood. No monsters—

Something behind her hisses.

Ok. Some monsters.

Aisara turns. Her blood runs cold.

She did not come out of the Doors alone.

An arai stands tall. It is a twisted spirit, true to the tale, barely visible to the naked eye, smoke forming and reforming. Without Krios's enhanced vision, Aisara struggles to see it herself. Her right hand is bloody when she slips her ring off—index, tip of finger—an Imperial Gold dagger materializing in her hand.

"Little Carnifex," the arai croons. "How far you've crawled."

Aisara does not let the smoky arai phase her. She lunges.

Aisara is a Roman, which is to say, she is a soldier. It does not make her a good fighter. She is not like Jason, nor Reyna—not a champion, or especially adept, only a demigod. A survivor.

The arai easily dodges. Smoke dances. It is not a surprise—bleeding out of her Achilles, Aisara is weaker than even normal.

"Surely you know what I am," the arai croons. "A curse of someone you've killed."

The arai swipes at her abdomen. Aisara does not invade in time, but it does not matter. The spirit does not break skin—the River of Styx ensures it. She can only bleed from one place, and it is the place she is bleeding now.

She will die soon if she does not tend to it.

I am not going back, Aisara promises herself. She will not go back to glass floors and fire water. I will not.