✓ | 𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜱɪxᴛʏ-ᴛᴡᴏ

The River Styx.

🧶

    The steps led steeply down into the suffocating darkness, each one slick with moisture and lined with uneven grooves that seemed deliberately treacherous. The air grew colder the further they descended, thick with the stench of mildew, damp stone, and something far worse—a cloying, acrid scent that spoke of rot and decay. Rory tried not to breathe too deeply, but every inhale seemed to coat her lungs with the weight of the Underworld. It brought back memories she’d rather forget: her harrowing journey through the Labyrinth the year before, the twisting tunnels and relentless traps, the overwhelming sense that the walls themselves were alive and watching. But this tunnel was different. It felt heavier, more final. A trip to Hades’s realm was rarely anything but a one-way journey, and Rory couldn’t shake the reminder that their descent was to prepare Luke for his own imminent death.

    The stairs seemed endless, an unrelenting spiral of narrow, crumbling stone. Rory kept her weight balanced carefully, her boots slipping occasionally on the slick surface. She could feel the tension radiating off Luke in front of her, his shoulders rigid and his steps measured. This didn't feel like the right time for reassuring words. Not when every step brought them closer to the realm of the dead.

    When the darkness became almost impenetrable, Rory extended her hand hesitantly, summoning a faint orb of light. It flickered to life, golden and warm, cutting through the shadows like a small, defiant sun. Luke paused, glancing back at her. His gaze wasn’t on the orb but on her hand, her splayed fingers as if she were holding the light itself. Rory’s breath hitched as she quickly glanced at her own hand, relieved to see it remained solid, not fading or flickering like the light she’d conjured. She let out a slow, controlled breath, hoping Luke wouldn’t notice her tension. He didn’t say anything, but there was a fleeting softness in his eyes, a small hint of relief.

    They weren’t alone, of course. A small group of Kronos’s soldiers followed closely behind, their footsteps heavy and uncoordinated. The posse was a hodgepodge of creatures, a testament to Kronos’s desperation to throw every spare pawn into play. Two demigods, unfamiliar and unremarkable, marched in silence. Rory didn’t bother trying to memorize their faces. They weren’t the kind of allies anyone expected to stick around long enough to matter. Monsters shuffled among them, a mismatched crew of brutes clearly deemed too useless for the front lines but still good enough for guard duty. They were a presence, nothing more, their clawed feet and guttural breathing blending into the atmosphere of the tunnel.

    And then there were the empousai: Kelli and Tammy. Of all the creatures Kronos could have sent, why did it have to be them? If anyone in their group had the faintest inkling of Kronos’s true plans for Luke, it would be the empousai. Their loyalty to Kronos was absolute, and their cunning made them all the more dangerous. Rory couldn’t shake the feeling that Kelli, in particular, was enjoying this far too much.

    Ahead of her, Luke didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he didn’t care. His focus was fixed on the path ahead, his jaw tight and his hands balled into fists. The light from Rory’s orb caught the edges of his scar, casting it in sharp relief against the shadows. He looked older in this light, walking a path she couldn’t follow. Not this time.

    The tunnel’s darkness eventually gave way to a dim, flickering light. They stepped out into an open expanse, the sudden change in scenery almost disorienting. Rory blinked, her eyes adjusting as they emerged at the base of a towering cliff. The ground beneath their feet was a plain of black volcanic sand, gritty and cold. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and ash, stinging Rory’s nostrils and clinging to her skin.

    To their right, the River Styx gushed from the rocks, its black waters churning with a chaotic energy that felt alive. The sound of the rapids was deafening, a relentless roar that drowned out nearly everything else. The Styx twisted and swirled as it cascaded down into a series of rapids, its surface dotted with strange objects that caught Rory’s attention. At first, they looked like ordinary debris—scraps of wood, bits of cloth—but as she squinted, she realized what they were. Broken toys. Torn-up college diplomas. Wilted homecoming corsages. The detritus of broken dreams and abandoned hopes, swirling endlessly in the dark current.