41 ┃ 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞

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Hermes stepped forward before you could say anything else—expression unreadable, eyes glinting with something hard to place. Not quite relief. Not quite sorrow.

He reached for you without hesitation, like this part had already been decided.

Like he couldn't bear to stay here any longer.

His arms circled beneath your knees and around your back, gentle but firm, the way you might hold something precious that had only just stopped breaking. You didn't resist.

The moment he lifted you, the magic shifted.

You felt it stir beneath your skin—a flicker, a pull, a quiet breath in the bones of the earth.

And then—wind.

It ripped past your cheeks in sudden gusts, cold and fierce, rushing upward like the world itself had tilted beneath you. Your hair fluttered wildly against his shoulder, tangling in the collar of your tunic as your legs curled instinctively closer to his chest.

The air howled in your ears, a thousand whispers caught in a single breath, too fast to hear and too strange to understand.

Your eyes cracked open just enough to see.

The Underworld blurred past in flashes.

Ash-grey pillars.

Twisting stone bridges.

Gardens wilted and bloomed all at once.

And shadows—so many shadows—some still, some watching, some turning away the second they met your gaze.

Colors flared at the edge of your vision: copper gold and sickly green, flashes of bone-white paths and flickering riverlight from the Styx.

You caught glimpses of spirits drifting in the distance—some reaching out, some shrinking back, all blurred by the speed.

And Hermes didn't stop.

His hold tightened as you climbed higher, past the gates, past the Asphodel Fields, past the river's edge that shimmered like an old bruise in the dark.

But just before the veil split—before the light of the living world could break through and claim you again—

You shifted in his arms. "Wait."

He stopped mid-step. Mid-flight. The magic hiccupped around you like a breath held too long.

Hermes turned his head slightly, brows furrowing as if he wasn't sure he'd heard you right. "What?"

You lifted your hand—soft against his shoulder, not pushing, just anchoring yourself.

"...Can we go back?"

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