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: NoneRoom 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.
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 cpRhea 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.