The hum of tires on cracked asphalt was the only sound for miles. Thalia sat at the wheel, her eyes sharp and alert despite the late hour.
Luke slouched in the passenger seat, arms crossed but tense. He wasn't asleep. Not really. He was watching the road, then the trees, then the road again.
In the backseat, Lucas lay curled with his cheek pressed against the window. His breath fogged the glass in gentle puffs. Harold sat in his lap.
Then Luke leaned forward.
"Stop the car."
Thalia frowned. "What?"
"Pull over."
There was something in his voice that made her obey without another question. The SUV rumbled as she braked and pulled to the shoulder.
Luke had already opened his door before they'd come to a full stop, moving quickly toward the treeline.
The sudden braking of the SUV startled Lucas into waking up from the backseat, after righting himself and quickly checking his surroundings, looking for the reason for the sudden brake. Seeing Luke running off, he turns to Thalia and asks.
"What the hell is going on?"
Thalia shrugged, already out of the car and making her way to Luke, Lucas deciding to follow, stuffing Harold in his pocket.
By the time Thalia and Lucas reached Luke, they understood the reason for his reaction.
There, sprawled among the roots of a bent elm tree, was the corpse of a satyr.
His leg had been torn clean off at the hip, jagged muscle and shattered bone exposed. One horn had been snapped in half. Claw marks and bite wounds riddled his chest and arms. His face was frozen in a grimace of terror, mouth open mid-scream, lips dried and curled.
Lucas said nothing at first. He crouched beside the body and closed his eyes.
"I don't understand," Thalia said quietly. "Who would do this? Monsters don't usually bother satyrs as they can hide themselves well and run away too quickly."
"I may be able to help."
Lucas looked up at them both.
"Hecate's domain includes necromancy," he said, voice measured. "I'm not a child of the Underworld nor as talented in this area compared to others, but... if the deaths's still recent, I can summon the soul as an apparition and ask it questions."
Luke and Thalia exchanged looks, both wanting the same thing.
Luke turned to Lucas and nodded, giving him the go-ahead.
Lucas prepared, summoning the mist around the corpse and willing the soul to return.
For a moment, nothing.
Then a cold aura and a satyr gradually appeared before them, floating atop the corpse, fog swirling around them.
Lucas frowned, the spell he used was meant to bring the soul back uninfluenced yet the satyr's eyes were distant.
"What happened here? How did you die?"
The satyr's apparition twitched.
"M...moon," its voice rasped. "Feast...they...they...."
But the soul began to tremble. It sobbed. and then it managed to break free of Lucas' summoning, it's soul returning to the underworld.
Lucas sat back, breath heavy. "It was afraid. Whatever it saw... it fled even in death."
Thalia stepped back, gaze hardening. "We need to find out what happened."
Luke stood, scanning the forest. "There are tracks. Large paws. Heavy weight." He pointed. "There."
Without another word, they moved.
The forest was colder now. Not from the wind, but from something else. As they followed the trail of broken branches, claw marks in tree bark, bits of fur; they began to smell it.
Blood. Decay. Smoke.
And then the trees parted.
They stepped into a clearing and stopped dead.
It was like stepping into a nightmare shaped by the gods.
Twelve thrones stood in a ring: fashioned from bone and broken branches, rusted iron and blackened wood. They were massive, grotesque, and unmistakable in their design. Each one mimicked an Olympian's seat of power.
But seated on those thrones were corpses.
Bloated. Mangled. Desecrated. Flies buzzed over glassy eyes. One had a melted clarinet strapped to its jaw. Another wore a broken helmet smeared with ashes. A third had peacock feathers nailed into her shoulders.
Before the thrones was a long banquet table made of stone, cracked and crooked. Upon it lay entrails, severed limbs, piles of bones both animal and human. Blood poured from its edge in a slow, eternal drip, soaking the ground beneath.
Lucas couldn't breathe.
His eyes were locked on one throne in particular.
The one meant to mimic Artemis.
Sitting upon the throne was the body of a pregnant woman. Her stomach had been split open.
The smell was unbearable. The symbolism worse.
Thalia's voice, usually so sharp, was barely a whisper.
"This... this is a message."
Luke nodded, jaw clenched. "To Olympus."
Lucas stepped forward slowly, into the edge of the blood-soaked soil.
"It's more than a message," he said. "It's a ritual. A mock-feast. A bloody taunt"
Thalia stepped beside him. She did not speak, but Lucas heard her breathing, sharp, uneven. Not from fear. From fury. Her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone pale.
"They made her Artemis," she whispered. "The goddess of maidens. Of purity. They chose a pregnant woman for that throne."
Lucas didn't answer. He couldn't. Every part of his body was shaking.
Luke was pacing now, jaw set, eyes scanning each corpse, each grotesque tribute.
The silence wrapped around them like frost.
The torchlight in his mind flared, the teachings of Hecate whispering from memory how symbols hold power, how meaning is as sharp as any blade. This entire display had been constructed like a ritual. Not to summon, but to mock. A blasphemous mirror held up to Olympus.
Then, something shifted.
A sound cut through the silence. Snapping branches.
From the far edge of the clearing, a voice echoed. Smooth. Confident. Too calm for the setting.
"Well now," the voice said, almost reverently. "What a pleasure... what an honor it is to welcome a daughter of Zeus to the table."
They all turned instantly, weapons raised.
From between the trees stepped a tall figure clad in a ragged robe stitched with the uncured pelts of wolves. His eyes gleamed in the dark, red and wild, and though his face was human, it felt wrong. Too pale, and looking like someone stretched human skin over a skull.
He smiled, sharp and wide, revealing canines too long to be mortal. His hair was greasy and ragged, the color of fireplace soot, topped with a crown of what looked like finger bones.