The next morning arrived wrapped in gray drizzle and the kind of cold that seeps into your bones before you even get out of bed, specially for me, the metal inside of me really didn't like the cold.
I sat up with a groan, back sore from the rock-hard motel mattress. Across the room, Jasper was already dressed, sitting on the edge of his bed and clutching a worn, weathered notebook like it was a lifeline — one of those old leather-bound ones, held together with twine and prayers.
"You ready?" I asked, tugging on my hoodie and grabbing my jacket. "Time to see if our favorite cyclops turned my bike into something roadworthy."
Jasper looked up, his expression still wary. "Do we really have to go back there?"
I gave him a look. "Yes, Jasper. We have to go back to the one-eyed man who fixed our deathtrap of a motorcycle. Try to be cool about it this time."
"I was cool on the ride over," he muttered, standing and brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. "I didn't throw up."
We walked down into the damp city morning, caught a cab the old-fashioned way — arm out, whistle sharp. I kept my gaze on the skyline as we rode.
The cab dropped us outside Marty's Auto, now thinking about it, I have no idea who Marty actually is, the garage looking exactly the same as yesterday: crusty, cluttered, and still somehow more inviting than most temples.
The Harley sat just inside the garage bay, polished, gleaming, and standing proud like it had something to prove.
Donnie slid out from under another car, covered in grease and grinning like a satisfied artist.
"Morning, boys," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "She's all set. Cleaned her up, swapped a few parts, tightened everything that could kill you on the road."
"She looks... way better than she should," I admitted, stepping closer.
"She'll ride better, too," Donnie said, then fixed his one large eye on me, narrowing it ever so slightly.
He stepped back and tossed me the keys.
Jasper looked like he was about to start chewing his nails.
I just pocketed the keys.
"Thanks," I said. "We'll be out of your hair."
Donnie chuckled. "Kid, I've had worse than you through here. Just don't die. It's bad for business."
We left Seattle behind under a ceiling of low, bruised clouds. Rain came down in steady sheets, soaking the road and misting the edges of the pine-lined highway. The Harley purred beneath us like a new beast — smoother, quieter, and finally not threatening to shake itself to pieces every five minutes. Donnie had worked some real magic under that hood.
The city faded into forest, and forest into long stretches of cold, wet asphalt. The kind of road that feels endless. The kind you don't want to break down on.
Jasper huddled behind me, hood pulled up, cloak tight around his shoulders. His voice came muffled through the wind. "How far's Portland?"
"Few hours, give or take," I called back, eyes on the winding road ahead. "If the bike holds. If nothing tries to kill us."
"Comforting," he muttered.
We didn't talk much more.
The Harley carved through the misty highway, mile by mile. No monsters. No whispers. No shadows in the trees.
But somehow… that was worse.
Because it felt like the world was holding its breath.
Waiting.
By the time we rolled into Portland, the clouds had finally scattered.
No rain.
No monsters.
No strange women with antlers.
Just crisp air, some unexpected sunshine, and the casual buzz of a city that had no idea anything weird existed beyond its artisanal donut scene.
It was... peaceful.
Too peaceful.
I kept scanning rooftops, alleyways, even storm drains as we rode — waiting for a flash of movement, a growl, a familiar chill down the spine. But nothing came. Just traffic lights, cyclists, and locals with reusable coffee cups.
Eventually, we pulled into the parking lot of a Wawa tucked between a gas station and a laundromat, the kind of place with a faded sign and way too many pigeons hanging out near the dumpsters. I parked the Harley by the side, engine ticking as it cooled.
Jasper slid off, stretching his legs. "Still alive," he said cautiously.
"No monsters in sight," I added. "Which is suspicious all on its own."
"Can't we just enjoy the quiet?" he muttered, pulling his hood up. "Just for, like, ten minutes?"
I didn't argue. I was hungry.
Inside, Wawa was brightly lit and smelled like hot pretzels, bad coffee, and fried everything — heaven, basically. I grabbed a warmed-up hoagie, a couple of protein bars, a giant bottle of water, and a pack of gum. Jasper filled a small container with fruit from the snack section and snagged a bottle of sweet tea like it was holy water.
The cashier didn't even blink at us. Just rang everything up with a bored "have a good one."
We stepped outside and leaned against the wall next to a faded newspaper vending machine. I cracked open the water, took a long drink, and stared up at the sky. Blue. Clean. No signs of doom.
I could still feel the faint pulse of the markings on my arms. No glow, no burn, just... presence. Waiting. Watching. A part of me now.
Jasper wiped juice off his mouth with his sleeve. "It's weird."
"What's weird?"
"That nothing's happening."
I nodded slowly. "Yeah."
Because the world was way too quiet.
And quiet, I'd learned, was never just quiet.
Portland slid past us, alive with its usual weirdness: street performers juggling fire near vegan bakeries, thrift stores with mannequins in wizard robes, and more bikes than cars. We weren't rushing anymore, just drifting through the streets, trying to find a cheap motel or somewhere quiet to rest.
That's when we saw it.
An empty lot, tucked between a vape shop and a shuttered laundromat. Only it wasn't empty.
It was a Greek plaza.
White marble columns rose from beds of impossibly green ivy. Vines crawled along walls that hadn't existed ten seconds ago. A wide circular fountain sat in the middle, pouring not water, but thick, red wine, the scent of it floating into the street like a slow-moving fog.
Music filled the air — not EDM or rock, but smooth, sad jazz. A pan flute, soft and mournful, echoing through the lot like it was bouncing off temple walls from a long-dead civilization.
Figures moved in the space. Satyrs danced barefoot over polished stone, hooves tapping in rhythm, laughter pouring from their mouths. Nymphs twirled through pools of torchlight, wrapped in gossamer silks that left little to the imagination, their skin glowing faintly under the wine-soaked dusk.
They were partying — truly — but there was something in the air. Not off. Not dark. Just... missing.
It was too joyous. A performance. A celebration where no one could admit they were still waiting for someone to arrive.
I pulled the Harley to a stop by the sidewalk, engine purring, and stared.
Jasper climbed off and squinted through the haze of wine vapors and torchlight.
"This—" he said quietly, "This is a Dionysian ring."
"A what?"
"A plaza. A gathering space. Made by the gods. This one's for Dionysus and Pan."
"And they aren't here?"
He shook his head. "Can't be. Zeus shackled him with that stupid punishment — stuck at Camp Half-Blood playing babysitter. They're throwing the party without him."
I looked around. The wine, the satyrs, the nymphs — they were all still going, smiling, laughing, dancing, but it had the feel of a tribute. A celebration in someone's absence.
"They're doing this for him," Jasper said, watching the satyrs pour wine into leaf-carved cups. "Trying to keep the spirit alive."
So they filled it — with wine, laughter, and divine children of Priapus and Aphrodite, who mingled at the edges, draped in robes and gold, sipping from grapes, all beauty and indulgence with nowhere else to go.
And then, off in the corner — half-shrouded in vine, shadow, and soft torchlight — sat her.
She didn't dance. Didn't talk.
She reclined lazily on a crumbling bench of moss and marble, wearing garish neon-pink leggings, an oversized "Choose Life" sweatshirt, and 80s sneakers with glowing soles. A crystal bong with winter motiff sat balanced on her knee, and every time she exhaled, thick green smoke curled upward into a strange little pattern — sometimes animals, sometimes faces, sometimes just static symbols that faded before the brain could process them.
Her eyes were half-lidded. Uninterested.
Jasper let out a breath. "...That's Despoina."
I blinked. "is she a goddess of something?"
"No one knows what," he muttered. "She doesn't talk about it. No one asks."
She didn't look at us. Just kept smoking.
The plaza pulsed with torchlight and divine laughter.
And without saying anything, we stepped in.
The party didn't pause for us.
We stepped through the marble arch into the plaza, and just like that, it was like the air changed.
Warmer. Heavier. Softer somehow.
Music wrapped around us — not loud, not urgent, just a steady, swaying rhythm that felt like it had been playing for centuries. Satyrs clapped in time, nymphs laughed and spun with wild curls of hair flying through the air, someone popped grapes into someone else's mouth while laying across a pile of cushions like it was ancient Athens meets Coachella.
Jasper hesitated, then smiled — for real, for the first time in days.
A younger satyr ran by and shouted his name, hooves skidding against the marble before vanishing into the crowd. Then another voice called out from deeper in the plaza.
"Jasper?! That you, you little bleater?"
Jasper lit up. "Uncle Marro!"
They hugged like old friends reunited at a family barbecue, patting each other's backs, one laughing, the other on the edge of tears. Marro looked older, rougher, with vines twisted into his beard and a silver ring in one horn and very naked.
"Didn't think I'd see you out here," Marro said, clapping Jasper on the shoulder. "Not many half-bloods make it this far west. Especially not ones with your track record."
Jasper laughed, then paused — gesturing toward me. "He's not just any half-blood."
Marro raised a brow. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, he is my charge" said Jasper a little smug.
I took a sip from a wine-filled gourd one of the nymphs had passed me. It tasted like autumn and wildfire.
Jasper nodded toward the edge of the plaza, where the Harley sat parked just outside the gate.
"Check the license plate."
Marro squinted. "Alaska?"
I smirked. "Try north. I'm from Anchorage."
Marro gave a low whistle. "Yeesh...You're a long way from home, kid."
"Tell me about it."
We walked deeper into the crowd, satyrs clapping Jasper on the back, nymphs brushing past me with glittering smiles and curious eyes. No one asked where we were going or why. They just accepted us, like the party had always known we'd arrive.
Still, under all the dancing and wine and light, I felt it — that hollow edge. The shadow under the laughter. The sadness no one wanted to say out loud.
Dionysus wasn't here.
Pan was still gone.
But a couple goblets of wine in, I wasn't just enjoying the party — I was in it.
The satyrs drank like they were trying to outlive sorrow. And I was right there with them, shoulder to shoulder, trading jokes, stories, and shots of something purplish and fizzy that definitely wasn't mortal-approved.
A pair of nymphs had pulled me into the center of the plaza, dancing close, fingers tracing my arms, laughter spilling from their lips like perfume. Their eyes sparkled with mischief, their movements a mix of wild joy and practiced seduction. I didn't mind. Gods knew I needed a win after the cheerleader debacle.
Even Jasper — wide-eyed, awkward, terminally anxious Jasper — was smiling. He was off to the side, chatting with his uncle and a few older satyrs, some of whom were verynude and very comfortable with it. He didn't drink much, and his idea of dancing was more of a gentle shuffle in place, but even he looked relaxed.
The wine buzz was soft but bright, the kind that made the stars look closer and your limbs lighter. For a moment, I let go. Just existed. No monsters. No gods. No voices in my head. Just music and firelight and warm skin brushing against mine.
Eventually, I wandered away from the dancing, breath warm in my chest, muscles loose, and dropped myself down near the edge of the plaza — where she still sat.
Despoina.
She hadn't moved all night. Still lounged like some half-forgotten queen on her vine-draped bench, her ridiculous 80s getup glowing faintly under the torchlight. The bong was still in her hand, nestled against one thigh like a sacred object.
I didn't say anything. Just sat beside her. Not too close. Not too far. Let the wine settle in.
We sat in silence for a good minute. Two. Maybe three.
Then, without looking at me, she passed the bong to her right.
"Good taste," she said simply.
Her voice was low. Rough. Like dry leaves crushed underfoot. Not ancient exactly — just tired in a way that had nothing to do with age.
I took the bong, considered it, then grinned. "I've been told."
She didn't smile. But she didn't frown either.
The music played on. Somewhere behind us, a satyr fell into a wine basin and came up laughing.
I took a hit. It was smooth, full, like the air itself turned to honey in my lungs. The plaza shimmered just a little more after that — the torchlight a bit softer, the music slower, like it was swaying just for me.
I exhaled a thick, curling plume, watched it drift, then passed it back.
Despoina took it with lazy fingers and didn't look at me at first. Just stared at the party — at the satyrs spinning in loose circles, the nymphs laughing over the wine fountain, the divine haze of it all.
"They don't talk to me," she said quietly.
I blinked. "Huh?"
"The satyr, the spirits, the demigods.....My mother," she murmured. "Demeter. She... doesn't write. Doesn't call."
Her tone was light, but the hurt under it was deep and old.
"They talks to Persephone. Sends prayers and wind-blessed wheat and all that green-and-gold crap. But me? I get frost. I get silence. I get harvests gone cold."
She leaned her head back, eyes half-lidded under her 80s bangs, voice floating like the smoke.
"I'm autumn and winter. I come when things die. When people let go. She doesn't like what I represent."
She tapped the bong once, but didn't smoke it. Just held it like something sacred. Then she smiled — just a little, sad but relaxed.
"They don't even hate me. They just forget I'm there."
I looked at her, not as a goddess, but as a person — a woman left behind by the warmth of the world, still burning quietly in the cold.
"You seem cool," I said, soft but honest, giving her a lopsided smile.
She turned to me slowly, blinking like I'd said something surprising. Then she giggled — a short, light sound, airy and just a little rough.
"Thank you, demigod," she said, voice low and warm. "Most people don't stick around long enough to say that."
I shrugged, still buzzed, still smiling. "I'm from Alaska. We live in the cold."
That earned me a real smile. Small. But real.
And the torchlight around us flickered like it agreed.
We sat in silence for a little while longer, watching the satyrs spin in lazy loops, wine sloshing over the rims of their cups, nymphs giggling like they didn't know what sorrow tasted like. The air was thick with music and grape-sweet smoke, but Despoina's presence next to me cut through all of it — like a shadow at the edge of firelight. Not unwelcome. Just present.
She finally took another slow hit, held it, then exhaled toward the sky. The smoke curled upward like vines growing in reverse, twisting into symbols that looked like they meant something just out of reach.
Then she spoke again, voice low and smooth like wind rustling through dead leaves.
"You know, demigod... your kind always gets the raw deal."
I raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
She glanced sideways at me, one eye glowing faintly under the torchlight. "You're born into a world where you're important enough to suffer, but not important enough to get any real answers. You're halfway to godhood, but stuck carrying spears for people who've lived since fire was new."
She toyed with the edge of the bong, spinning it slowly with her fingers. "The gods—our kind—we're not allowed to interfere. That's one of the Rules."
"Rules with a capital R?" I asked.
She nodded. "Yeah. Big, ugly divine laws that keep Olympus from turning every argument into a continent-splitting war. No interfering directly. Not unless a bunch of other gods do it first, or unless someone breaks a rule so loud it echoes across the realms. But there are always loopholes. Gods can't act directly, but they can nudge. Gift. Influence. Send dreams. Or—" she smiled faintly, "—they put their faith in kids who didn't ask to be born with ichor in their veins and a target on their back."
I leaned back, letting that settle.
"You sound like you don't like it either."
"I don't," she said simply. "But I'm not one of the big ones. I'm just another corner goddess with a portfolio no one wants to claim. I don't get invited to meetings. I don't have temples. I get scraps."
She took another hit, slower this time, then passed it back to me.
"Most of us just try not to fade."
I stared at the smoke trailing from the bong. "So... is this party your way of sticking around?"
She laughed — not bitterly, but close. "No, darling. This party's for Dionysus. We just keep throwing it, hoping he'll come back. Even though we know Zeus chained him to that Camp job like a bad punchline."
She looked over the wine-drenched chaos, the dancing, the joy that didn't quite hide the emptiness underneath.
"And Pan's still gone. So there's no real wild anymore. Just noise."
I took a slow hit, letting the smoke roll in my chest like warm fog. It didn't sting. Just settled — heavy, earthy, grounding. The music blurred at the edges of the moment, fading into a slow, heartbeat rhythm.
Despoina watched the revelers through half-lidded eyes. The satyrs were still dancing, the nymphs still laughing, but something about her — the way she leaned into the smoke, the way her voice stayed low — it was like she was sitting in a different world altogether.
I passed the bong back. She took it, but didn't hit it again. Just held it loosely, staring out over the marble and wine.
Then, without looking at me, she said softly, "Can I ask you something, Demi?"
I blinked. "Sure."
Her fingers traced the rim of the glass in slow, absent circles.
"If you make it out there... if you end up being something, doing something — remember the little ones."
I frowned slightly, but said nothing. She went on.
"Everyone knows the big Thirteen," she muttered, voice distant. "Olympus this, Zeus that, Athena's favorites, Poseidon's children, blah blah blah." Thunder cries out in the distance.
She gave a dry little chuckle. "But the rest of us? The ones without temples or titles or thrones... if no one remembers us, we go. We fade. And lately... it's been getting a little sad."
She didn't say it like she was asking for pity.
She said it like someone used to being forgotten.
I nodded slowly, watching the torchlight flicker in her expression. "I'll remember."
She finally looked at me, just for a moment.
Not like a goddess.
Just like a tired woman with a quiet hope.
"Good," she said, almost smiling. "That's all we ask."
The plaza spun gently without us.
Laughter, music, the soft splash of wine into shallow cups — all of it carried on in the background, blurred and dreamlike. But here, in the edge-space where I sat beside Despoina, there was a kind of stillness. A bubble of calm. Of cold.
Not sharp, not unfriendly — just crisp. Fresh. Untouched.
A light wind curled around us, and every time a satyr or nymph danced too close, they veered off without noticing why, as if instinct told them not here. This space was different.
Despoina didn't speak. Neither did I.
And then it happened.
For just a moment — a heartbeat — the world stuttered.
The black suns blinked into my vision again, that same haunting cosmic pulse I'd come to dread. Except this time, one flared brighter than it ever had before. Not warm. Not hot. But golden.
A sound hit the air like a chime. Not loud — more like a breath held in a cathedral.
Then — bonk.
Right in front of me, something hit the marble with a soft, surreal thunk.
A golden lyre.
Simple. Elegant. The strings shimmered like sunlight on water. It wasn't glowing. It didn't need to. It was light — shaped and humming with a quiet energy that made my fingertips itch.
I stared.
So did Despoina.
Her red eyes widened slightly, then narrowed in amusement. She tilted her head, and for the first time since I met her, she let out a small, sharp giggle.
"Ohhh," she whispered, voice curling with sudden understanding. "That makes sense."
I turned toward her, confused. "What does?"
But she didn't answer.
Her smile just got a little bigger.
The lyre sat in my lap, warm and impossibly light — like it was carved from sunlight itself and dipped in gold.
I didn't know how to play.
Didn't know chords. Didn't know fingering, well not the music kind anyway. Didn't even know if I was supposed to.
But my hands moved anyway.
Fingers brushed over strings, and the sound that came out wasn't awkward or clumsy. It was smooth. Bright. Simple.
The lyre was perfectly tuned — divine in every sense of the word. Its strings didn't protest or buzz or bite. It sang, even under the touch of a complete amateur. Like it wanted to be played. Like it was designed to forgive human hands.
And I played.
Just a little tune. Happy. Light. Something that felt like a breeze through tall grass, or a laugh shared on a sunny day. It wasn't grand. Wasn't powerful. But it was good. A tune made for dancing barefoot, or sitting under a tree with your eyes closed.
The plaza around us didn't stop. The satyrs kept spinning, the nymphs kept sipping, but there was something gentlethat rippled out from where we sat — a subtle hush, a tilt of ears, a quiet shift in the rhythm of the night.
Despoina leaned back against her moss-draped seat, her red eyes half-lidded.
She smiled.
Small. Sincere.
"I quite like that," she murmured, voice soft as fog. "It sounds like... a little sunlight."
I didn't say anything.
I just kept playing.
Because somehow, that felt like the right answer.
The melody danced beneath my fingers, bright and clean, drifting up through the wine-drenched air like birdsong over a lazy field.
At first, it was just me and Despoina in that little cold bubble of stillness — her lounging nearby, watching with that small, knowing smile, her red eyes soft.
But then the wind shifted.
Just a little.
And the edge of the divine revel began to lean in.
A few satyrs braved the cold breeze, hooves crunching softly on marble as they stepped closer, heads tilted like they were hearing something rare. A couple nymphs floated in with cups still in hand, their laughter quieted, eyes sparkling with curiosity.
One of them tossed something at my feet — a golden coin, stamped with symbols I didn't recognize.
Then another followed. And another.
I blinked, still playing, surprised. I guess tips were universal.
Despoina inched closer, crossing one leg over the other, settling beside me on the low stone bench, close enough now that her shoulder almost brushed mine. She didn't speak. Just listened.
I smiled without looking away from the strings.
"The next one," I said, loud enough to carry, "is dedicated to my friend over here — the goddess Despoina."
She snorted lightly, but I caught the way her head tilted — a flicker of surprise in her expression. Maybe even something warmer.
I played again. A different tune this time. Still simple — I wasn't a master — but steady, sincere. It danced a little slower. A little deeper. Still happy, but touched with something else. Something real.
Then — on the final note — it happened.
A thin beam of sunlight, golden and warm, cut through the torchlight and fog like a spotlight from the gods. It touched my hand, specifically my ring finger, and nudged it.
Gently. Subtly.
Like something unseen was repositioning it.
I pulled the string.
The note rang out sharper than the rest — but not jarring. It resonated. Like the sound itself shimmered, vibrating through the air in soft waves. The world seemed to pause — not in silence, but in attention.
The melody bloomed. Full. Beautiful.
A few in the small crowd clapped, slow and thoughtful, like the kind of applause you give something you don't quite understand but know mattered.
I looked down at the lyre, confused.
Despoina leaned in without warning.
And pressed a kiss to my cheek.
It was soft, cool, and smelled faintly of smoke and old autumn.
Then she leaned back, smirking faintly.
"You're full of surprises, Demi."
And for the first time in a while, I didn't have anything clever to say.
CP Bank: 500cp
Perks earned this chapter: 100cp: Lyre of Apollo (God of War) [Making]
The god Apollo is one who possesses a multitude of divine roles, but perhaps his most famous is as the god of music. You now find yourself in possession of his lyre, crafted of the finest materials, and virtually indestructible. It is perfectly tuned, and the music it produces will always be pleasing to hear, even if played by a complete novice, if played by a master, you could even bring the gods to tears through your craft.
Milestones reached this chapter: Cassanova: make a good impression on a female goddess: 400 cp