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: None