The Woman Who Dreamed Tomorrow

The Woman Who Dreamed Tomorrow

Jane Reyes woke up crying again.

Not the ugly kind of crying — the kind where your soul remembers something your brain refuses to explain. The kind where you open your eyes and your pillow is wet and you're whispering a name you've never heard before.

"Ephraim."

She sat up in bed, heart hammering, the taste of ancient stone and wildflowers still on her tongue. The dream had been vivid – impossibly so. A temple made of white marble. Columns wrapped in olive branches. A man standing at the edge of a cliff, his back to her, drawing something on a piece of parchment.

A map.

He'd been drawing a map of the stars.

And when he turned around — God, when he turned around — his eyes held the kind of recognition that made her chest ache. Like he'd been waiting. Like he'd always been waiting.

Percy meowed from the foot of the bed.

Jane looked down at her cat – silver-white fur catching the 3 am moonlight, one golden eye and one blue eye staring at her with an expression that was far too intelligent for a house pet.

"Don't look at me like that," she muttered, wiping her face. "It was just a dream."

Percy blinked slowly. Both eyes. Like he was calling her a liar in cat language.

Jane's phone buzzed on the nightstand. Michelle.

Michelle: girl are you awake Michelle: i had the weirdest dream Michelle: there was a forest and a door and i swear to god your cat was there Michelle: your cat was in my dream Jane Michelle: that's not normal behavior for a cat

Jane stared at the screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Jane: ...Percy was in your dream? Michelle: yes. Sitting on a rock. Looking judgmental. As per usual.

Jane: What forest? Michelle: idk it was dark and misty and giving very much "don't go in there" energy Michelle: but like... beautiful? ancient? trees that looked like they were breathing? Jane: I need to tell you something.

Michelle: oh no Michelle: is this a "grab wine" kind of something or a "call a priest" kind of something Jane: ...both?

Jane set the phone down and looked at Percy again.

The cat was sitting perfectly still, tail wrapped around his paws, watching her with those mismatched eyes. In the moonlight, his fur seemed to shimmer — almost glow.

"You know something," Jane whispered. "Don't you?"

Percy stood, stretched with the casual elegance of something ancient wearing a cat costume, and padded to the window. He pressed one paw against the glass.

Outside, the Boston street was empty. But in the distance – just barely visible between the brownstones – the trees of Franklin Park seemed darker than usual. Thicker. Like the forest was breathing.

And then Percy did something he had never done before.

He spoke.

Not with words – not exactly. But Jane heard it all the same, somewhere between her ears and her soul, a voice like wind through ancient columns:

"She's waking up."

Jane's blood went cold. "What did you just—"

Percy turned his head. One golden eye. One blue. Both ancient. Both sorry.

And then the compass fell.

It dropped from nowhere – materialized mid-air like the universe had fumbled it out of a pocket – and landed on Jane's bedroom floor with a heavy brass clang that echoed longer than physics should allow.

Jane stared at it.

It was old. Impossibly old. The kind of old that made museums nervous. Brass casing, tarnished green at the edges, with Greek letters etched around the dial instead of cardinal directions. The needle didn't point north.

It pointed at her.

"Okay," Jane whispered, her voice shaking. "Okay. So this is happening."

Percy jumped down from the windowsill and sat beside the compass, his tail curling protectively around it. He looked up at Jane with an expression that clearly said: Finally.

The Reyes house smelled like love.

That was the only way Jane could describe it. Not just garlic and onions — though God knows Mina Reyes could make garlic do things that should be illegal — but something deeper. Something baked into the walls over decades of laughter, arguments, prayers, and Sunday mornings where nobody was allowed to be sad.

Jane pulled into the driveway at 7 am, still wearing yesterday's clothes, the brass compass wrapped in a scarf inside her bag. Percy sat in the passenger seat like he owned the car. Which, honestly, he might. Jane wasn't sure about anything anymore.

"Anak!" Mina appeared at the door before Jane even turned off the engine. Her mother had a sixth sense for arrivals — and a seventh sense for when something was wrong. "Why you look like that? You didn't sleep? Come, come. I made sopas."

"Ma, it's July."

"Sopas has no season, Jane. Sopas is love. Love has no season." Mina was already pulling her inside, one hand on Jane's wrist, the other gesturing dramatically at the kitchen. "Sit. Eat. Then you tell me why your eyes look like that."

The kitchen was a museum of controlled chaos. A pot of sopas bubbled on the stove — creamy, thick, with chunks of chicken and vegetables swimming in it like a hug in liquid form. On the counter: a half-finished batch of turon, a jar of bagoong that had no business being that close to the sugar bowl, and three different calendars (one Filipino, one American, one that Mina had gotten from the Chinese grocery store because "the pictures are nice").

Jane sat at the table – the same wooden table where she'd done homework, cried over boys, and learned that kare-kare without bagoong was a crime against humanity.

"Where's Dad?" she asked.

Something flickered across Mina's face. Quick. Almost invisible. But Jane caught it.

"In the basement. Working on his maps again." Mina turned back to the stove, stirring with slightly too much force. "You know your father. Always with the maps."

Jane did know. Antonio Reyes had been an engineer and land surveyor for thirty-two years. Retired now, but he still spent hours in the basement with his old equipment — compasses, rulers, topographic charts spread across every surface. Jane had always thought it was just a hobby. An old man missing his career.

But this morning, with a magical compass in her bag and a talking cat in her car, "just a hobby" felt like a lie.

"Ma," Jane said carefully. "Has Dad ever mentioned a place called Black Hollow?"

The spoon stopped moving.

Mina didn't turn around. For three full seconds, she stood perfectly still — a woman who never stopped moving, frozen at her own stove.

Then she laughed. Too bright. Too fast.

"Ay, Jane. You and your imagination. Eat your sopas before it gets cold." She ladled a massive bowl and set it in front of Jane with the kind of force that said: this conversation is over.

But Jane saw her mother's hands. They were shaking.

Percy appeared in the kitchen doorway. He sat down, tail wrapped around his paws, and stared at Mina with those ancient mismatched eyes.

Mina stared back.

"That cat," she muttered, crossing herself. "That cat knows too much."

ready.

Antonio Reyes appeared in the kitchen doorway. He looked older than yesterday. His eyes found Jane, then Percy, then the bag on Jane's lap – the one with the compass-shaped bulge.

His face went white.

Jane, he whispered. "Where did you get that?"

Dad—

"Where did you get that?" His voice cracked. Not with anger. With fear. With recognition. With something that looked terrifyingly like relief.

Jane pulled the compass from her bag. It glowed faintly in the morning light — warm brass, Greek letters pulsing like a heartbeat.

Antonio sat down heavily. His hands — the hands that had held surveying equipment for three decades, that had drawn maps of mountains and rivers and roads — reached for the compass like a man reaching for a memory.

" I thought I'd never see this again, " he said. His voice was barely a whisper. " I thought it was gone. I thought—" He looked up at Jane, and his eyes were wet. "I thought you'd be safe."

"Dad. What is this?"

Mina stood at the stove, her back rigid, her knuckles white around the wooden spoon.

'Antonio,' she said. A warning.

"She has the compass, Mina." His voice was gentle but final. "It found her. We can't pretend anymore."

"We can try

"It found her."

Silence. The sopas bubbled. Percy purred — a low, ancient sound that vibrated through the floor.

Antonio looked at his daughter. His little girl. The woman whose soul was older than she knew.

"Jane," he said. "What I'm about to tell you — your lola told me. And her mother told her. And her mother before that. It goes back further than our family can remember."

He placed the compass on the table. The needle spun once and pointed directly at Jane's heart.

"There is a place beneath this world," Antonio said. "A place where the old gods still walk. Where the forgotten things still breathe. A place called Black Hollow."

He took a shaking breath.

"And you, anak — you are the reason it's waking up."

Percy jumped onto the table. One golden eye. One blue. Both ancient. Both watching.

Outside, the morning sun disappeared behind a cloud that hadn't been there a moment ago. The kitchen grew darker. The compass glowed brighter.

And somewhere beneath the Reyes family home — deep below the basement where Antonio Chapter three Michelle arrived at Jane's apartment in eleven minutes. She lived twenty minutes away. ^{*} Did you break several traffic laws? Jane asked, opening the door.

"I broke suggestions, Jane. Speed limits are suggestions." Michelle pushed past her, eyes scanning the apartment like a detective in a crime drama. She was wearing mismatched shoes. "Where is it? Where's the haunted compass?"

It's not haunted—

"A compass fell out of thin air and your cat spoke to you. That is the literal definition of haunted." Michelle spotted Percy on the windowsill and pointed at him. You. I have questions."

Percy blinked slowly. The universal cat language for: I am above this.

Jane pulled the compass from the scarf. It sat in her palm, warm and heavy, the Greek letters around its edge catching the morning light. The needle pointed steadily – not north, not south, but toward something.

Michelle leaned in. "Okay that's... actually beautiful. Very ancient artifact chic." She reached for it.

The moment her fingers touched the brass, every light in the apartment flickered.

Michelle yanked her hand back. Nope. Nope nope nope."

"It did that when I touched it too," Jane said quietly. "The first time."

"And the second time?"

^{*} It showed me something. Like a vision. A forest. A door made of stone. And a man— ^{*} Jane stopped.

Michelle's eyes narrowed. "A man? Jane Isabella Reyes, is this haunted compass also a dating app

"It's not — that's not what—"

"Because I've been on Hinge for six months and the best I got was a guy who listed 'breathing' as a hobby. If ancient Greek artifacts are out here matching people, I want in

The side street opened into a small square lane had never seen before. Which was impossible — she'd lived in Boston for eight years. She knew every shortcut, every alley, every hidden courtyard.

This one didn't exist yesterday.

In the center of the square stood a flower shop. Not a modern one with minimalist branding and overpriced succulents. This was old — ancient, even — with climbing roses covering every inch of the facade, and a hand-painted sign that read: Venus @ bloom.

'Cute,' Michelle said. 'Very cottagecore. Very I sell flowers and also know your future.'

The door was open. Inside, a woman stood arranging roses with the kind of effortless grace that made Jane's chest ache. She was tall – impossibly tall – with dark skin that seemed to catch light from angles that didn't exist, and eyes the color of the sea at dawn.

She looked up. Smiled.

'Oh,' she said. Her voice was honey and hearthreak. 'You found me.'

Jane's compass went nuclear. Warm, then hot, then almost burning through her bag.

'I'm sorry,' Jane stammered. 'Do we — do I know you?'

The woman laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made flowers bloom. Literally. The roses on the counter opened wider.

'Not yet, darling. But you will.' She extended a hand. Her nails were painted the exact pink of a sunrise. 'Call me Venus. Everyone does these days.'

Michelle grabbed lane's arm. "Jane," she hissed. "Her roses just bloomed when she laughed

'I noticed,'

"That's not Normal

Venus - Aphrodite, Jane's mind whispered, though she didn't know how she knew — tilted her head. Your friend is perceptive. I like her. She has good energy. She winked at Michelle. " Aries?

How did you— Michelle started.

" Lucky guess. " Venus smiled in a way that was absolutely not a lucky guess. She turned back to Jane, and her expression shifted — still warm, but deeper now. Ancient. The compass brought you here for a reason, Oracle. "

Jane's blood went cold. "What did you call me?"

"What you are. What you've always been." Venus tucked a rose behind Jane's ear — a deep red one that smelled like every beautiful thing Jane had ever lost. "But we'll get to that. First — you should know you're being followed."

What Michelle spun around.

'Not by anything dangerous. Not yet.' Vennis nodded toward the window. 'Look.'

Outside, a bike messenger had stopped at the corner. Young, athletic, wearing a helmet with tiny wings painted on the sides. He was pretending to check his phone, but his eyes kept flicking toward the flower shop.

'Is that—' lane started.

My brother, *Venas said with an eye roll so dramatic it transcended millennia. *Hermes. He's supposed to be subtle. He is never subtle.

The bike messenger – Hermes – caught them looking and gave an exaggerated casual wave, like a kid caught sneaking cookies.

Hi Venus he called out. Just passing through definitely not Spying

You're literally stopped in the middle of the street, Herma.

T.M resting messengers rest: He pointed at Jane. is that her she looks like her the eyes are the Same

Venus pinched the bridge of her nose. Three thousand years and he still has no chill.

Michelle leaned toward Jane. I'm sorry — did that flower lady just say her brother is Her-meez? Like... the god?

"The messenger god, technically," Vepus corrected. "He's very sensitive about the distinction. Don't call him just a delivery boy." He cried last fire

^{1} did not cry, ^{2} Hermes shouted from outside. ^{3} my eyes were watering. There's A difference.

Ips's head was spiciness Code Actual mode Standing in a Boston side street, arguing like siblings at Thanksgiving.

"This isn't real," she whispered.

Venus took her hand. Her touch was warm — impossibly warm — and Jane felt something unlock in her chest. A memory. A feeling. A lifetime she couldn't quite reach.

"It's the realest thing you've ever experienced, darling, 'Venus said softly. 'You just forgot. But that's okay. That's what the compass is for.' She squeezed lane's hand. 'That's what he's for.'

"He" Jane's heart stuttered. "Who

The one who's been waiting. 'Venus's eyes were ancient and kind and unbearably sad. 'The one who always waits.'

The compass needle spun wildly – then stopped. Pointing east. Toward the harbor. Toward something lane couldn't see yet but could feel in her bones like a song she'd known before she was born.

Outside, Hermes had abandoned all pretense of subtlety. He was leaning against his bike, eating a granola bar, watching them through the window like it was a T.V show.

"Should we be concerned about him?" Michelle asked.

to Ther-meez

"He hacked the Gods phones?"

"He hacked Zeus's phone. Once. It was very funny and also we don't talk about it."

Jane was barely listening. Her mind was stuck on what Venus had said. The one who always waits. The compass was pulling her – physically pulling her – toward the door.

"I have to go," Jane said. "I have to follow it."

Venus nodded. " I know. But Jane—" She caught her arm. "When you find him — and you will find him — remember: he's been alone a very long time. Be gentle with his heart. It's older than you think."

Jane didn't understand. Not yet. But she nodded.

They left the flower shop. The square was still impossible — still shouldn't exist — but Jane was done questioning impossible things. Impossible was just Tuesday now.

As they walked, Michelle suddenly stopped.

Jane. Look up.

On the lamppost above them, an owl sat perfectly still. In broad daylight. In the middle of Boston. Its eyes were gray – not yellow, not amber, but gray. The gray of storm clouds. The gray of wisdom earned through suffering.

It blinked once at Jane. Slowly. Deliberately.

Then it spread its wings and flew east — the same direction the compass pointed.

"Was that—" Michelle started.

"Athena," Jane whispered. She didn't know how she knew. She just did.

The owl disappeared over the rooftops. The compass burned warm against Jane's hip. And somewhere ahead – past the harbor, past the city, past everything Jane thought she knew about the world – a man looked up from a topographic map spread across the hood of a monster pickup truck.

Michelle Torres had always heard things other people didn't.

Not in a creepy way – or at least, that's what she told herself. It was more like... background noise that occasionally got too loud. The hum of a building before an earthquake. The way the air buzzed before a thunderstorm. A frequency just below conscious hearing that made her restless, made her tap her fingers, made her drive too fast with the windows down because movement was the only thing that quieted it.

She'd never told anyone. Not even Jane.

Because how do you explain to your best friend that sometimes, late at night, you hear voices speaking a language that doesn't exist? That sometimes the words almost make sense — like a song you knew in a dream?

But today, walking through this impossible square in Boston with Greek letters glowing on every surface and a goddess running a flower shop, Michelle felt the noise getting louder. Clearer. Like someone was finally tuning the radio to the right station.

"You hear it too," Venus had said, looking at Michelle with those ancient eyes. Not a question.

Michelle had pretended not to understand. She was good at that.

Now, back in Jane's apartment, Michelle sat on the kitchen counter eating cereal straight from the box while Jane paced.

"So let me get this straight," Michelle said, crunching aggressively. "Your dad has been hiding a magical family secret for your entire life. Your cat is potentially immortal. A literal goddess gave you relationship advice. And somewhere out there, a hot immortal man is waiting for you."

"That's... a very simplified version, but yes."

"Cool. Cool cool cool." Michelle ate another handful of cereal. "And where do I fit into this? Because Venus looked at me like she knew me, Jane. Like she recognized me. And I have never been recognized by a goddess before. I feel like I would remember that."

They curled around her like smoke — not threatening, not exactly. More like... insistent. Like a child tugging at your sleeve. Like a song stuck on repeat that you can't quite place.

She closed her eyes and tried to listen. Really listen. Not the way she usually did – pushing the noise down, drowning it out with podcasts and playlists and the constant motion of her life. But actually letting it in.

The language was old. Older than anything she'd learned in her linguistics minor (which she'd taken specifically because of the whispers, though she'd never admitted that to anyone). It wasn't Latin. It wasn't ancient Greek – at least not the ancient Greek she'd studied. It was something beneath those languages. Something they'd been built on top of.

And tonight, for the first time, she understood a word.

Phylax.

Guardian

Michelle sat up in bed, heart hammering. The word echoed in her skull like a bell struck in an empty cathedral. Guardian. Guardian. guardian.

The whispers swelled — excited, almost. Like they'd been waiting for her to ask. Like they'd been waiting twenty-six years for her to stop running and start listening.

They curled around her like smoke — not threatening, not exactly. More like... insistent. Like a child tugging at your sleeve.

She closed her eyes and tried to listen. Really listen.

The language was old. Older than anything she'd learned in her linguistics minor. It wasn't Latin. It wasn't ancient Greek. It was something beneath those languages. Something they'd been built on top of.

And tonight, for the first time, she understood a word.

Phylax.

Guardian.

Michelle sat up in bed, heart hammering. Guardian. Guardian. guardian.

Images flooded her mind. Not memories — not her memories. A woman with Jane's face standing at the edge of a cliff, wind whipping her hair, a compass in her hand. A man behind her — tall, broad, heartbroken — reaching for her. And beside them both, a figure in shadow. A protector.

The Compass Beneath The Floor

The Reyes basement smelled like every Filipino family's storage nightmare — mothballs, old rice cooker boxes that would "come in handy someday," and the faint ghost of dried fish that had permeated the walls sometime around 2003.

"I can't believe you have a secret magical basement," Michelle said, navigating around a tower of Costco toilet paper. "This is very on-brand for your family, honestly."

"It's not a magical basement. It's just a basement."

"Jane. Your father is about to show us something that explains why ancient Greek gods are running errands in downtown Boston. In your basement. That is, by definition, magical."

Antonio led them past the washer-dryer, past Mina's Christmas decoration bins (labeled by year, because Mina was Mina), past the shelf of canned goods that could survive three apocalypses, to a wall that looked like every other wall in the basement.

Concrete. Unremarkable. The kind of wall you'd lean against while waiting for your laundry to finish.

Antonio pressed his palm flat against it.

The wall hummed.

"Dad," Jane said carefully. "What the actual—"

The concrete rippled like water. Like it had been waiting. Like it was relieved.

Behind it: a room. Small, circular, lit by something that wasn't electricity – a warm amber glow that seemed to come from the stones themselves. The floor was covered in symbols Jane now recognized as ancient Greek. The ceiling was a dome, painted with constellations that moved – actually moved – stars drifting in slow, lazy orbits.

In the center of the room sat a stone pedestal. On the pedestal sat a second compass. " I wanted to tell you," Antonio said. His voice cracked. "Every day, Jane. Every birthday. Every time you had those dreams as a little girl and I told you they were just dreams. I knew they weren't. But your lola said — she said you had to find it yourself. That it wouldn't work if you were told. It had to be discovered."

Jane knelt beside her father. Took his hands.

I'm not angry, Dad.

"You should be."

"Maybe. But I'm not." She squeezed his hands. "I'm scared. But I'm not angry."

Michelle, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, spoke from the doorway. "Mr. Reyes? I have a question."

Antonio wiped his eyes. "Yes, Michelle?"

"Does Mrs. Reyes know about the secret magic room in her basement?"

A pause. A very telling pause.

"...No."

Michelle nodded slowly. "Cool. So when she finds out, can I be here? Because that's going to be Incredible

Despite everything – the magic, the fear, the weight of three thousand years pressing down on this tiny room – Antonio laughed. It was wet and broken and real.

"She's going to kill me," he said.

"She's going to kill you so much Michelle agreed cheerfully.

Jane spent the next hour in the room alone. Michelle and Antonio went upstairs — Michelle to "emotionally prepare Mrs. Reyes" (her words) and Antonio to "accept his fate" (also her words).

The room was warm. Quiet in a way that felt intentional, like the silence was a gift. Jane sat cross-legged on the floor, both compasses in front of her, and tried to make sense of her life.

Twenty-six years old. Graphic designer. Cat owner. Daughter of immigrants. These were facts she knew.

"How old are you? Really?"

Percy's heterochromia eyes — one gold, one silver — blinked up at her. And for just a moment, Jane saw something behind them. Something vast. Something ancient. Something that had watched civilizations rise and fall and rise again.

Then he yawned, and he was just a cat again.

"Helpful," Jane muttered. "Very helpful."

From upstairs, she heard Mina's voice rise to a pitch that could shatter glass: Antonio Ray-ez. what do you mean there is A Room

Jane closed her eyes. Smiled.

At least some things were predictable.

Later that night, after Mina had cycled through all five stages of grief (denial lasted forty-five minutes; bargaining involved threatening to sell the house), the family sat around the kitchen table. Mina had made champorado – her crisis food – and was stirring hers with the intensity of someone plotting revenge.

"Twenty-six years," Mina said. "Twenty-six years I've been doing laundry ten feet from a magical Room

Technically it's more like fifteen feet—

Antonio.

"Sorry."

Michelle was eating her third bowl of champorado. "Mrs. Reyes, for what it's worth, the room is very tastefully decorated. Like, ancient civilizations had great interior design."

Mina pointed her spoon at Michelle. "You. You're not helping."

^{1} I'm providing emotional support through humor. It's my love language.

Jane watched her parents. Her mother — fierce, practical, the woman who could fix anything with duct tape and prayer — was processing the impossible with the same energy she brought to everything: controlled fury followed by reluctant acceptance.

Percy remembered everything.

That was the curse of it — not the immortality, not the form, not the centuries of watching humans make the same beautiful mistakes over and over. It was the remembering. Every face. Every voice. Every version of her.

He remembered the first time.

Alexandria. 48 B.C. The library was burning – not the whole thing, not yet, but enough. Smoke curled through marble corridors and scrolls crackled like dry bones. He'd been a man then. Tall, dark-haired, with hands made for holding books and a mind made for cataloging stars.

His name had been Perseus. Not the hero — just a librarian who happened to share a name with one. The gods thought that was hilarious. The gods thought a lot of things were hilarious.

He'd been trying to save the scrolls when he saw her. A woman — young, fierce, carrying an armful of papyrus like they were children she was rescuing from a fire. Which, technically, they were.

"Help me," she'd said. Not a plea. A command. Like she'd looked at him and decided he was useful.

He'd loved her immediately. Inconveniently. Completely.

They'd saved what they could. Not enough – never enough – but something. And in the chaos, in the smoke and the shouting and the terrible orange glow, Athena had appeared. Not as a goddess. As a woman in a gray cloak, calm as marble, watching them work.

"You," she'd said to Perseus. "You love her."

It wasn't a question. Gods never asked questions they didn't already know the answer to.

"Yes."

She will die tonight. The smoke. Her lungs are already damaged.

Perseus had felt the world tilt. "No. Save her. You're a goddess. Save her."

Athena's gray eyes were not unkind. But they were not human, either. " I cannot interfere with mortal death. But I can offer you a choice. " The choice: become her guardian. Across every lifetime. Watch her be reborn, watch her grow, watch her find her way back to the one she was meant for. Not Perseus – he'd known that even then, with the bitter clarity of someone who loves without being loved back. She was meant for someone else. Someone whose soul was tangled with hers across the fabric of time itself.

"You'll watch," Athena said. "You'll protect. You'll guide. But you will never be hers. And you will never be human again."

"What will I be?"

Athena had smiled. "Something small. Something she'll love without knowing why. Something that can be close to her without the complications of humanity."

A cat. She'd turned him into a cat.

Three thousand years as a cat.

Percy had opinions about this.

He'd been many cats. Different colors, different sizes, different names. He'd been Bastet in Egypt (on the nose, Athena, really). He'd been Shadow in medieval England. He'd been Mochi in Edo-period Japan. He'd been Chairman Meow in 1960s San Francisco, which was his personal favorite era because everyone was too high to notice a cat that occasionally quoted Aristotle.

Each lifetime, he found her. Each lifetime, she was different – different face, different name, different fire in her eyes – but always, unmistakably, her. And each lifetime, he watched her find Ephraim.

Sometimes they had decades together. Sometimes only days. Once, in 15th-century Florence, they'd had exactly one perfect night before the plague took her. Ephraim had wept for a century after that one. Percy had sat on his shoulder through all of it, purring, because what else could he do?

we'll.

An immortal man and an immortal cat. What a pair they made.

Ephraim didn't know — not at first. For the first few centuries, Percy was just a cat that kept showing up. A stray that found him in every city, every country, every new identity. Ephraim would laugh about it. "I think cats just like me," he'd tell whoever he was pretending to be human with that decade.

It wasn't until 1847 – London, fog, gas lamps, the whole aesthetic – that Ephraim figured it out. Percy had made a mistake. He'd knocked a book off a shelf – not unusual for a cat – but it was the right book. A Greek text about Athena's guardians. And it had fallen open to the exact right page.

Ephraim had stared at the book. Then at Percy. Then back at the book.

"You're not just a cat," he'd said slowly. "Are you?"

Percy had blinked. Twice. Which in cat language meant: "Took you long enough, you beautiful idiot."

After that, things were different. Better, in some ways. Ephraim talked to him — really talked. About her. About the loneliness. About how each century felt longer than the last. About how he'd started to forget what her voice sounded like in the first lifetime, and that terrified him more than death ever could.

"Do you remember?" Ephraim would ask, late at night, in whatever apartment or house or tent they shared. "Her first voice? In Alexandria?"

Percy always purred. Yes. He remembered everything.

That was his gift. And his punishment.

This lifetime was different. Percy felt it the moment Jane was born — a shift in the air, a tightening of something cosmic, like the universe taking a breath before a sneeze. He'd been living with Antonio's mother at the time — Lola Celia, who knew exactly what he was and fed him adobo scraps and called him "anak ng diyos" with a wink.

"This one," Lola Celia had said, holding newborn Jane. "This one is the last."

Percy had looked at the baby — red-faced, screaming, absolutely furious about being born — and felt something he hadn't felt in three thousand years.

Hope.

Because Lola Celia was never wrong about these things. And if this was the last lifetime – if Jane and Ephraim could finally, finally get it right – then maybe Percy's watch was almost over.

Maybe he could rest.

He'd been a good guardian. He'd kept her safe through twenty-six years of scraped knees and bad boyfriends and that one time she almost got hit by a bus because she was reading while crossing the street (millennials). He'd tolerated being dressed in doll clothes as a kitten. He'd endured the vet visits. He'd even let her think he was a normal cat, which was frankly the hardest part.

But now the compass had activated. The signs were appearing. And Ephraim – somewhere across the city – had felt it too.

Percy stretched on Jane's bed. His old bones (ancient bones, impossible bones) creaked in a way that was more theatrical than necessary.

It was almost time.

After three thousand years of watching, waiting, protecting – it was almost time for the story to end. Or maybe, finally, to begin.

The thing about unrequited love that spans three millennia is that it stops hurting somewhere around century twelve. It doesn't disappear – it just becomes part of you, like a scar you forget is there until someone touches it.

Percy loved Jane. Not the way Ephraim loved her — not with that desperate, consuming, I- will-burn-the-world-down fire. Percy's love was quieter. Steadier. The love of someone who chose to stay when staying meant giving up everything else.

He'd had chances to break the bargain. Athena had offered, twice. Once in 1066 (bad timing — the Normans were invading and Percy was distracted). Once in 1923, in a jazz club in Harlem, when Athena appeared as a woman in a silver dress and said: "You've served long enough, Perseus. I can release you."

He'd said no. Both times.

Because who would watch her if he didn't? Who would make sure she ate breakfast? Who would sit on her chest at 3 am when the nightmares came – the ones she didn't remember but he recognized as memories bleeding through from past lives?

Who would love her in the spaces between?

Ephraim was the great love. The destiny. The cosmic romance that poets wrote about and gods wagered on. But Percy — Percy was the constant. The one who never left. The one who chose her every single day for three thousand years, knowing she would never choose him back.

And he was okay with that. Mostly. On good days.

On bad days, he knocked things off shelves and pretended it was because he was a cat.

믿다 다월 타

Chapter seven

The Map That Was Never Drawn

Three thousand two hundred and forty-seven years is a long time to be alive.

Ephraim had counted. Not every year — he'd lost track somewhere around the fall of Rome, when everything was on fire and counting felt pointless — but he'd gone back and done the math. Multiple times. Usually at 2 am. Usually after his third cup of coffee. Usually when Mr. Park had gone home and the office was quiet enough for the centuries to catch up with him.

The office. Right.

Park & Associates Land Surveying occupied the third floor of a building in Quincy that smelled permanently of the Korean restaurant on the first floor. The sign on the door read Park & Associates in English and Korean, though the "associates" were just Ephraim and a part-time college kid named Derek who was mostly there to fix the printer.

Mr. Park – Park Joon-ho, but nobody called him that – was sixty-three years old, five foot six, built like a fire hydrant, and had the energy of a man who'd consumed nothing but kimchi jjigae and righteous fury for six decades.

He was also the closest thing Ephraim had to a father. Which was saying something, because Ephraim's actual father had been a Bronze Age fisherman who died before Ephraim's first immortal century.

Ephraim.

Ephraim looked up from his maps. Mr. Park was standing in the doorway of his office, holding a mug that said "World's Okayest Boss" (a gift from Ephraim, Christmas 2019), wearing the expression of a man who had been watching his employee stare at nothing for twenty minutes.

"Yes, Mr. Park?"

"You are doing it again."

"Doing what?"

Mr. Park didn't know Ephraim was immortal. Obviously. But sometimes Ephraim wondered if he suspected something. The man had an uncanny ability to look at Ephraim and see... more. Like he could sense the weight of centuries pressing down on his employee's shoulders.

"You know what your problem is?" Mr. Park said, settling into the chair across from Ephraim's desk like he owned it. Which, technically, he did. "You are waiting for something. I don't know what. But you have been waiting since the day I hired you, and it is making you — " he searched for the word " — constipated. Emotionally constipated."

"That's... a vivid metaphor, Mr. Park."

" I am a vivid man. " He leaned forward. " Whatever you are waiting for — a woman, a sign, a miracle — stop waiting. Go find it. You think I waited for Mrs. Park? No. I showed up at her father's fish shop every day for six months until she agreed to have coffee with me. Her father tried to hit me with a tuna. twice. But I showed up. That is what men do."

Ephraim wanted to say: I've been showing up for three thousand years. I've crossed continents and centuries. I've learned seventeen languages and forty-two professions and I've never stopped looking for her. Not once. Not for a single day.

Instead he said: "I'll think about it, Mr. Park."

"Don't think. do Mr. Park stood up, straightening his tie – always a tie, even though their office dress code was technically "whatever doesn't have surveying mud on it." "Also, the Henderson property lines are wrong. Their fence is two meters into the neighbor's lot. I need you on-site tomorrow morning. Seven am. Don't be late."

"I'm never late."

You were late once. March 2018. I remember.

"That was a blizzard, Mr. Park. The roads were closed."

"Excuses are for people without discipline." He paused at the door. "Seven am. And eat the japchae."

Ephraim watched him go. Shook his head. Smiled.

Then he looked down at his desk.

Maps. Dozens of them. The Henderson survey, yes – property lines, elevation markers, the boring geometry of modern land ownership. But underneath, hidden beneath the legitimate work, were the other maps. The ones he'd been drawing for centuries.

Star charts. Constellation patterns. Ley lines that no modern scientist would recognize. The invisible architecture of the world — the places where the veil between the mundane and the mythic wore thin.

Mr. Park appeared in the doorway. His expression shifted from irritation to something else entirely when he saw Ephraim's face.

"Ephraim. You are crying."

"I'm not—" He touched his cheek. Wet. "I'm not crying. I have allergies."

"You have never had allergies in twelve years."

"They're new allergies."

Mr. Park stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face — the knowing smile of a man who has seen love hit someone like a freight train.

"It's the woman," Mr. Park said. Not a question.

"What woman?"

"the woman. The one you've been waiting for. The one who makes you do the stare." He pointed at Ephraim's face. "That is not an allergy face. That is a 'she called me back' face. I know this face. I invented this face."

Ephraim laughed. It came out broken and wet and wonderful. "Mr. Park—"

Go.

"What?"

"go. Right now. Whatever you need to do – go do it. The Henderson survey can wait. Derek can answer the phones. go find her."

"It's not that simple—"

"It is exactly that simple. You think love is complicated? Love is the simplest thing in the world. Everything else is complicated. Love is just — " he made a gesture like grabbing something from the air " — you see them, and you go. That's it. The rest is just logistics."

Ephraim grabbed his jacket. His keys. The compass – warm now, almost hot, humming against his palm like a living thing.

The Collision

Ephraim had driven like a madman.

The compass burned in his palm – not painfully, but insistently, like a heartbeat syncing with his own. Northwest. Always northwest. Toward Boston. Toward her.

He'd waited twenty-six years for this. Three thousand, if he was being honest. But these last twenty-six — the silent ones, the ones where the compass spun and spun and pointed nowhere — those had been the worst. Worse than the centuries of searching. Worse than the lifetimes of finding her too late.

Silence was worse than loss. At least loss meant she'd been there.

He parked on a street he didn't recognize but his body did. His hands were shaking. His ancient, steady, cartographer's hands — the ones that had drawn maps of empires and coastlines and constellations — were shaking.

And then he saw her.

Through the window of a coffee shop. Laughing. Her head thrown back, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes bright with something that made his chest crack open like dry earth after rain.

She was with someone. A man. Young, handsome, leaning toward her with the easy confidence of someone who didn't know he was sitting across from a goddess.

years of life and she was the most kind of looking.

He pressed his hand to his chest. His heart was doing something impossible — beating in a rhythm he hadn't felt since the last time. The rhythm that meant: her. Here. Now.

She turned.

Their eyes met through the glass.

And the world – the actual, physical world – tilted. Not metaphorically. The streetlights flickered. A car alarm went off three blocks away. Every bird within a mile radius took flight simultaneously, filling the sky with wings.

Jane's mouth opened. Her hand went to her chest — mirroring him, always mirroring him, even when she didn't know why.

Ephraim took a step forward.

Jane felt it at 10:47 am

She was mid-sentence – telling Ryan about the weird dream, the one with the man and the maps and the feeling of being known in a way that made her chest ache – when it hit her.

A wave. Not physical — deeper than that. Like someone had plucked a string inside her rileage and the vibration traveled through every atom of her being.

She gasped. Her coffee cup slipped. Ryan caught it – quick reflexes, journalist instincts – but his eyes were on her face.

Jane? Jane, what's wrong?

" I – nothing. I just – " She pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was hammering. Not with fear. With recognition. Like her body knew something her mind hadn't caught up to yet.

She turned toward the window.

And there he was.

A man. Across the street. Standing beside a dark car with his hand pressed to his own chest in a mirror of her gesture. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A face that was both completely unfamiliar and somehow the most recognizable thing she'd ever seen.

He was looking at her like she was the sun coming up after an endless night.

Jane couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't look away.

Jane: "Ryan's voice came from very far away. Who are you looking at?"

She didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because the man across the street had taken a step toward the coffee shop, and every cell in Jane's body was screaming one word:

finally

And then — because the universe has a terrible sense of timing — her phone rang.

It was her sister.

Jane, you need to come home. now. Something's happening to the house. The walls are — Jane, the walls are glowing.

The man across the street stopped. His head tilted, like he'd heard something too. His expression shifted from wonder to alarm.

And in the shadows behind him — in the narrow alley between buildings where the morning light couldn't reach — something moved. Something with too many limbs and eyes like dying stars.

Keres smiled. She'd found them both.

'Oh good,' she whispered, her voice like dead leaves scraping stone. 'Together. That makes this so much easier.'

Percy, still watching from three blocks away, arched his back and hissed.

"No," he said. "No, no, no -"

He leaped from the windowsill and ran. Faster than any cat should be able to run. Faster than physics allowed. Because Percy wasn't just a cat — he was a guardian, bound by oath and love and three thousand years of stubborn devotion.

And his girl was in danger.

Ryan watched Jane's face change. One second she was laughing at his terrible joke about the mayor's hairpiece. The next - gone. Like someone had flipped a switch and the woman he'd been falling for over six months of coffee dates and late-night texts had simply... left. Her body was still there, but Jane - the real Jane, the one who threw sugar packets and snorted when she laughed - had gone somewhere he couldn't follow.

He followed her gaze to the window. To the man outside.

And Ryan felt something cold settle in his stomach. Because he'd seen that look before. In movies. In books. In the faces of people who'd found something they didn't know they were missing.

I have to go. Jane said. Her voice sounded strange. Distant. Like she was speaking from underwater.

Tane, wou

But she was already standing. Already moving toward the door. Already leaving him behind with two half-finished coffees and the sudden, terrible understanding that he'd lost something he'd never actually had.

Ityan sat alone in the coffee shop for a long time after that.

He didn't know it yet, but he'd see her again. Soon. And the man from across the street would be there too. And things would get... complicated.

Very, very complicated.

The thing in the alley – Keres, handmaiden of Persephone, collector of dying breaths – had already unfurled. Her form was wrong in the way that ancient things are wrong: too many angles, shadows that moved independently of light, a face that was beautiful the way a knife is beautiful.

'Little guardian,' Keres purred. 'Still playing house cat after all these years?'

Percy stood between Keres and the coffee shop door, his fur raised, his body crackling with silver light that had nothing to do with being feline. In this form, he was small. Vulnerable. But Percy had fought gods before. A handmaiden – even one of Persephone's favorites – didn't scare him.

Much. "You're not supposed to be here," Percy growled. His voice was deeper now – less cat, more something else. Something older. "The Accord _"

"The Accord died when the girl's power woke up." Keres tilted her head, her neck bending at an angle that would break a mortal spine. " Persephone felt it. The whole Underworld felt it. A soul that bright, that old – do you know what she's worth to us?"

"She's not yours." "She's not yours either, little cat." Keres smiled. Too many teeth. "She belongs to no one. That's what makes her so... collectible."

Percy lunged.

What happened next took approximately four seconds and violated several laws of physics. Percy's form Shifted — not fully, not here, not in the open — but enough. Silver light. The sound of something ancient unsheathing. Keres shrieked — a sound like tearing metal — and recoiled.

But she was laughing. Even as she bled shadow and starlight, she was Laughing.

'Oh, Perseus. You've gotten Weak. Three thousand years as a housecat and you've forgotten what you are.'

I haven't forgotten anything.

Then you know you can't protect her forever. Not from what's coming." Keres was dissolving, retreating into the shadows between worlds. The war is already here, little guardian. You just haven't noticed because you've been too busy Purring.

She was gone. The alley was empty. The shadows were just shadows again.

Percy collapsed. His legs gave out and he lay on the cold concrete, panting, bleeding light from a wound across his ribs that would take days to heal.

'Damn,' he whispered. 'Damn, damn, damn.'

Inside the coffee shop, Jane had stopped moving. She stood frozen by the door, her hand on the handle, her eyes wide and unfocused. Something was happening inside her – something she couldn't name or control.

The lights in the coffee shop flickered. Then died. Then came back Brighter — impossibly bright, every bulb burning white-hot.

Ryan ducked. Other customers screamed. But Jane just stood there, her hand still on the door, light pouring from her like she'd swallowed the sun.

And across the street, Ephraim watched. Not with fear. With Awe. With recognition. With the bone-deep certainty of someone who has seen this before — in other lives, other centuries, other versions of this exact moment.

"There you are," he whispered. "There's my girl."

The light faded. Jane blinked. Looked at her hands. Looked at the burned handprint she'd left on the door handle.

And then she ran.

Not toward eptiram. Not back to Ryan. She ran Home. Because when the world stops making sense, you go to the place that always has. You go to your mother. You go to the house that remembers.

Ephraim didn't follow. He wanted to – every atom of his being screamed at him to chase her, to hold her, to explain everything. But he'd done this before. Forty-seven lifetimes of doing this before. And he'd learned: you cannot rush a woman into believing she's extraordinary. She has to arrive there herself.

So he stood on the sidewalk and watched her disappear around a corner. And he waited.

He was very, very good at waiting.

That night, late dreamed.

She knew it was a dream because the physics were wrong. The sky had too many colors — not sunset colors, but colors that didn't have names. The air tasted like honey and old books and something electric. Like the moment before a kiss.

She was standing in a field. No – a rooftop. No – both. The space kept shifting, unable to decide what it wanted to be, settling finally on something that felt like a memory she'd never made: a rooftop garden overlooking a city that was both ancient and modern, columns wrapped in neon, marble streets reflecting starlight.

And he was there.

The man from the street. From the coffee shop window. From every dream she'd had since she was sixteen and didn't know why she woke up aching.

He was sitting on the edge of the roof, legs dumpling over nothing, and when he turned to look at her, his smile was the saddest, most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

"You're here," he said. Like it was a miracle. Like she was a miracle.

"Where is here?" Jane asked. Her voice sounded different in this place – fuller, older, like it carried harmonies she couldn't hear when she was awake.

Somewhere between your mind and mine: ' He stood. Walked toward her. Slowly, like she might disappear if he moved too fast. ' It happens sometimes. When the connection is strong enough. When both people are... reaching,'

"I don't know you."

"You do." He stopped an arm's length away. Close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. Close enough to touch. "You've always known me, Jane."

Her name in his mouth. God. It sounded like a prayer. Like something sacred and desperate and tender all at once.

That's impossible," she whispered. But her body was already leaning toward him. Already closing the distance her mind insisted should stay open.

"I know," Iris hand came up — slowly, so slowly — and his fingers brushed her jaw. Just barely, just enough.

Jane's breath caught. His touch was warm. Real. More real than anything she'd felt while awake. It sent electricity cascading down her spine, pooling low in her stomach like liquid gold.

"How can a dream feel like this?" she breethd.

" Because it's not just a dream. " His thumb traced her lower lip. His eyes were dark, heavy-idded, watching her mouth like it held the answer to every question he'd ever asked. " It's a bridge. Between what was and what will he "

Jane should have pulled away. Should have asked questions. Should have been rational and careful and all the things she was in walking life.

instead, she kissed him.

Or he kissed her. Or they met somewhere in the middle — a collision as inevitable as gravity. His mouth was warm and tasted like ruin and eternity and something specifically, uniquely. Him that she recognized on a cellular level.

His hands found her waist, Pulled her closer. Not roughly — reverently. Like she was something precious and he'd been waiting three thousand years to hold her and couldn't quite believe she was letting him.

Jane made a sound against his mouth - a small, desperate thing - and his control cracked, just slightly. His fingers tightened. His kiss deepened. And Jane felt the world tilt again, but differently this time. Not with power. With Want.

The missed you," he said between kisses, his voice wrecked, broken open. Every day. Every century. Every version of this life where I couldn't find you—

'Tin here,' she said, and she didn't know why she was crying. 'Tin here, I'm here-'

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His forehead against hers. His breath ragged. His hands trembling where they held her face.

" Jane. " Her name again. A prayer again. " When you wake up — you won't remember all of this. But you'll feel it. Here. " He pressed his hand to her chest, over her heart. His palm was hot. " You'll feel me. And when we meet — really meet, in the waking world — you'll know. You'll know it's me. '

"I'm so soled. Desperate by my business he could feel the dream feeling at the times. Feel herself being pulled back toward consciousness like a tide retreating from shore.

He smiled. That sad, beautiful smile. You'll know that too. When you're ready!

That's not fair—

He kissed her again. Softer this time. A goodbye kiss. A promise kiss. His lips moved to her forehead, her temple, the corner of her eye where tears were falling.

Nothing about us has ever been fair, he murmured against her skin. But it's always been worth it.

The dream dissolved. Colors bleeding into white. His warmth falling. His hands disappearing like smoke.

June woke up gooping.

347 am. Her bedroom. Perry curled at her feet, watching her with those too-kn�ling golden eyes.

Her lips were singling. Her heart was hummering. And her pillows was wet with tears she didn't remember crying.

It was just a dream," she said out loud. To Percy. To herself. To the dark room that suddenly felt too empty.

Perey said nothing. But his tail lacked once. Twice.

It wasn't just a dream. They both knew it.

And across the city, in a sparse apartment above a Korean restaurant, Ephraim sat up in bed at exactly 147 am, his hand pressed to his mouth, his heart slamming against his ribs, and whispered:

He laughed. Then he cried. Then he laughed again, became three thousand years and she kissed Him Back, even in a dream, even without knowing his name, even without understanding what they were to each other.

She kissed him back.

It was enough. For more, it was enough.

The Morning After

Jane didn't go to work the next morning.

She couldn't. Not when her lips still tingled from a kiss that hadn't happened. Not when her body still hummed with the memory of hands that had never touched her. Not when every time she closed her eyes, she saw His face – dark eyes, gold flecks, that devastating sad smile.

"You look terrible," Michelle said from the kitchen doorway.

Jane's older sister stood there in her scrubs — night shift at Mass General, perpetually exhausted, perpetually blunt. Michelle had their mother's face and their father's zero-tolerance policy for bullshit.

"Thanks."

I mean it. You look like you haven't slept. Or like you slept Too much. The wrong kind of sleep. ' Michelle poured coffee — black, no sugar, because Michelle believed sugar was a conspiracy. 'Bad dreams?'

Jane opened her mouth. Closed it. How do you tell your sister that you dreamed of a man you've never met, that he kissed you like you were oxygen, that you woke up crying and Aching and somehow more alive than you've felt in twenty-six years?

Something like that, *fane said.

Michelle studied her for a long moment. Then sat down across from her at the kitchen table — the same table where their mother used to read tea leaves, where their father used to spread his engineering blueprints, where the Reyes family had eaten ten thousand meals together before everything changed.

^{1} Is this about the guy?“ Michelle asked.

What guy?

The guy Ryan. The journalist. The one you've been 'just friends' with for six months while he looks at you like you invented sunlight.

It's not about Ryan.

Then there's Another guy? Michelle's eyebrows shot up. Jane Reyes. You have Two men? Since when do you have Two men? You barely had One man.

I don't have anyone. It's not — if's complicated.

"Complicated how?"

Complicated like: I saw a stranger through a coffee shop window and the world literally shook. Complicated like: I burned a door handle with my bare hand. Complicated like: I dreamed of him and it felt more real than anything I've ever experienced while awake.

'test... complicated'

Michelle sipped her coffee. 'Does this have anything to do with the walls glowing last night?'

Jane froze. "You saw that!"

"Jane. The Entire House lit up like a Christmas tree at 3 am. The neighbors called me. Mrs. Gutierrez thought we were being abducted by aliens." Michelle set down her mug with a deliberate click. "I've been waiting for you to bring it up. I've been waiting for Years for you to bring it up."

"Bring what up?"

The weird stuff. The things that happen around you. The lights flickering when you're upset. The way Percy looks at you like he understands English. The dreams you've been having since you were sixteen. Michelle leaned forward. 'I'm your sister, Jane. I'm not blind. And I'm not Mom — I'm not going to pretend everything is normal when it clearly isnt.'

Jane stared at her. "You... you've noticed?"

" Of course I've noticed. I've been Protecting you from noticing. Who do you think told Mrs. Gutierrez it was an electrical surge? Who do you think replaced three sets of lightbulbs last month without telling you?" Michelle stopped. Took a breath. ' I'm your ate. It's my job.'

Ate. The Filipino word for older sister. Michelle only used it when she was being serious. When she was being the version of herself that had stepped into their mother's role after Mina got sick.

Jane's eyes burned. "Michelle

'Don't cry. If you cry, I'll cry, and I have a twelve-hour shift in two hours and I can't show up with puffy eyes.' But Michelle's voice was thick. 'Just... tell me what's happening. For real. No more pretending.'

So Jane told her. Everything. The man in the street. The pull. The light. The dream.

Michelle listened without interrupting. When Jane finished, she was quiet for a long time.

Then: "Okay."

Okay? That's it? I just told you I might be losing my mind and you say Okay?

"You're not losing your mind," Michelle stood up. Walked to the kitchen counter. Opened the junk drawer. She pulled out an envelope. Old. Yellowed. Their mother's handwriting on the front.

for Jane, When she'S Ready.

"Morn gave me this," Michelle said quietly. "Before she died. She said I'd know when it was time." She held it out. "I think it's time."

Jane took the envelope with shaking hands.

Mina's letter was three pages long. Written in her careful, slanted handwriting — the one she used for important things. Not grocery lists or permission slips, but prayers. Letters to God. And apparently, letters to her daughter about being bound to an immortal.

My dearest Jane.

If you're reading this, then the dreams have started. The lights have come. And you've seen him — the man with the compass and the sad eyes and the patience of someone who has loved you across centuries.

His name is Ephraim. And he is yours. Has always been yours. Will always be yours.

I know this sounds impossible. I know you're scared. I was scared too, when your lola told me. When she showed me the paintings — you, in different faces, different lives, but always you. Always finding him. Always being found.

You are not ordinary, anak. You never were. There is something inside you — a light, a power, a piece of something divine that chose our bloodline centuries ago. I don't fully understand it. Your lola didn't either. But I know this: it is not a curse. It is not a burden. It is a gift. your gift.

The cat knows everything. Trust him. He's been with you longer than you think.

And the man – Ephraim – he will wait. He has always waited. But Jane, my love, don't make him wait too long. Three thousand years is enough. Even for an immortal.

I love you. I love you. I love you. Always. Nanay

Jane read it three times. Then she put her head on the kitchen table and sobbed. Percy pressed his head against her arm. Michelle rubbed her back and said nothing, because sometimes silence is the only comfort that fits.

And then the doorbell rang.

'Tll get it,' Michelle said.

It was Ryan. Of course it was Ryan. Standing on their porch with pad thai from Jane's favorite place and that earnest, open face that made Jane feel guilty for reasons she couldn't articulate.

Hey, he said. You left yesterday without – I just wanted to make sure you're okay.

Michelle looked at him. Looked back at Jane — red-eyed, clutching their dead mother's letter, a cat on her lap that was definitely judging everyone.

She's fine, Michelle said. She's just having a day.

Can I come in?

Michelle glanced at Jane. Jane nodded. Because Ryan was good. Ryan was Safe. Ryan was the version of her life that made sense – the one without glowing walls and immortal soulmates and dreams that left bruises on her heart.

Ryan sat across from her. Pushed the pad thai forward. Didn't ask about the letter. Didn't ask about the man from the coffee shop. Just sat there, being present, being Ryan, and Jane loved him for it.

Not the way she loved the man in her dreams. Not with that cosmic, cellular, across-the-centuries desperation.

But she loved him. Quietly. Humanly. In the way that counts on Tuesday afternoons when the world isn't ending.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

For being here. For not asking.

Ryan smiled. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm always here, Jane. You know that."

She did know that. And it made everything so much harder.

Because tonight, she would dream again. She could already feel it building — the pull, the warmth, the inevitability of Him. And tomorrow, she would have to choose between the man who waited three thousand years and the man who brought her pad thai on her worst day.

And she had no idea which love was the right one.

Ryan stayed for three hours. They ate pad thai on the couch. Watched a terrible reality show. Percy sat between them like a furry chaperone, his golden eyes tracking Ryan's every movement with undig�ed suspicion.

"Your cat hates me," Ryan said.

"He doesn't hate you. He's just... protective."

"He literally missed when I tried to sit next to you."

"He does that to everyone."

The didn't do it to the mailman yesterday. I watched. The mailman got a Purr.

Jane laughed. And for a moment – just a moment – things felt normal. Safe. Like the world hadn't cracked open yesterday and shown her something impossible underneath.

Ryan turned to her. His expression shifted. The easy humor fading into something more vulnerable. More dangerous.

Jane. I need to say something.

"Just let me. Please." He set down his chopsticks. Turned his whole body toward her. "I know something happened yesterday. At the coffee shop. I saw the way you looked at that guy. I saw you Leave. And I'm not going to pretend I didn't."

Jane's stomach dropped. Ryan, I'm sorry—

"Don't apologize, just... let me finish." He took a breath. "I've been in love with you for six months. Probably longer. Probably since the day you threw a sugar packet at my head because I said pineapple belongs on pizza."

tuldoesnt

"Not the point. " But he smiled. Briefly. The point is — I know what I feel. And I know what I saw yesterday. And I'm not going to compete with... whatever that was. I'm not built for comic. I'm built for showing up with pad that and watching bad T.V and being the guy who's there. "

Ryan

" I'm not going anywhere, Jane. " His voice was steady. Sure. The voice of a man who'd made his decision and wasn't asking permission. " Whatever's happening — the weird stuff, the glowing, the guy from the street — I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to choose right now. You don't have to choose ever. I'm just... here. Okay? "

Jane looked at him. This good, steady, Human man who loved her in a language she understood. Who didn't speak in riddles about centuries and bridges between worlds. Who just showed up. Again and again and again.

"Okay," she whispered.

Ryan nodded. Picked up his chopsticks. 'Good. Now – do you think the blonde one is going to get eliminated tonight? Because I have options

And just like that, they were back to normal. Or the closest thing to normal Jane had left.

But at 17 P.M, when Ryan finally left — lingering at the door, his hand brushing hers in a way that was barely a touch but somehow said everything — Jane felt the pull again. The warmth building in her chest. The tide rising.

She was going to dream tonight. She knew it like she knew her own name.

And she wanted to.

God help her, she Wanted to.

Michelle found her in the hallway at midnight, stamping outside their mother's old bedroom.

"You're going to dream about him again," Michelle said. Not a question.

Then do you know?

Because you're glosing. Literally. Your hands, Jane. Michelle pointed.

Jane looked down. Her fingertips were luminous — soft gold light pulsing beneath her skin like a second heartbeat.

yohl

Yeah, Oh! Michelle learned against the wall. Is it... is it safe? The dreaming?

I think so. It doesn't hurt. It feels like..." Jane searched for words. "Coming home. But to a home I've never been to."

Michelle was quiet for a moment. Their 'Mom used to glow too. Tell you know that?"

Jane's head snapped up. "What?"

When she was sleeping, Sometimes, I'd check on her — after Dad died, I used to check on her every night — and sometimes she'd be glowing, just her hands. Just barely.' Michelle's voice was soft. I never told anyone.'

Michelle

"Co to sleep, Jane." Michelle put out the wall. Proposed a kies to her sister's forehead. "Go find your answers, fill be here when you wake up."

Jane went to bed. Percy curled at her feet. The gold light in her hands paused once, twice, then spread – warm and gentle – through her whole body.

She closed her eyes.

And fell The dream was different this time.

No rooftop. No shifting landscape. Just a room. A bedroom – warm and dark, lit by candles that burned without flickering, their light golden and steady like something held in place by will alone.

And a bed. White sheets. The kind that looked like clouds made solid.

Jane stood in the doorway. She was wearing something thin — a slip, maybe, or a nightgown she didn't own in waking life. Something that made her feel exposed and powerful at the same time.

Ephraim was already there. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Waiting. Always waiting.

But tonight he looked different. Less controlled. Less patient. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up, his hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it. Like he'd been pacing. Like he'd been Wanting.

You came back,' he said. His voice was rougher than before. Lower. It did something to her stomach – something hot and liquid and entirely inappropriate for a dream about a stranger.

" I couldn't stay away. " Jane stepped into the room. The door closed behind her – not ominously, but inevitably. Like the room was saying: this is where you're supposed to be. " I tried. I told myself it was just a dream. That you're not real. "

"I'm real." He stood. Crossed to her in three steps. His hands found her face — both hands, cradling her jaw, tilting her head up to look at him. "I'm real, Jane. I'm Here. I've been here for three thousand years waiting to be real to you."

Then why does this feel like a dream?

"Because you're not ready to find me awake yet," His thumb traced her cheekbone. His eyes were burning – dark and gold and desperate. "But here – in this space between us – we can have this. We can have Tonight."

Jane's breath was coming faster. His proximity was doing things to her – his warmth, his scent (cedar and sea salt and something ancient), the way his body seemed to curve toward hers like gravity had been redesigned around them.

"What if I want more than tonight?" she whispered.

Something broke in his expression. Something that had been held together by centuries of discipline and patience and the terrible practice of letting her go, lifetime after lifetime.

Then Take more," he said. Take everything. Take Me.

Jane kissed him. Not softly — not like last time. This was hunger. This was three thousand years of separation compressed into a single point of contact. Her hands fisted in his shirt. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her — actually lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing — and then the bed was beneath her and he was above her and the world was nothing but warmth and weight and want.

"Is this okay?" he breethd against her neck. His lips trailing fire along her collarbone. His hands careful even as they shook. "Tell me this is okay—"

"Yes," Jane arched into him. Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt — undoing them, pushing fabric aside, finding warm skin beneath. He was beautiful. Sculpted by centuries of existence, mapped with faint scars that told stories she wanted to learn. "Yes, this is okay. This is — God—"

He'd found a spot below her ear. His mouth hot and open against her pulse point. His hands sliding up her sides, taking the thin fabric with them, his thumbs tracing the curve of her ribs like he was memorizing her.

You have no idea," he murmured against her skin, "what it does to me. Feeling you. After so long. After so long

Jane pulled him up. Kissed him again. Wrapped her legs around him and felt him groan — a sound that vibrated through her entire body, that made her feel powerful and wanted and Alive in a way she'd never felt while awake.

They moved together like they'd done this before. Like muscle memory transcended lifetimes. His hands knew where to touch. Her body knew how to respond. Every kiss was a conversation in a language older than words.

"Ephraim," she said. His name — she knew it now, from her mother's letter, and saying it felt like unlocking something. Like speaking a spell.

He froze above her. His eyes wide. Vulnerable in a way that made her chest crack open.

You know my name:

"I know your name." She touched his face. Traced the line of his jaw. "Ephraim."

He made a sound – half laugh, half sob – and buried his face in her neck. His body trembling. His arms tightening around her like he was afraid she'd dissolve.

"Say it again."

He kissed her with every repetition. Her mouth. Her jaw. Her throat. Her collarbone. Lower. Lower. Until Jane was gasping, her hands in his hair, her back arching off the white sheets, the candlelight painting them both in gold.

They didn't go further. Not tonight. But they stayed tangled together – legs intertwined, his head on her chest, her fingers tracing patterns on his back – and it was somehow more intimate than anything else could have been. This closeness. This trust. This willingness to be Held.

I'm going to find you," Jane said into the dark. 'In the real world. I'm going to find you.'

I know. He pressed a kiss to her sternum. Right over her heart. I'll be at the Korean restaurant. On Maple Street. Above Mr. Park's place.

That's very specific for a dream.

He laughed. Low and warm against her skin. "I'm tired of being poetic. I just want you to find me."

Maple Street. Mr. Park's.

"Yes."

And when I find you?

He lifted his head. Looked at her with those dark-gold eyes. Then we stop dreaming. And start living.

The dream held them for what felt like hours. They talked. They kissed. They existed in the warm dark together like two people who'd earned this – this peace, this closeness, this moment of being Enough for each other.

But eventually — always eventually — the edges began to blur.

"No," Jane said. Holding tighter. "Not yet—"

'It's okay.' His voice was fading. His warmth dissolving. 'You know where to find me now. This doesn't have to be goodbye.'

'Promise.'

^{1} promise. I Promise, Jane—

She woke up.

4:12 am. Her body was humming. Her skin was flushed. Her heart was racing – not with fear, but with the echo of being touched by someone who knew her across centuries.

Percy was staring at her from the foot of the bed. His expression was deeply, profoundly judgmental.

Don't look at me like that," Jane said breathlessly.

Percy blinked slowly. The cat equivalent of: I saw Everything.

"It was just a dream."

Percy's tail flicked. Sure it was.

ane pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. Maple Street. Mr. Park's. Above the Korean restaurant.

Tomorrow. She was going tomorrow.

No more dreaming. No more waiting.

She was going to find him.

She'd told Michelle she was going for a walk. Michelle had looked at her – really Looked at her, the way only an older sister can – and said, 'You're going to find him, aren't you?'

"Yes"

Do you want me to come?

'No.'

Do you want me to have 911 on speed dial?

'Michelle.' 'I'm Serious. You're going to meet a man from your Dreams, Jane. That's either the most romantic thing ever or the opening scene of a true crime podcast.' But Michelle hugged her. Hard. 'Be safe. Text me every hour. If you don't text, I'm sending the police and Percy.'

Percy, for his part, was already outside. Sitting on the porch railing with the air of someone who'd been waiting for this particular Tuesday for approximately three millennia.

"You're coming," Jane said. Not a question.

Percy jumped down and walked ahead of her. Leading. Like he'd always known the way.

Mr. Park's Korean restaurant was small. Tucked between a haundromat and a bookshop on a quiet stretch of Maple Street that lane had walked past a hundred times without noticing. The sign read Parks Kitchen in faded red letters, and beneath it, a smaller sign: Apartment Above — Ring Bell.

Jane stood on the sidewalk for seven minutes. She counted.

Percy sat at her feet, looking up at her with an expression that clearly said: We don't have three thousand more years, Jane.

'Shut up,' she told the cat.

She rang the bell.

Nothing happened for ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Jane's courage was actively evaporating – she could feel it leaving her body like steam – when the door opened.

And there he was.

Not a dream. Not a vision. Not candlelight and white sheets and the soft blur of sleep. real Solid. Standing in a doorway in a wrinkled henley and sweatpants, his hair a mess, his eyes wide with shock.

He looked like he'd just woken up. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. He looked like every beautiful, impossible thing Jane had ever wanted and been too afraid to name.

'Hi,' Jane said.

Ephraim stared at her. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

You're here," he said. His voice cracked on the second word. "You're actually Here."

You gave me your address. In the dream. You said Maple Street, above Mr. Park's—

She didn't finish the sentence. Because Ephraim had stepped forward and pulled her into his arms — not kissing her, not yet, just Holding her. His face buried in her hair. His whole body shaking.

You're real," he whispered. You're real, you're real, you're real

Jane's arms came up around him. And it was exactly like the dream — the warmth, the rightness, the feeling of every scattered piece of herself clicking into place – except Better. Because she could feel his heartbeat. Could feel the scratch of his unshaved jaw against her temple. Could smell coffee and cedar and the realness of him.

'I'm real,' she said. 'I found you.'

Percy walked past them both into the apartment like he owned it. Which, knowing Percy, he probably felt he did.

"Um." A voice from inside. "Ephraim? There's a woman hugging you. And a cat just walked into our kitchen."

Marcus appeared in the hallway behind Ephraim. Tall, broad-shouldered, holding a spatula in one hand and — inexplicably — a short sword in the other.

"Is this a threat situation?" Marcus asked. "Because I was making eggs and I grabbed the wrong thing from the drawer and now I'm committed."

"It's not a threat situation," Ephraim said, still not letting go of Jane. "Marcus, this is Jane."

Marcus dropped the spatula. Kept the sword. " the Jane? The Jane Jane? Three-thousand-years Jane? The reason you stare at that compass like it owes you money?"

'Oh Shit.' Marcus set down the sword on the hallway table with a clatter. 'Oh shit, oh shit – do I bow? Am I supposed to bow? Ephraim never told me the protocol—'

"You don't bow," Jane said, laughing despite herself. "I'm just... a person."

You are not just a person. You're like – you're the Endgame. You're the final boss of love. You're—" Marcus caught Ephraim's expression. I'm going to stop talking and go back to my eggs. It's great to meet you. You're shorter than I imagined. That's not an insult. I'm going now."

He retreated to the kitchen. They could hear him whisper-shouting: "Percy. Percy. Is that really her? Blink once for yes."

A single, deliberate blink.

oh Shit'

Ephraim pulled back just enough to look at her. His hands still on her waist. His eyes still wet.

I can't believe you're here.

I can't believe you live above a Korean restaurant.

He laughed. A real laugh – surprised and bright and young-sounding. Not the ancient, weary thing she'd expected from a man who'd lived three millennia. "Mr. Park gives me free kimchi. It's a good arrangement,"

How long have you been here? In this city?

"Six months. The compass brought me." His hand came up to her face. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've been six blocks from you for six months, Jane. Six Blocks. And I couldn't – the rules say I can't approach first. You have to come to me. Every lifetime, you have to choose

I'm choosing," Jane said. "I'm here. I chose."

Something shifted in his expression. The restraint cracking. The patience — three thousand years of patience — finally, finally reaching its end.

He kissed her.

Not like the dreams. Better. Worse. More. His mouth was warm and real and tasted like coffee and desperation. His hands pulled her closer – one on her waist, one cradling the back of her head – and Jane melted into him like she'd been solid ice her whole life and he was the sun.

The kiss deepened. Jane's back hit the doorframe. She didn't care. Her hands were in his hair, pulling him down to her, and he made that sound again — that groan from the dream — except now she could Feel it vibrating through his chest against hers.

"Inside," she breethd against his mouth. "We should go inside—"

"Yes." He was kissing her jaw. Her neck. The spot below her ear that he'd found in the dream, "Yes, inside, absolutely—"

T Can Still See you," Marcus called from the kitchen, "and the cat is Judging Both of you."

They broke apart. Laughing. Breathless. Ephraim's forehead against hers, both of them grinning like idiots.

Your roommate," Jane said. "He's a demigod. Son of Ares. Absolutely zero emotional intelligence."

They spent the morning in Ephraim's apartment. Talking. Touching. Learning the real versions of each other.

His apartment was small and warm – books everywhere, maps pinned to walls, the compass sitting on a shelf like a holy relic. Percy had claimed the best armchair and was purring loudly while Marcus fed him scrambled eggs.

"So," Jane said, curled into Ephraim's side on the couch. "Tell me everything."

He told her. About the curse. About Aphrodite's gift – or punishment, depending on the century. About the bloodline. About finding her in every lifetime and losing her in every lifetime. About the compass that always pointed to her heart.

Thirty-seven lifetimes," he said quietly. Thirty-seven times I've found you. And thirty-seven times, something has taken you away.

"What takes me away?" His jaw tightened. "Different things. War. Illness. Fate. And sometimes..." He hesitated. "Sometimes the Underworld."

"The Underworld?" "There's a woman. Keres. She serves Persephone – or she Used to. Now she serves herself. And she believes that your soul belongs below. That the light inside you was stolen from the dead." His hand tightened on hers. "She's been hunting you. Every lifetime. Racing me to find you first."

Jane thought of the shadow in the alley. The cold, Percy's hissing.

She was there. Yesterday. At the coffee shop.

Ephraim went very still. "What?" "Percy fought something. In the alley. I didn't see it clearly but – it was cold. Wrong. Like the air had teeth."

"That was Keres." His voice had gone flat. Dangerous. "She's already Here."

From the kitchen, Marcus appeared. No longer holding eggs. Now holding the short sword properly – grip firm, stance wide, all traces of comedy gone.

"How close?" Marcus asked.

'Close enough to engage Percy in the open.'

Shit. ' Marcus looked at Jane. ' No offense, but your existence is really inconvenient for my stress levels.'

Meanwhile, on Olympus:

Aphrodite was Screaming.

Not in distress. In pure, unfiltered, romantic ecstasy. She'd manifested a chaise lounge made of rose petals and was draped across it like a Renaissance painting, watching the mortal realm through a shimmering pool of light.

they Kissed," she shrieked. "in the Doorway. Against the Frame. His Hands in her Hair. I'M Going to Die. I'M Literally Going to Die—"

"You're immortal," Athena said from across the room. She was sitting at a marble desk, wearing reading glasses she absolutely did not need, annotating what appeared to be a spreadsheet. "You cannot literally die."

^{1} can die of Feelings, Athena. Not that you'd know anything about those.

^{*} I have feelings. I simply don't broadcast them at a volume that disturbs the celestial spheres.

Hermes materialized between them in a flash of gold light. He was wearing a vintage Lakers jersey, slides, and holding his phone – which was somehow getting signal on Mount Olympus.

Update from the group chat," he announced. " Apollo says the kiss registered a 0.2 on the Romantic Resonance Scale. Dionysus says he cried. Ares says—" He squinted at his phone. " Ares says 'cool' with a thumbs up emoji. Classic Ares."

What about the Keres situation? Athena asked, not looking up.

'Oh that.' Hermes' expression shifted. Less playful. 'Yeah. That's... not great. She manifested in the mortal realm yesterday. Full form. Percy engaged but couldn't hold her.'

Athena set down her pen. Removed her unnecessary glasses. "She manifested in Full Form? In a populated area?"

The War Council

The gods came down on a Tuesday.

Not dramatically — no lightning bolts, no chariots of fire, no celestial trumpets announcing their arrival. Hermes simply appeared in Mr. Park's restaurant at 11:47 am, wearing cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, and ordered the bibimbap.

"Table for five," he told Mr. Park. "My colleagues are parking."

Mr. Park – who was, as it turned out, a retired minor deity of Korean cuisine who'd been hiding in plain sight for six decades – simply nodded. "The usual booth?"

"You Know?" Jane whispered to Ephraim. They were upstairs, watching through the window as a woman in a white linen suit (Athena) and another in a red dress that seemed to shift colors in the sunlight (Aphrodite) walked up Maple Street like they owned it.

"Mr. Park knows everything," Ephraim said. "He's been my landlord for six months. He leaves offerings of kimchi outside my door on full moons."

That's not a landlord thing?

"It is when your tenant is cursed by the gods."

Percy was already downstairs. He'd transformed – not physically, but in Presence. The lazy house cat was gone. In his place was something ancient and alert, sitting at the restaurant entrance like a sentinel. Mr. Park had given him a whole mackerel. Percy accepted it as his due.

Marcus was stress-cleaning the apartment. They could hear him upstairs, aggressively vacuuming and muttering about "divine guests" and "we don't even have Coasters."

The war council convened in the back booth of Park's Kitchen.

Athena sat at the head — because of course she did. She'd produced a tablet from nowhere and was projecting what appeared to be a tactical map of the city onto the table surface. The bibimbap sat untouched beside her.

Aphrodite was next to Jane. She'd taken Jane's hand the moment they met and hadn't let go. Her touch was warm — almost feverish — and her eyes kept filling with tears.

"You're so beautiful Aphrodite whispered. "Every lifetime you're beautiful but this one — the cheekbones

"Aphrodite," Athena said. "Focus."

^{1} am focused. I'm focused on how perfect she is. Look at her skin

"We're here about the potential apocalypse."

"Can't I appreciate beauty and discuss apocalypse? I'm a multitasi

Hermes was eating. Aggressively. He'd ordered three dishes and was working through them with the efficiency of someone who'd been alive for millennia and had strong opinions about mortal food.

"This is incredible," he said through a mouthful of japchae. "Mr. Park, you absolute Legend. Why did we ever eat ambrosia when this exists?"

Mr. Park bowed slightly from behind the counter. "Secret ingredient is love. And M.S.G

"Both valid," Hermes agreed.

Athena finally set down her tablet and looked at each of them in turn.

' Let me be clear about what we're facing. Keres is not a minor spirit. She was Persephone's chief handmaiden for two thousand years. She knows the pathways between worlds. She can manifest in daylight – which most Underworld entities cannot. And she has a personal obsession with Jane's soul that transcends duty.'

"Why?" Jane asked. "Why Me specifically?"

Athena hesitated. Which was terrifying — Athena never hesitated.

"Because," Aphrodite said softly, "your soul burns brighter than any mortal's. It always has. In every lifetime, you shine like a beacon — and to something that lives in darkness, that light is... irresistible."

^{1} Like a moth to a flame. ^{2} Hermes offered.

Like a Predator to prey, Athena corrected. Don't romanticize it.

^{1} romanticize Everything, ^{2} Hermes said. ^{3} It's my brand.

Ephraim's arm tightened around Jane. "So what's the timeline? How long before she strikes again?"

"Based on Percy's report — days. Not weeks." Athena pulled up another display. "She tested our response. She knows Percy is the primary guardian. Next time, she'll come prepared to neutralize him first."

Percy's tail flicked. The only sign of agitation.

Can she be killed? Jane asked.

Another silence. Longer this time.

"Theoretically," Athena said carefully. "But it would require entering the space between worlds. The threshold. And it would require a weapon forged in both divine fire and mortal love."

That's very specific. Marcus said.

Ancient curses usually are.

Do we have a weapon like that?" Jane pressed.

Athena looked at Ephraim. Ephraim looked at his hands.

"The compass," he said quietly. "It was forged by Hephaestus — divine fire. And it's been carried by love for three thousand years. Every lifetime I've held it, thinking of you. That's... mortal love. Accumulated."

"So your G.P.S of loneliness is actually a weapon Marcus said. "That's the most emo thing I've ever heard. And I lived through the Romantic era."

"It's not a weapon yet Athena said. "It would need to be reforged. Activated. And that activation requires—"

She stopped.

Requires what?" Jane demanded.

A sacrifice, *Aphrodite whispered. Her eyes were wet again. It always requires a sacrifice.

Before anyone could respond, Mr. Park set down a fresh pot of tea in the center of the table. His movements were deliberate. Ceremonial.

"In my country," he said, "we have a saying. The sword that protects must first taste its wielder's blood." He looked at Jane. "You are stronger than you know, child. Stronger than any of them are telling you."

'Mr. Park-' Ephraim started.

"She deserves to know." The old man's eyes were ancient. Fathomless. "She is not just a soul that shines. She is the Reason it shines. The light inside her is not passive — it is a Power. One that has been sleeping for twenty-six years."

Jane felt it then. Deep in her chest. The thing that had been stirring since the dreams began. The warmth that burned door handles and made streetlights explode and drew ancient cursed men across continents.

Not just light.

Fire. I think, Jane said slowly, 'it's time someone told me everything. The Real everything. Not the edited version.'

Athena and Aphrodite exchanged a look.

Athena finally silenced the table with a look. The kind of look that had once made generals weep and philosophers reconsider their life choices.

"Here is what we know," she said. "Keres manifested in full form two days ago. She engaged Percy directly – which means she's no longer observing. She's acting

"She's been getting stronger," Ephraim said. His hand was on Jane's knee under the table. Grounding himself. "Every lifetime she gets closer. Faster. This time she found Jane before I did."

'Almost,' Percy said.

Everyone turned. Percy was sitting on the counter beside Mr. Park, and he had – impossibly – Spoken. Not in a human voice. In something older. Something that resonated in the chest like a struck bell.

"He talks Jane said.

Only when it matters. Ephraim said quietly.

"She arrived forty-three minutes after the compass activated," Percy continued, his golden eyes fixed on Athena. "I held her for six minutes. She retreated – but not because I overpowered her. Because she Chose to. She was testing response time."

Military reconnaissance. Athena murmured. She's learning our patterns.

"Great," Marcus said from the end of the booth, where he'd wedged himself in with a plate of dumplings and his sword propped against the wall. " So the death lady is doing Homework on us. That's not terrifying at all."

"What does she want?" Jane asked. "Specifically. What happens if she gets me?"

Silence.

Someone answer me.

Ephraim's hand tightened on her knee. " She drags your soul to the Underworld. Permanently. No reincarnation. No return. You'd exist in the dark forever — conscious, aware, but unable to reach anyone. Unable to—" His voice broke. "Unable to come back to me."

"So death," Jane said flatly.

Worse than death. Death is a door. What Keres offers is a room with no doors. No windows. Just... forever.

Aphrodite made a sound. Small and furious. 'I won't allow it. I won't—'

"Which brings us to the plan." Athena interrupted. "We have three options."

She swiped on her tablet. Three columns appeared on the table surface in glowing light.

Option one: we hide jane. New identity, warded location, divine protection. Passive defense.

"No," Jane said immediately.

Option two we petition Hades directly. Diplomatic channel. Request Keres be recalled

Hades hasn't answered a petition in four hundred years. Hermes said through a mouthful of rice.

Option three. Athena paused. We go to war.

The table went quiet. Even Hermes stopped eating.

"Not a full war," Athena clarified. "A surgical strike. We enter the Underworld, confront Keres on her own ground, and end this. Permanently."

You're talking about invading the realm of the dead. Marcus said. "With what army?"

Athena looked at him. Then at Ephraim. Then at Jane. Then at Percy.

"With this one."

Four people and a cat?" Marcus sputtered. "Against the underworld

"Five people," Mr. Park said from behind the counter. He was polishing a glass with the calm of someone who'd made this decision a long time ago. "And the cat is worth twenty soldiers."

Percy's purr was thunderous.

"Six," said a voice from the restaurant door.

Ryan stood in the entrance. Soaking wet from the rain outside. His eyes red. His jaw set. Looking directly at Jane — and then at Ephraim's hand on her knee.

"What," Ryan said quietly. "the fuck is going on?"

The silence lasted exactly four seconds.

Then everyone moved at once. Marcus grabbed his sword. Hermes choked on japchae. Aphrodite whispered "oh this is delicious under her breath. Athena pinched the bridge of her nose like she'd been expecting this exact complication.

And Ephraim — Ephraim's hand didn't move from Jane's knee.

"Ryan," Jane said. Her voice came out wrong. Too high. Too guilty. "How did you—"

"Michelle told me." His voice was flat. Controlled. The voice of someone holding themselves together with nothing but willpower. "She said you went to find someone. On Maple Street. She was worried. So I came."

His eyes moved from Jane to Ephraim. Took in the arm around her. The closeness. The way their bodies curved toward each other like parentheses.

"Who is he?" Ryan asked.

"Ryan, it's complicated—"

who is he

Ephraim stood. Slowly. Not threatening – but not backing down either. He was taller than Ryan. Broader. And there was something in the way he moved – three thousand years of existing – that made the air feel heavier.

"My name is Ephraim," he said. "And I think you should sit down."

^{*} I'm not sitting Anywhere until someone explains why my girlfriend—

^{*} I'm not your girlfriend, ^{*} Jane said quietly.

The words landed like a blade. Ryan flinched. Actually flinched – his whole body jerking back like she'd struck him.

"We never said that," Jane continued, hating herself. "Ryan, we never made it official. You know that."

"We went on Twelve dates, Jane. Twelve. I met your Sister. I brought you pad thai when you were sad. I—" His voice cracked. "I told you I loved you. Yesterday. And you said—"

"I said I needed time."

"And this is what time looks like?" He gestured at Ephraim. At the restaurant full of impossibly beautiful people. At the cat who was watching him with ancient, knowing eyes. "Who are all these people?"

Hermes raised his hand. "I'm his cousin. Twice removed. Very normal family gathering."

You're wearing a Lakers jersey and eating five plates of food at noon on a Tuesday.

^{1} Have a fast metabolism.

"Hermes," Athena said. "Stop."

Ryan's head snapped toward her. "Did she just call you Her-meez?"

Another silence. This one longer. More dangerous.

Mr. Park quietly locked the restaurant door. Drew the blinds. Then poured Ryan a cup of tea without being asked.

"Sit," Athena commanded. Not a request.

And Ryan – stubborn, heartbroken, soaking wet Ryan – sat. Because when Athena tells you to sit, your body obeys before your brain catches up.

This is going to sound insane," Jane started.

Try me. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping.

So they told him. All of it.

The curse. The lifetimes. The compass. Keres. The Underworld. The gods sitting in a Korean restaurant eating bibimbap while planning an interdimensional war.

Ryan listened. He didn't interrupt. His tea went cold. His knuckles went white around the cup.

When they finished, the silence stretched like a wire about to snap.

"So," Ryan said finally. "You're telling me that the guy you left me for... is an immortal cursed lover who's been finding you for three thousand years. And the Greek gods are real. And your cat is a divine guardian. And there's a death monster trying to steal your soul,"

Yes," Jane whispered.

And you expect me to just... accept that?

I don't expect anything, Ryan. I just—

" Because I do. " He looked up. His eyes were red but steady. " I believe you. All of it. Because honestly? It's the only explanation that makes sense. No normal guy could make you look the way you looked at him. Like he was the answer to a question you'd been asking your whole life. "

Jane's heart cracked. Actually cracked — she felt it.

'Ryan...'

"I'm not done." He set down the tea. Stood up. Looked at Ephraim – really looked at him. "You've had three thousand years with her. Thirty-seven lifetimes. And you still lost her every time."

Ephraim said nothing. But his jaw tightened.

Tve had twelve dates," Ryan continued. "Twelve dates, and I would burn the world down for her. So whatever war you're planning – whatever suicide mission into the Underworld – I'm coming."

Ryan, no—'Jane started.

"You don't get to decide that," His voice was quiet. Fierce, "You chose him. Fine. I'll live with that. But you don't get to tell me I can't fight for you. Not like this. Not when something is trying to Take you."

Aphrodite was crying. Openly. Mascara running. 'This is the most beautiful love triangle I've ever witnessed,' she sobbed. 'And I Invented love triangles.'

You didn't invent them," Athena said. You just made them worse.

Better. I made them Better.

Hermes leaned toward Marcus. "Twenty drachmas says the human does something heroic and dies tragically."

That's Horrible. Marcus whispered back.

Fifty drachmas?

"...Deal" Ephraim stepped forward. Extended his hand to Ryan. "You're either the bravest mortal I've ever met, or the most foolish."

Ryan took his hand. Gripped hard. 'Both. Definitely both.' "Then welcome to the war council." Ephraim's smile was thin. Sad. Respectful. "Try the dumplings. Marcus made them."

^{1} did make them, ^{2} Marcus confirmed. They're stress dumplings. I've made four hundred since yesterday.

Ryan sat back down. Accepted a plate. Looked at the cat.

Beautiful, terrifying, absurd chaos.

Athena turned Mr. Park's restaurant into a command center. Maps covered every wall. Ancient texts sat next to Marcus's stress-baked muffins. Percy patrolled the perimeter in shifts — four hours on, two hours sleeping in a sunbeam, repeat.

And Jane trained.

Not with weapons – Athena said her body wasn't built for combat. But her Mind. Her power. The fire that lived inside her chest like a second heartbeat.

"Feel it," Aphrodite instructed. They were in the apartment upstairs, candles lit, incense burning. "Don't push it. Don't pull it. Just... acknowledge it."

This feels like yoga. Jane muttered.

Yoga Wishes it was this powerful. Now breathe.

Jane breethd. And on the third exhale — the candles exploded.

Not went out. Exploded. Wax everywhere. Flames shooting to the ceiling. Aphrodite shrieked and dove behind the couch.

"that'S what I'm talking about!" Aphrodite yelled from the floor, covered in wax. "that'S the power! Maybe with less... property damage next time,"

"Sorry! Sorry sorry sorry—"

Don't apologize! That was Magnificent. Terrifying, but magnificent.

From downstairs, Marcus yelled: is Something on Fire? because I just mopped

Ryan trained differently.

Hermes trained him. Which was... an experience.

"You're slow," Hermes said, dodging Ryan's punch without moving his feet. "Like, cosmically slow. Like watching paint dry in slow motion."

^{T.M} Human, ^{°} Ryan panted. We're not all supernatural speedsters.

Excuses. Hermes appeared behind him. Ficked his ear. Again.

'T hate you.'

Everyone does at first. Then they love me. I'm very charming.

You ate my lunch yesterday.

It was a mediocre sandwich. I did you a favor.

Ryan swung again. Missed. Hermes yawned.

But by day three — Ryan landed a hit. Just one. A glancing blow to Hermes' shoulder that made the god stumble half a step.

The room went silent. Hermes touched his shoulder. Looked at Ryan with something new in his eyes. Something like respect.

'Huh,' Hermes said. 'Okay. Maybe you're not completely useless.'

Ryan grinned. Blood on his lip. Sweat in his eyes. "Told you."

The nights were harder.

Jane slept in Ephraim's apartment now — not in his bed (not yet, not with everything happening) but on the couch, with Percy curled at her feet and the compass glowing softly on the shelf like a nightlight.

On the fourth morning, everything changed. Jane woke to silence. Not peaceful silence – the Wrong kind. The kind that means something has been removed from the world.

Percy was standing at the door. Not sitting. Standing. Every hair on his body raised. His eyes blazing gold so bright they cast shadows.

"What is it?" Jane whispered.

Percy looked at her. And for the second time in his existence, he spoke.

"She took your sister."

Jane's blood turned to ice.

Her phone was ringing. Had been ringing. Seven missed calls from Michelle's number. She grabbed it – listened to the voicemail with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.

Michelle's voice. Calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that means someone is being very brave while very afraid.

"Hey, bunso. So... something weird is happening. There's a woman in my apartment. She's very pale and she's smiling and I don't think she's human. I'm going to be okay — I need you to know that. I'm going to be okay because you're going to come get me. Right? You always come get me. That's what we do."

A pause. A shaky breath.

"She says to tell you: come home, little light. She says you know where."

The message ended.

Jane didn't scream. Didn't cry. Something worse happened – something Shifted inside her. The fire in her chest that had been growing, building, learning to be controlled – it stopped being fire.

It became a furnace.

The walls of the apartment cracked. Literally cracked — fissures running up the plaster like lightning frozen in place. The compass on the shelf spun so fast it blurred. Every light in the building exploded simultaneously.

Ephraim burst through the door. "Jane—"

She turned to look at him. And he stopped. Because her eyes weren't brown anymore.

They were gold. Solid gold. Like Percy's. Like something divine and furious and older than language.

"She took Michelle," Jane said. Her voice had layers now – her own voice, and something beneath it. Something that made the air vibrate. "She took my ate

Downstairs, every god felt it. Athena's tablet cracked. Aphrodite's wine glass shattered in her hand. Hermes stopped mid-bite and whispered: "Oh. Oh no."

Mr. Park set down his polishing cloth. Looked at the ceiling. And smile

"There she is," he murmured. "Finally."

They left at midnight.

Not because midnight was strategically optimal – Athena would have preferred dawn, when divine energy peaked. But because Jane said "now" in that voice with layers, and nobody argued with the voice that had layers.

The entrance to the Underworld was beneath Mr. Park's restaurant.

Of Course it was.

"You're telling me," Ryan said, staring at the trapdoor behind the kimchi refrigerator, "that I've been eating bibimbap Directly above the realm of the dead for three Years?"

The kimchi is excellent because of the proximity,' Mr. Park said serenely. 'Death improves fermentation.'

I'm going to be sick.

After we save your friend's sister, perhaps.

The staircase descended in a spiral — stone steps worn smooth by centuries of passage. The air changed immediately. Warmer first, then cold. Then something that wasn't temperature at all — a pressure. Like the world above was being slowly forgotten.

Their party: Jane (burning quietly, gold flickering in her eyes). Ephraim (sword drawn, face carved from stone). Percy (enormous now — the size of a panther, shadows dripping from his fur like ink). Ryan (boxing wraps on, jaw set, absolutely terrified but moving forward anyway). Athena (in full armor that had materialized from nowhere, owl-helmed, magnificent). Hermes (still in cargo shorts but suddenly not funny at all — his eyes ancient, his speed coiled like a spring). And Mr. Park.

Mr. Park, who had removed his apron to reveal armor beneath. Not Greek armor. Korean. Ancient. Gleaming black and gold.

"Dude," Marcus whispered from the top of the stairs — he was staying behind to guard the entrance. "Mr. Park is jacked

T was a general once," Mr. Park said mildly. "Before I was a cook."

What General?

'Gwon Yul. But that was a long time ago.' He drew a sword from behind the refrigerator. It sang when it cleared the sheath. 'Now I make good soup and guard the door between worlds. Both are honorable work.'

Aphrodite wasn't coming. She'd kissed Jane's forehead – pressed something into her palm. A pearl, Pink and warm.

"If everything goes wrong," Aphrodite whispered, "crush this. It won't save you. But it will let him feel you one last time. So he knows."

That's the most depressing gift anyone's ever given me.

Tm the goddess of love, darling. We specialize in beautiful devastation.

The descent took forty minutes. Or four hours. Time moved wrong here – stretching and compressing like taffy pulled by careless hands.

Jane noticed the changes in stages.

First: Athena's armor dimmed. The divine glow that surrounded her – so constant Jane had stopped noticing it – flickered. Guttered. Like a candle in wind.

"My power weakens here," Athena said. No fear in her voice. Just tactical acknowledgment. "We're in Keres' domain now. Olympian authority means less with every step down."

Second: Hermes slowed. Not dramatically — but enough. His movements became merely superhuman instead of impossible. He noticed. Said nothing. But his jaw tightened.

Third: Percy shrank. Inch by inch, step by step. By the time they reached the bottom, he was house-cat sized again. But his eyes blazed brighter than ever – compensating.

Only two things grew Stronger as they descended.

Jane's fire. And Ephraim's silence.

Why isn't it affecting us?" Jane whispered.

Ephraim looked at her. Something complicated in his expression. "Because we belong here."

"What?" "The curse, Jane. It was Born here. In the Underworld. We're not invaders — we're... returning." He swallowed. "That's why Keres wants you. You're not just a soul to her. You're a piece of this place that escaped. That keeps escaping. Every lifetime — you break free, and she has The bottom of the staircase opened into a cavern so vast it had its own weather. Mist rolled across a black river – not water. Something thicker. Something that whispered.

The Acheron. Athena said quietly. River of pain. Don't touch it. Don't listen to it. Don't—

^{1} Is it saying my Name? Ryan asked, leaning toward the surface.

Hermes yanked him back by the collar. "What did she just say?"

Sorry! It's very... persuasive. "It feeds on grief," Ephraim said. "It knows your worst memories and plays them back. For you, it would be-"

Jane saying she's not my girlfriend. Yeah. I heard it.' Ryan's jaw tightened. 'Loud and clear. Let's keep moving.'

They crossed on a bridge that shouldn't have existed — stone so thin it was nearly transparent, spanning the river like a held breath. Single file. Nobody spoke. The river whispered all their names, one by one, offering each of them their deepest wound wrapped in a familiar voice.

For Jane, it was her mother. Mina's voice, soft and warm: 'Come rest, anak. You've been fighting so long. Come rest with me.'

Jane's step faltered. Ephraim's hand found hers instantly.

'It's not her,' he said. 'Jane. It's not her.'

I know. But her voice broke on it. I know it's not.

Percy hissed at the river. The whispers recoiled.

On the other side: a city.

Not ruins. Not a wasteland. A City – sprawling and impossible, built from black stone and silver light. Towers that spiraled into a sky that wasn't a sky (no stars, no moon – just a faint, sourceless grey). Streets paved in something that looked like obsidian but felt warm underfoot.

And it was Populated.

Shades moved through the streets – translucent figures going about routines that no longer mattered. Shopping at empty stalls. Sitting in cafes with no food. Walking dogs that cast no shadows.

"They don't know they're dead," Mr. Park said softly. "Most of them. They repeat their last day. Over and over."

That's... Ryan swallowed. That's the saddest thing I've ever seen.

Don't engage them," Athena warned. "If they notice you're alive, they'll—"

A shade turned. Looked directly at Jane. Its translucent face shifted — confusion, then recognition, then Hunger.

"Run," Athena said.

They ran.

The shades didn't chase them far – they couldn't leave their loops for long. But the damage was done. Their presence was announced.

"She knows we're here," Percy said. His voice was smaller now – matching his body. But no less fierce. "She knew the moment Jane's fire crossed the threshold."

Good," Jane said. And meant it.

They found shelter in an abandoned temple – Greek columns, but wrong. Inverted. The architecture of a place that remembered Olympus and resented it.

We rest here. Athena commanded. Thirty minutes. Then we move toward the Citadel.

The Citadel? Ryan asked. "Where Keres keeps what she takes." Athena's voice was carefully neutral. "Where your friend's sister will be."

Jane sat against a column. Ephraim beside her. Their shoulders touching. Percy in her lap, purring – but it was a war purr. A purr that said: I am here. I am ready.

"Ephraim," Jane whispered. "What you said. About us belonging here. About me being a stolen flame."

The Citadel rose from the center of the dead city like a wound in the sky.

It wasn't built. It was Grown — black crystal spiraling upward in organic, impossible shapes. Like a tree made of obsidian. Like a scream frozen mid-air. At its peak, something pulsed — a light that wasn't light. An anti-glow. A darkness so concentrated it was visible.

That's where she is," Percy said. "Both of them. Keres and Michelle."

"How do we get in?" Ryan asked.

The front door. Mr. Park said simply.

Everyone stared at him.

"She Wants us here," he explained, adjusting his armor. "This is a trap. She's not hiding — she's waiting. The front door will be open because she wants Jane to walk through it."

So we're walking into a trap," Ryan said flatly.

Yes.

Cool. Love that for us.

"The advantage," Athena said, "is that we Know it's a trap. She expects desperation. Recklessness. A sister running blindly toward her family." She looked at Jane. "Can you be strategic? Even now?"

Jane's hands were shaking. Gold light leaked from her fingertips like blood from a wound. Every cell in her body screamed go. Run. find her.

But she looked at Athena. And nodded.

Good. Athena drew her spear. Then here's the plan.

The plan was elegant. Athena's plans always were.

Three teams. Three entrances. The front door was a decoy – Ryan and Hermes would take it. Draw attention. Be loud. Be impossible to ignore.

^{1} Tm the Distraction? Ryan said, "That's my role?"

"You're mortal," Athena said bluntly. "Keres can't feed on you the way she can feed on divine energy. You're... nutritionally uninteresting to her."

Wow. Thanks.

"It's a compliment Hermes said, clapping his shoulder. "You're too boring to eat. That's your superpower."

That everyone here.

The second team – Athena and Mr. Park – would breach from below. Through the catacombs beneath the Citadel. Old passages from when this place was something else. Something before Keres claimed it.

What was it before? Jane asked.

Athena hesitated. Just a fraction. "Yours."

Jane blinked. "What?"

" This Citadel. This city. This entire domain. " Athena's voice was careful. Measured. " Before Keres took it – before you left – it was yours, Jane. You were the light of the Underworld. Its warmth. Its mercy. When you chose to leave... she filled the void you left behind. With cold. With hunger. With grief. "

Another revelation. Another piece of the puzzle clicking into place with devastating clarity.

"So Keres isn't just trying to take me back," Jane said slowly. "She's trying to reclaim what she thinks is hers. What I Left her with."

"She was your sister," Athena said quietly. "In the divine sense. Two halves of the same darkness. You were the half that burned. She was the half that consumed."

'Another ala moment,' Hermes whispered. 'This is like a telenovela.'

Hermes. I will end you.

Shutting up.

Jane felt the Citadel before she saw it from inside.

The River Memory was exactly where Mr. Park said it would be — a thin silver stream running beneath the city, hidden under grates and forgotten stonework. It didn't whisper like the Acheron. It Sang. Soft. Familiar. Like a lullaby she'd heard in a language she'd forgotten.

"I know this," Jane breethd. Her feet moved without her permission – stepping into the shallow current. It was warm. It felt like coming home.

Ephraim grabbed her arm. "Jane. Don't—" "It's okay." She looked at him. Her eyes fully gold now. Steady. "I Remember this. I used to... I used to sit here. Before. When this was mine."

Memories flooded in. Not all at once — in pieces. Fragments of a life before life.

A throne made of white fire. A sister with hollow eyes who laughed like breaking glass. A choice – terrible, beautiful, irreversible – to walk away from everything she was. To become small. To become mortal. To become Forgettable.

All for a boy standing on the other side of a river, looking at her like she was the sun.

" I remember you," she whispered to Ephraim. Tears streaming. Gold tears. "You were standing in a field of asphodel. And you looked up. And I thought — I thought, 'I would give up eternity for him to look at me like that every morning.' "

Ephraim's composure broke. Three thousand years of stoicism cracked like ice in spring. He pulled her to him — fierce, desperate, shaking.

"You did," he said into her hair. "You gave up Everything. And I've spent every lifetime since trying to deserve it."

Percy meowed. Urgent. Impatient.

^{a} Right, ^{b} Jane pulled back. Wiped her golden tears. ^{c} Michelle first. Existential crisis later.

The River Memory led them upward — through passages that opened at Jane's touch, stone recognizing its former queen. Walls that had been sealed for millennia parted like curtains.

This is Deeply unsettling. Percy muttered. The architecture is Welcoming you.

"Is that bad?"

It means Keres hasn't changed anything since you left. She kept it all. Like a shrine. Or a trap.

"Comforting."

They emerged into a corridor of black crystal. At its end: a door. Massive. Carved with scenes Jane recognized from her dreams — two figures, one burning bright, one consuming dark. Sisters. Two halves.

And behind it — she could Feel it — Michelle. Alive. Afraid. But alive.

She's there," Jane said.

"Jane." Ephraim's hand on her shoulder. "Whatever's behind that door – whatever Keres says – remember: you Chose to leave. You chose love. You chose us. She can't undo that unless you let her."

'I know.'

"Do you?"

She looked at him. Smiled. It was the smile of someone who'd finally remembered who they were.

^{1} I'm the girl who walked out of the Underworld for a boy in a field, ^{2} she said. ^{3} I'm not walking back in.

She pushed the door open.

End of Chapter Thirteen The door opened onto a throne room.

Not a room — a Cathedral. Vaulted ceilings lost in darkness. Columns of black crystal humming with trapped light. And at its center: a throne carved from a single piece of obsidian, polished to a mirror finish.

Michelle sat at its base. Bound in chains made of shadow — not metal. They moved. Writhed. Tightened when she breethd too hard.

ate Jane screamed.

Michelle's head snapped up. Her eyes were red. Exhausted. But Alive. And furious.

"Took you long enough, bunso," Michelle said. Her voice was hoarse but steady. "This bitch has been monologuing for hours

Language," said the woman on the throne.

Keres

Jane had expected a monster. Something grotesque – fangs, claws, hollow eyes. What she got was worse.

Keres was Beautiful.

Devastatingly, heartbreakingly beautiful. She looked like Jane. exactly like Jane — but inverted. Where Jane's fire burned gold, Keres' burned black. Where Jane's eyes held warmth, Keres' held the cold of every grave ever dug.

She was Jane's reflection in a dark mirror. And she was smiling.

"There you are," Keres said. Her voice was lane's voice — but deeper. Older. Like hearing yourself on a recording and not recognizing the sound. "My little runaway. My stolen flame. My sister

"Sister?" Ryan whispered.

sister Hermes choked.

Only Ephraim didn't react. Because he already knew. Had always known. Had carried that knowledge for three thousand years like a stone in his chest.

"You didn't tell her," Keres observed, looking at Ephraim. Amused. "Thirty-seven lifetimes and you never Once mentioned that she's my twin?"

It wasn't mine to tell," Ephraim said. His sword was drawn. His voice was ice.

"How noble. How boring Keres stood. She moved like smoke – fluid, inevitable. 'Let me fill in the gaps, little light. Since your boyfriend is too sentimental to be honest.'

She descended the steps. Each one cracking beneath her feet. The shadows in the room leaning toward her like flowers toward sun.

"Once upon a time," Keres said, "there were two sisters. Born from the same darkness. Equal in power. One ruled death. One ruled the Memory of death – the grief, the longing, the love that outlasts the grave. Together, they were complete. Apart..." She smiled. "Apart, one of them is a god. And the other is a girl who cries at commercials and can't figure out why her hands glow."

I'm nothing like you," Jane said.

You're exactly like me. You're just... diminished. Compressed into mortal flesh lifetime after lifetime because you saw a Pretty Boy and decided eternity wasn't worth it.' Keres' eyes flicked to Ephraim. 'No offense.'

None taken," Ephraim said flatly. "Release Michelle. Now."

" Or what? You'll fight me? " Keres laughed. It sounded like Jane's laugh — the one she used when something was genuinely funny. It made Jane's stomach turn. " You can't kill me, Ephraim. I'm half of her. Kill me, and she dies too. We're bound. Twin flames — one bright, one dark. Destroy one, destroy both. "

Silence.

Athena's hand tightened on her spear. "She's telling the truth."

" Of Course I'm telling the truth. I'm many things — petty, vindictive, lonely beyond comprehension — but I'm not a lyar. " Keres turned back to Jane. " Here's what I want, sister. Come home. Take your throne back. Rule beside me like you were Meant to. And I'll release your mortal sister. I'll release your curse. I'll let your pretty boy live out his natural life in peace. "

And if I say no?" Keres' smile didn't change. But the shadows in the room Surged – pressing against the walls, against the ceiling, against Michelle's chains until she gasped.

The light was everything.

Not light like sunshine. Not light like fire. Light like the Beginning — like the first moment of existence, when darkness cracked open and something new poured through.

Jane didn't control it. She was it.

The compass hovered between her palms — spinning, singing, blazing with three thousand years of accumulated love. Every lifetime. Every meeting. Every kiss stolen in dreams and doorways and deathbeds. All of it — compressed into a single point of golden fury.

Keres Screamed.

Not in pain — in recognition. In Fear. Because she'd seen this before. Once. Three thousand years ago. The moment her sister walked away.

"no—" Keres threw her hands forward. Shadows surged — a tidal wave of darkness crashing toward Jane. The throne room shook. Columns cracked. The ceiling rained black crystal.

But the light held.

Jane stood at its center – feet planted, hands raised, eyes blazing solid gold. The shadows broke against her like waves against a cliff. Shattered. Dissolved. Burned away to nothing.

"You can't Beat me with love," Keres snarled. "Love is Weak. Love Dies. Love forgets—"

"Love remembers Jane said. Her voice had all its layers now – mortal and divine, girl and goddess, Jane and whoever she'd been before Jane. " Thirty-seven lifetimes. I forgot everything else – my name, my power, my throne. But I never forgot Him. I never forgot the feeling. That's not weakness, Keres. That's the strongest thing in any universe."

The compass pulsed. Brighter. Brighter.

Michelle's chains dissolved. Just – gone. Shadow burning away like paper in flame. Michelle collapsed forward, gasping, free.

ate Jane's concentration wavered – just a fraction. Just enough.

Keres struck.

A tendril of pure darkness – fast as thought, sharp as grief – lanced through the light and caught Jane in the chest. Not a wound. Worse. A Tether. A chain of shadow connecting them – twin to twin, dark to light.

Jane felt it immediately. Her fire dimming. Being Pulled. Siphoned through the connection into Keres, who drank it like water in a desert.

"There it is," Keres breethd. Her eyes blazing with stolen gold. "There's my fire. Come Home, little light."

Jane's knees buckled.

"Jane!" Ephraim lunged forward – sword raised – but the shadows caught him. Pinned him to the wall like an insect. His sword clattered away.

"Don't Touch him!" Jane screamed. The fire surged — but weaker now. Divided. Being drained.

"I'm not going to hurt him," Keres said. Almost gentle. Almost sad. "I'm going to let him Watch. The way he's watched thirty-seven times. While you slip away. While you choose me — even if you don't know you're choosing."

"She's not choosing you," said a voice.

Ryan stood in the doorway of the throne room.

He shouldn't have been there. The plan was clear — he was the distraction. The front door. The nutritionally uninteresting decoy. He was supposed to be three levels below, making noise with Hermes.

But Ryan had never been good at following plans.

"How did you get here?" Hermes appeared behind him, breathless – actually Breathless, which for a god of speed was unprecedented. "I turned around for One second—"

" I followed the screaming," Ryan said simply. His eyes were locked on Keres. On the shadow tether buried in Jane's chest. On the light dimming in her eyes, " And I'm not leaving. "

You're Mortal, Keres said. Dismissive. Bored. You can't even—

Ryan punched her.

Not with divine power. Not with ancient weapons. Not with three thousand years of accumulated anything. He punched her with a fist wrapped in boxing tape and four years of amateur training and the absolute Audacity of a man who'd been told he was nutritionally uninteresting.

It shouldn't have worked.

It did.

Keres staggered. Not from the force — from the Shock. Because no one had touched her in three thousand years. No one had dared. And this mortal — this Insignificant mortal — had just—

What—'Keres touched her jaw. Staring at Ryan like he was a species she'd never encountered.

"That's for kidnapping her sister," Ryan said. Then he hit her again. "That's for the nightmares." Again. "That's for making her think she's broken." again. "And that'S for ruining pad thai night."

Each hit landed. Not because Ryan was strong enough to hurt a god — he wasn't. But because Keres was so Stunned by the sheer impossibility of it that she forgot to be intangible. Forgot to be shadow. Forgot to be anything other than a woman getting punched by a very angry man who loved someone he couldn't have.

The shadow tether Flickered.

Jane felt it – the drain slowing. The connection weakening. Not from Ryan's fists. From Keres' Distraction. Her attention split. Her power divided between maintaining the tether and processing the absolute Audacity of this mortal.

"now, Jane!" Athena's voice – from below. From everywhere. The goddess of wisdom, even weakened, knew an opening when she saw one.

Jane grabbed the tether with both hands.

Not metaphorically. She reached into her own chest – into the shadow buried there – and Grabbed it. Like pulling a weed. Like ripping out a splinter. Like tearing away everything that had ever tried to drag her back into the dark.

It Hurt. God, it hurt. Like pulling her own soul apart. Because it was her — the tether was made of the connection between twins. Severing it meant severing something fundamental. Something that had existed since before time had a name.

"You cant!" Keres screamed. Finally reacting. Throwing Ryan aside — he hit a column, crumpled, didn't get up. "If you break the bond — if you sever us — you'll lose your Power. You'll be Nothing. Just a mortal. Just a girl. Forever."

Jane looked at her. Gold eyes blazing. Hands wrapped around a chain of shadow that burned and writhed and screamed.

"Promise?" Jane said.

And she Pulled.

The sound was indescribable.

Not a sound — an Absence of sound. Like the universe holding its breath. Like every dead soul in the city below looking up simultaneously. Like three thousand years of connection snapping like a guitar string tuned too tight.

The tether broke.

Jane's fire went supernova — one blinding, impossible moment of pure golden light that filled the throne room, the Citadel, the city, the entire Underworld. Every shadow burned. Every chain dissolved. Every shade in the streets below looked up and Remembered — remembered who they were, where they'd been, what they'd lost.

The light lasted seven seconds.

Seven seconds that rewrote the architecture of the Underworld.

When it faded, Jane was on the floor. The compass – shattered. Its pieces scattered across the obsidian like stars fallen from a sky that never existed. The golden fire that had filled her was Gone. Not dimmed. Not sleeping. Gone.

She felt... empty. Human, Terrifyingly, beautifully human.

"Jane!" Ephraim was there. Lifting her. His hands on her face, her shoulders, checking for damage. "Jane, can you hear me?"

"Did it work?" she whispered.

He looked up. At the throne room. At what remained.

Keres was on her knees. The shadows that had filled the room — her power, her domain, her three-thousand-year empire of grief — were dissolving. Burning away like fog in morning sun. The chains around Michelle evaporated into nothing.

Michelle fell forward. Free. Alive. Gasping and swearing and immediately crawling toward Jane.

"Bunso – bunso Michelle grabbed her. He'd her so tight Jane's ribs creaked. "You absolute Idiot. You beautiful, stupid, glowing Idiot."

Because it was true. The gold was gone from her eyes. The fire was gone from her chest. The power — the divine, ancient, impossible power that had been hers since before time — was Spent. All of it. Every drop. Poured into breaking the tether.

She was mortal now. Truly, completely, irreversibly mortal.

Jane. Keres' voice. Broken. Small. Nothing like the goddess who'd monologued from a throne. "What have you Done?"

Jane looked at her twin. Keres was... diminished. Still beautiful. Still terrifying. But Smaller somehow. The shadows no longer reached for her. The darkness no longer obeyed.

T set us both free," Jane said.

You Destroyed us—

" No. I destroyed the Bond. The tether. The thing that kept us chained together across three thousand years." Jane's voice was steady. Calm. The calmest she'd ever been. "You're still you. I'm still me. We're just... not connected anymore. You can't pull me back. And I can't burn you away."

Keres stared at her. And for the first time — the very first time in three millennia — something human flickered in those dark eyes.

Fear. Not of Jane. Not of the gods. Fear of being Alone. Truly alone. Without even the ghost of a connection to the sister who'd left her.

"You'll die," Keres whispered. "Without the divine fire — you'll age. You'll wither. You'll be Nothing."

"I'll be loved," Jane said simply. "That's not nothing."

Ryan was unconscious against the column where Keres had thrown him. Hermes was already there – checking his pulse, his breathing, his pupils.

"He's alive," Hermes reported. "Concussion. Maybe cracked ribs. But alive." He looked up at Jane with something like awe. "He punched a God, Jane. A mortal man punched a god because he loves you. That's... that's never happened before. In all of history."

It was very stupid," Athena said. She was smiling. "And very brave."

Those are often the same thing," Mr. Park observed.

Ryan's eyes fluttered open. Focused on Jane. On the absence of gold in her eyes. On the tears on her face.

"Did we win?" he asked.

"Yeah," Jane said. "We won."

'Cool' He closed his eyes again. 'Someone carry me. I'm done being heroic.'

Marcus appeared — somehow. From nowhere. With a first aid kit and a thermos of soup.

how are you Here? Hermes demanded.

But Keres didn't fall.

The light hit her – consumed her – and she Absorbed it. Drank it like water in a desert. The shadows around her didn't dissolve. They Transformed. Became something new. Something that had never existed before.

Dark gold. Shadow-fire. The impossible marriage of Jane's light and Keres' dark.

'Oht,' Keres breethd. And smiled. 'Oh, Sister. Thank you.'

Jane staggered back. The compass was dark in her hand. Spent. And Keres was glowing — not with Jane's gold, not with her own darkness, but with Both. Combined. Amplified.

You don't understand, do you?' Keres rose from the floor. Taller now. More solid. More Real. 'The compass wasn't a weapon against me. It was a Key. You just unlocked the tether – the bond between us – and poured your Entire divine essence through it. Into Me.'

'No—'

" yes. " Keres' voice shook the cathedral. " You gave me your Fire, Jane. The fire you stole when you left. The fire that's been keeping you alive across thirty-seven lifetimes. And now—" She looked at her hands. At the dark gold flames dancing across her fingers. " Now I have Both halves. I am Complete. "

Jane's knees buckled. The gold was gone from her eyes. The warmth was gone from her chest. She felt... hollow. Cold. Like someone had scooped out her center and left only the shell.

Jane! Ephraim caught her. Held her up. His face was white. Jane, your eyes—

'They're brown again,' she whispered. 'Just brown.'

"What did you do?" Athena's voice – sharp, horrified. She'd breached from below with Mr. Park. Both of them staring at Keres with naked terror.

"She made a mistake," Keres said sweetly. "A beautiful, noble, Predictable mistake. She tried to destroy the bond with love. But love doesn't destroy bonds, Athena. It Strengthens them. She just made me the most powerful being in existence."

The Citadel Shook. Not an earthquake – a transformation. The black crystal walls began to glow. Dark gold. Keres' new color. Her new power spreading through her domain like blood through veins.

We need to leave," Mr. Park said. His voice – for the first time – held fear. "now."

T'm not leaving without Michelle—

Jane. Michelle's voice. Strong. Certain. go. Get out. Come back with a plan. Don't die here being stupid.

I'm not Leaving you—

You're Mortal now, bunso!" Michelle's chains rattled as she strained forward. You have no power. You'll Die. And then who saves me? who

The logic hit like a slap.

Jane looked at her sister. At the chains. At Keres, who was examining her new power with childlike wonder – temporarily distracted. A window. Seconds at most.

T'll come back," Jane said. T swear

T know you will. Michelle smiled. Fierce, Proud. 'Now run

They ran.

Hermes carried Jane — she couldn't run anymore. Couldn't do anything. The absence of power was physical. Like missing a limb. Like being underwater and unable to surface.

Ryan ran beside them. Bleeding from a cut above his eye. His knuckles split. But Running.

"What happened?" he gasped. "What did she—"

Later, Athena commanded. Move.

The Citadel was waking up around them. Walls shifting. Passages closing. The architecture that had welcomed Jane now Rejected her — she was no longer its queen. No longer divine. Just a mortal girl in a place that ate mortals.

Percy led them. Small but Fast – darting through passages that were closing, finding gaps in walls that were sealing. His eyes blazing gold – the only divine fire left in their group that wasn't Olympian.

They didn't speak for three hours.

Jane sat in the corner booth of Mr. Park's restaurant — the one with the cracked vinyl seat and the view of nothing — and stared at her hands. Brown hands. Human hands. Hands that would never glow again.

Ephraim sat beside her. Not touching. Just... there. A warmth she could feel but couldn't explain anymore. Before, she'd felt him like a second heartbeat. Now he was just a man sitting close. Beautiful. Beloved. But no longer connected to her by anything divine.

Just love. Plain, mortal, breakable love.

'It's not enough,' she said finally. 'Is it?'

"It's always been enough," Ephraim said. "It's the only thing that ever was."

I can't Feel you anymore. The bond—

" Was never what made me love you. " His hand found hers, Warm. Solid. Real. " I loved you before the bond. Before the compass. Before any of it. I loved you when you were a farmer's daughter in Thessaly. I loved you when you were a painter in Florence who couldn't afford canvas. I loved you when you were a nurse in Manila who sang to dying soldiers. " His voice cracked. " I have loved you in thirty-seven bodies, Jane. Not because of divine fire. Because of you. '

She cried. Quietly. Into his shoulder. And it felt different — smaller, somehow. More contained. Human grief instead of divine anguish. But also... cleaner. Simpler. Hers alone.

Ryan woke up at hour four.

He sat up on the counter where Marcus had laid him – wrapped in blankets, ribs taped, a bag of frozen dumplings pressed against his black eye.

"Status report," he said. Like a soldier. Like someone who'd decided.

Everyone stared at him.

What? I got thrown into a column by a death goddess. I'm Fine. What's the plan?

"There is no plan," Athena said. She was sitting on the floor – Athena, on the Floor – with her head against the wall. "Jane's power is gone. The compass is destroyed. Keres has both halves of the divine fire. She is, effectively, omnipotent within her domain. And Michelle—"

"Is still alive," Ryan said firmly. "Which means there's a plan. We just haven't found it yet."

Silence

Then Hermes laughed. Not his usual bright sound – something darker. Admiring. You know what, mortal? You might be the bravest person in this room."

I'm definitely the dumbest," Ryan said. "But I punched a god today, so my standards for 'impossible' have shifted significantly."

The plan came from Mr. Park.

Not from his divine knowledge. Not from his centuries of wisdom. From a Story.

"In the war," he said — stirring soup, because he was always stirring soup — "we lost a fortress. Impregnable. Walls ten meters thick. Cannons couldn't touch it. Bombs couldn't crack it."

"How'd you take it?" Ryan asked.

"We didn't." Mr. Park smiled. "We walked in through the kitchen."

Silence.

"Keres expects an army," he continued. "She expects gods. Power. Force. She has prepared for Everything divine." He looked at Jane. "She has not prepared for something human."

"I don't understand"

You are mortal now, Jane. Fully. Completely. Which means you are Invisible to her. Her power reads divine signatures. Tracks celestial energy. You have None. You are, to her senses, a ghost. Nothing. Invisible.

The room went still.

"She can't see me," Jane whispered.

The plan was simple. Terrifyingly simple.

Jane goes alone. Mortal. Invisible. While the gods create a distraction at the gates — loud, divine, impossible to ignore — Jane slips through the kitchen. Through the back passages she remembers from her former life. Through the halls that were once hers.

She finds Michelle. She breaks the chains. They walk out.

"And if Keres catches her?" Ephraim's voice was ice. "If she Sees her?"

"She won't," Mr. Park said.

"But if she does "Then Jane dies," Athena said flatly. "As a mortal. Permanently. No reincarnation. No return. Just... death."

The room went silent.

"I'll do it," Jane said.

No. Ephraim stood. Absolutely not—

It's not your decision.

Jane—

" Ephraim. " She took his face in her hands. Those beautiful, ancient, heartbroken eyes. " You have loved me in thirty-seven bodies. You have watched me die thirty-seven times. And every time, you knew I'd come back. " Her voice broke. " This time might be different. I know that. But Michelle is my sister. my family. And I am the only one who can reach her. "

“I can't lose you permanently—”

Then trust me to come back.

He kissed her. Hard. Desperate. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth. The taste of her. The weight of her in his arms.

"I have waited three thousand years for you," he whispered against her lips. "Don't make me wait forever."

Not with metal – with memory. Keres had bound Michelle with her own grief. Every loss she'd ever felt – their mother's death, their father's silence, the years of raising Jane alone – woven into chains that tightened every time she struggled.

Michelle wasn't fighting anymore. She was sitting. Still. Eyes open but unfocused. Lost in a loop of her worst moments.

*Ate.* Jane's voice. Small. Human. Terrified. *Ate. I'm here.

Nothing. "Michelle, Michelle." Jane grabbed her sister's face. Cold. So cold. "Look at me. Look at me."

Michelle's eyes focused. Slowly. Like surfacing from deep water.

...Bunso?

I'm here. I'm getting you out.

"You can't." Michelle's voice was flat. Hollow. "The chains — they're not real. They're Me. My grief. My anger. Everything I never let myself feel. She pulled it all out and made it Solid."

"Then feel something else." Jane was crying. "Feel Me. Feel how much I love you. Feel how I crossed the entire Underworld for you – mortal, powerless, Terrified – because you are my sister and I would walk through Hell for you."

"You literally did," Ryan said from behind her. "Like, that's not a metaphor. We're literally in hell."

not Helping, Ryan.

Sorry. Shutting up. Stealth ninja mode.

But Michelle was looking at Jane now. Really looking. And something was shifting in her eyes. The chains — those impossible, grief-woven chains — were flickering.

"You came for me," Michelle whispered. "Without powers. Without the compass. Without anything."

^{1} I came with everything that matters, ^{2} Jane said. ^{3} I came with love. And a very tall man who punches gods.

^{1} do punch gods, Ryan confirmed. It's becoming a whole thing.

Michelle laughed. Small. Broken. But Real. And the chains Cracked.

Not broke. Cracked. Hairline fractures running through the solidified grief like lightning through dark glass.

"More," Jane said. "Give me more. Remember – remember when you taught me to ride a bike and I crashed into Mrs. Santos' garden and you told Mama it was a typhoon

Michelle laughed harder. The cracks spread.

"Remember when you stayed up all night making my prom dress because we couldn't afford one and you sewed the sequins on Backwards and we had to redo the whole thing at 3am—"

The chains were Shattering. Piece by piece. Memory by memory. Not grief breaking them – Joy. Love. The thousand tiny moments that made them sisters.

'Remember when Mama died and you held me for six hours and didn't eat and didn't sleep and when I finally stopped crying you said 'Okay, bunso. Now we survive.' And we did. We survived. We're Still surviving—'

The last chain broke.

Michelle fell forward into Jane's arms. Sobbing. Shaking. Free.

'I've got you,' Jane whispered. 'I've got you, ate. I've got you.'

Not the old one – not the tether of power and obligation and three thousand years of resentment. Something new. Something Chosen. A thread of gold and shadow woven together by two sisters who'd finally stopped running from each other.

Keres gasped. The dark gold fire around her flickered – destabilized. Because the power she'd stolen wasn't hers. It was Jane's. And Jane was touching her. Choosing her. Loving her. And love – real love, freely given – cannot be held by force.

"What's happening?" Keres whispered. The flames were leaving her. Not violently — gently. Like water finding its level. Flowing back toward Jane through the new bond. Through the Chosen connection.

'I'm not taking it back,' Jane said. 'I'm Sharing it. Like I should have done three thousand years ago.'

The fire split. Half gold, half shadow. Two flames. Two sisters. Equal. Balanced. Whole.

Keres screamed – not in pain. In Release, Three thousand years of hoarded power, of desperate clutching, of trying to be Everything because she'd been left with Nothing – all of it dissolving. She didn't need to be omnipotent anymore. She wasn't alone.

The Citadel shook. The chains around Michelle Shattered – not cracked, not weakened. Gone. Dissolved into nothing because the grief that made them no longer existed.

Michelle fell forward. Free.

ate Jane caught her. Held her. Both of them crying, laughing, shaking.

You absolute Lunatic," Michelle sobbed. You hugged a Death goddess—

"She's my sister."

She tried to Kill us—

"She was lonely," Jane looked back at Keres. At her twin. At the mirror of herself that she'd abandoned and finally, finally returned to. "She was so lonely, ate."

Ryan

He was still conscious. Still standing. Blood running down his face from where Keres had thrown him, ribs definitely cracked, one eye swelling shut. But Standing.

And he was looking at Jane with Ephraim. At the way they gravitated toward each other. At the way Ephraim's hand found Jane's like breathing. At the way she leaned into him without thinking.

Thirty-seven lifetimes of love. Written in their bodies. Inevitable as gravity.

Ryan smiled. Small. Sad. Real.

'Hey,' he said. Walking over. Limping. 'Jane.'

She turned. Saw his face. The acceptance there. The grief he was already processing.

'Don't.' He held up a hand. 'Don't apologize. Don't explain. I knew.' He swallowed. 'I think I always knew. From the first dream you told me about. The way your voice changed when you described him. I just... hoped.'

You deserved better than hope," Jane said. You deserved certainty.

"Yeah, well," Ryan laughed. Wet, Broken. Beautiful. I got to punch a god. So. Not a total loss."

He looked at Ephraim. The two men — mortal and immortal, ordinary and divine — regarded each other across the space between them.

'If you hurt her,' Ryan said, 'I will find a way back to the Underworld. And I will punch you too.'

Ephraim smiled. Warm. Genuine. I believe you.

"Good." Ryan turned back to Jane. Took her hand. Squeezed it once. "Be happy, Jane. Be so goddamn happy it's annoying. Be the couple that makes everyone sick at restaurants. You earned it."

Ryan—

'And invite me to the wedding. I give Excellent speeches.' He was crying. Smiling. Both. 'I'll need at least six months notice. I'm going to write something Devastating.'

Jane hugged him. Hard. And he held her — one last time — with everything he had. Then let go.