One by one, my companions gathered what scraps of resolve they had left. Their faces hollow, eyes dim, they clutched the soul gems like fragile anchors against the tide of forgetfulness. Without a word, they waded into the obsidian waters of the Lethe, their reflections distorted, swallowed by ripples that whispered promises of oblivion.

  But I wasn't ready.

  My fingers trembled as I reached into the depths of my coat, pulling out the coin I'd carried for over a decade. Tarnished edges, worn smooth from years of anxious thumb strokes, but the symbols were still clear—etched deep as scars. On one side, the mark of Mercury, the fleet messenger, carved like a smirk against fate. On the other, Iris, the Lady of the Rainbow, her grace sealed in the cold, indifferent metal. Two gods who’d always been willing to carry words across realms—for a price.

  I’d clung to that coin like a lifeline. One shot. One chance to send a message across the divide when I needed it most. And here I was, needing it more than ever.

  I stood, the water licking at my knees, cold as the grave. Flipping the coin, I muttered, "Dear Lord Mercury, with your speed, carry this message. Oh Lady Iris, with your grace, hear my voice."

  The coin hit the air with a metallic snap, spinning like the thin thread of hope it was. The sky split—a jagged, shimmering scar of rainbow light tearing through the oppressive gloom. The brilliance was blinding, too vivid for a place like this. When the afterimage faded from my eyes, he was there.

  Kipp Abernathy.

  My mentor. My friend. The man who’d taught me everything I knew about magic—and bad habits.

  He lumbered toward me with that crooked grin and an undignified snort. His bear hug was a sudden, crushing warmth against the cold void of this place.

  "Oh, you crazy kid," he wheezed, releasing me with a clap on the back that nearly sent me face-first into the river. "What fresh hell have you dragged me to this time?"

  "The banks of the River Lethe," I croaked. "Underworld. Real cheerful place."

  Kipp squinted around, tugging at the threadbare scarf around his neck. "Huh. Thought it felt drafty. My bones ache just looking at it." He grinned, unbothered as always. "What’s got you sloshing around in death’s puddle?"

  I told him everything—about the souls trapped in gems, the journey, the Ferryman’s price. He listened, scratching his beard, nodding like I’d just described a minor inconvenience, like running out of milk.

  "Y’know," he said, "the only person I ever heard of surviving this kind of nonsense was Achilles—the Spartan golden boy himself." He snorted. "Course, even he didn’t walk away unscathed. Hades was so tickled by the whole mess he cursed Achilles’ mom to stand by the Styx forever, warning idiots like us not to get clever with river magic."

  Kipp’s hand settled on my shoulder, heavy, grounding. "But you didn’t call me to reminisce. Why, kid? What’s eating you? Did you miss me?" He raised an eyebrow, all mock offense.

  "Shut up, you old kook." My voice was rougher than I expected. "I just… I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this."

  He laughed. Full, wheezing, snot-and-spit laughter that echoed off the water like a gunshot. "Of course it’s impossible!" He wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "But since when has ‘impossible’ ever stopped you? Hell, when you started learning under me, you couldn’t conjure a spark to save your life. Your magical potential was abysmal, like teaching a rock to juggle." He grinned wider. "But look at you now. Standing on the brink of becoming a Grand Master. Stubborn as sin, annoying as a hangnail—but here all the same."

  His expression softened, just a little. "Some are born lucky. Others are lucky to be born. But dreamers… dreams choose them. And dreams brought you here, didn’t they? You’ve already done the impossible. You’ll do it again. So who gives a damn if you’ve got to give up a memory? You’ve never been one to cling to the past."

  My throat tightened. "Master… I think I know what memory it’ll take. I don’t want to lose her."

  Another burst of laughter, wetter this time, flecking me with god-knows-what. "You idiot. You think you could forget her? We tried for years to get you to move on—me and your mother both—and you never budged. Stubborn as bedrock. I’d bet every scrap of my ‘vast, wondrous magical power’ that the river won’t touch that memory."

  Kipp dusted off his coat, clearly bored. "Alright, enough sentimental garbage. I’m heading back. This place reeks of regret and bad decisions."

  He looked up, shouting into the void, "IRIS! Get me the hell out of here!"

  And just like that, the light swallowed him whole, leaving me alone on the bank. The coin was gone. The river still whispered. And I still wasn’t ready.

  I stood at the riverbank, watching the Lethe’s black waves crash and churn—a ceaseless rhythm of push and pull, rise and fall. The water whispered like a madman, low and indecipherable, tempting me to lose myself in its depths. I mumbled under my breath, "What a damn waste of a coin." My voice cracked slightly, an echo swallowed by the fog. "I'll never get another chance." I kicked at the water, sending ripples that were quickly devoured by the current. Just like everything else, I thought bitterly. Gone in an instant.

  Life has a sense of humor—twisted, cruel, and endlessly ironic. We, the living, spend every ounce of will and effort trying to sculpt our futures, building castles of hope and ambition. And fate? Fate laughs. It waits just long enough to let you believe you’re in control before throwing your plans into the dirt and slapping you in the face with reality.

  I lit a fresh cigar and inhaled deeply, the bitter smoke curling around me like a comforting shroud. Over the centuries, I’d planned and plotted more than I cared to admit. I’ve made mistakes that haunt my every step, carried burdens that slowly ground me into dust. But all of it—every deception, every hard-won victory, every act of defiance—was for one thing.

  An impossible thing.

  A dream so damn terrifying that I’ve never had the courage to speak it aloud. Not to anyone. Maybe not even to myself. I’ve built walls around it, buried it beneath layers of scars and cynicism, pretending that if I didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t hold such power over me. But deep down, I know the truth. I always have. Every step I've taken has led me here, to this riverbank, at the edge of forgetting and despair.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I stood, about to cross a river that could steal away everything I am. And all for a dream I might not even live to see fulfilled. I chuckled dryly, a sound that barely resembled laughter. "You’ve always been a stubborn bastard, Julius. Why stop now?"

  The water hissed, lapping hungrily at my boots, as if the Lethe itself was daring me to take that first step.

  I felt it in my bones—the fear that if I ever dared speak my dream aloud, it would become real. Vulnerable. It would be exposed to the same cruel fate that’s hunted me every step of my life. Fate, that merciless architect of my failures, which tore Cassidy from me, which cast me out and condemned me to this underworld. This insane dream, this ludicrous ambition, was the reason I stood here now, at the River Lethe, about to sacrifice a memory I held dear for these broken souls.

  A bitter part of me whispered dark thoughts: Just cast the gems into the river. Let the Lethe consume them. Let them be forgotten, scattered across the cosmic void like ash in the wind. Why should I bear this burden? Why should I break my back, risk my very soul, to save them? I don’t even know these souls. I’ve never met them. I don’t owe them a damn thing.

  The water stirred beside me, rippling as another figure emerged from the fog. He wore a cloak spun from ash, his skin as pale as moonlight on the darkest night. His eyes shimmered like stardust—falling endlessly, infinitely deep. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of centuries, smooth and warm, like the comforting burn of aged single-malt whisky.

  "It is always darkest before the dawn," he said softly.

  I scoffed, the sound harsh and bitter in the stillness. "If you're here to spit clichés and bullshit anecdotes, you’re wasting your time. There are plenty of other damned rivers to haunt. Go find one and leave me to wallow in self-pity and regret."

  He chuckled, the sound like the distant rumble of thunder before a storm. "Oh, there’s no such thing as peace here," he said, his words carrying an almost playful edge. "Well... there’s one place. But that’s reserved for the best of heroes." His eyes gleamed as he leaned slightly closer. "And we both know that sure as hell isn’t you."

  I snorted, the irony not lost on me. "Right. Figures."

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The river churned at my feet as I gazed out into the fog-drenched horizon. This place was a monument to all that’s been lost—to all that would be forgotten. And yet here I was, being mocked by a phantom who seemed to know more about my soul than I ever wanted to admit.

  "Why are you here?" I asked him, my voice low, brittle with exhaustion.

  "Isn’t it obvious?" he replied smoothly, stepping closer. His feet barely disturbed the water as he moved. "I’m here to guide you across the river, to help you let go of your memory."

  I frowned. "And what about my companions? You didn’t show up for them."

  "Oh, but I did," he said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his pale lips. "You just didn’t see it. They didn’t need as big of a push. But you, on the other hand…"

  I narrowed my eyes. "So, how does this work?"

  "Ah, the logistics of forgetfulness," he said with a chuckle that sounded like distant thunder. "Well, there are a few options. First, I could just take something of value without you even knowing. One moment you’ll blink, and you'll be across. Then afterward, you’ll feel an overwhelming sense of dread, an inexplicable emptiness. Maybe some PTSD for flavor. A lifetime of sleepless nights, broken by nightmares you don’t understand. The usual mental torment that comes from losing something precious without realizing what’s gone."

  I raised an eyebrow. "And the second option?"

  "Ah, now you’re asking the right questions," he grinned. "Option two: you have a funeral of sorts. You confront the memory I choose to take. Say your goodbyes, mourn it properly. While you’ll still carry grief and pain, you’ll also find a sliver of acceptance. Of course, you’ll still be thoroughly fucked in the head. But hey, that's the price you pay. You think magic doesn’t come without cost? No, no… everyone has to pay their dues to wield such power."

  His chuckling grew darker, more sardonic. "Especially practitioners like you. Magic thrives on tragedy. It’s practically a currency in these realms."

  "And which memory are you planning to take?" I asked, my voice quieter than before.

  He tilted his head, his stardust eyes boring into me. "Isn’t it obvious? I’m taking the day you chose your cause. The moment you decided to chase the impossible dream that’s haunted you ever since. The day you set your sights on becoming the patriarch of your house. The day you resolved to make your mother acknowledge your worth—to prove to her and everyone else that you weren’t the insufferable fuck-up they branded you as. The day you thought you could erase the stain you believed you were to the House of Holmes. I’ll take the memory of the moment you chose that never-ending struggle."

  A cold, suffocating weight settled in my chest. "And what happens if I forget that?"

  He shrugged with an unsettling nonchalance. "I have no idea. That’s entirely up to you... and fate."

  He grinned wider, his teeth like glistening shards of bone. "And let’s be honest, fate doesn’t take kindly to dreamers like you. Those three nasty, callous bitches love nothing more than turning ambition into ash."

  I swallowed hard, my throat tight with unspoken fear. The river churned beside me, its endless waves whispering forgotten names and stories. I felt the weight of that memory—the one he'd named. It was the core of my being, the fuel for every desperate decision I’d ever made. Losing it would be like carving out a piece of my soul.

  Yet here I stood, knowing I had no choice.

  I pulled out a cigar from the inside pocket of my trench coat and offered him one. He accepted it with a grin that stretched unnervingly wide. Without even moving a finger, the damn thing lit itself with a soft hiss. I whispered under my breath, "You cocky, show-off bastard."

  He chuckled darkly.

  Not wanting to be outdone, I flicked my thumb and ignited the tip of my own cigar. I took a long, deep draft, letting the smoke coil around my face like a veil. The weight of the world seemed to settle in that cloud, pressing in on my lungs before I sighed and let it all drift into the endless void of the river.

  "This is some quality shit," he said after his first puff. His voice was rough but tinged with surprise. "Damn potent. And coming from me, that says a lot. I've got a pretty high tolerance for... well, everything."

  I laughed, a low, bitter sound that echoed faintly against the surrounding fog. "Yeah, I’ve been smoking about thirty of these bastards a day for the past two hundred years. I’ve spent most of that time magically enhancing the Dreamer's Leaf just to keep the kick strong enough. Gotta keep raising the bar, right?"

  He chuckled along with me. "I bet you wish I could take away that tolerance. Let you get blasted on it like the first time all over again."

  "Now that," I said with a grin, "would be a gift worth losing a memory for. But you don’t seem the generous type."

  He snorted. "Hell no. Not even a little bit."

  There was a pause before he exhaled a long plume of smoke and leaned in conspiratorially. "Hey, you know how this stuff was discovered?"

  I shook my head, curious despite myself.

  "See, it all started when some dumbass paladins went poking around in a dragon’s den. They found this strange plant growing inside. Apparently, the dragon liked to gather the stuff, breathe fire over it, and then inhale the smoke. To this day, we have no clue what it does to dragons, but it must be good because they don’t share it with anyone. Anyway, while these holy bastards are snooping around, the den fills up with smoke, and they get a secondhand high. Next thing you know, they’re hallucinating like mad—tripping balls in the heart of hell itself."

  I barked out a laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. "And let me guess, the dragon thought it was hilarious?"

  "Oh, yeah. Funny enough to eat them right after. The paladins, of course, woke up from their trip right as they were about to be devoured. The gods they served? Pissed as hell. Kicked them out of the church for getting high on what was essentially ‘dragon crack.’ So these poor bastards decided to form their own religion instead. Focused entirely on the wonders of Dreamer's Leaf. Dragons call it ‘Dragon’s Dream,’ or ‘Dragon’s Milk.’ You know it by its street name."

  "Fascinating," I muttered, exhaling smoke and watching it spiral toward the stars that weren’t there. "Wonder if they’d let me join their little church."

  He cackled. "Nah, man. You ain’t chill enough. You’d annoy the hell outta them. You’re too much of a lone wolf. Besides," he added with a smirk, "look at how much suffering you’re already causing that poor girl, Mattie. You’ve got more issues than a full council of the damned."

  I shook my head with a faint grin. "Touché, you bastard."

  The smoke continued to swirl around us, heavy with the scent of old regrets and forgotten dreams, as the river lapped hungrily at the shore beside us.

  "Hey, fuck you," I snapped, glaring at the pale figure beside me. "I do everything I can to keep that kid safe and teach her to master her magic."

  He shrugged lazily, taking a drag from his cigar. "And yet... she’s still here in the underworld, with you."

  I clenched my fists. "Look here, you ashy bastard. Why don’t you take some lotion, rub it all over your flaky ass, and go fuck yourself."

  He laughed—a deep, rasping chuckle that echoed like an old wound reopening. "There it is. That fire I was looking for. So, what’s it gonna be? You gonna keep standing here in this river of self-pity, or are you gonna grab life by your micro-penis and cross this damn puddle?"

  "Fine," I growled through gritted teeth. "Take the memory. Let’s get this hell over with."

  I blinked, and suddenly everything shifted. The damp, oppressive weight of the river faded, replaced by solid ground beneath me. I was on the other side, flat on my back, staring up at a fog-drenched sky. Mattie and Zefpyre stood over me, their faces hazy outlines that slowly came into focus.

  "Took you long enough," Zefpyre muttered, his flame-body flickering faintly. His face twisted into a scowl. "We thought you might’ve gotten lost in there."

  "Where... what... why..." I stammered, words slipping through my mind like sand through clenched fingers.

  Mattie crouched beside me. "Congrats, Boss Man. You crossed the River Lethe." Her voice was warm, but there was a glint of concern in her eyes.

  I sat up slowly, the world tilting around me like an uneven dream. The obsidian basket lay beside me, filled with the soul gems once again. They had transformed once more. No longer the vibrant sapphire of hope, they now burned with a deep, pulsating ruby-red glow. They seemed almost alive, throbbing with raw intensity.

  Mattie stood and brushed off her robes. "So... one more river, huh?"

  I nodded, shaking off the fog clinging to my thoughts. "Yeah. One more. But before that, we need an offering."

  Mattie frowned. "An offering? To who?"

  "Achilles' mother," I muttered, rubbing my temple. "Apparently, she's guarding the River Styx to keep people from bathing in it."

  Zefpyre stretched and yawned, his flames dimming. "Great. And where the hell are we supposed to find this grand offering of yours?"

  I took another long drag of my cigar and let the smoke coil into the air. "The Gardens of Persephone."

  Zefpyre groaned. "Perfect. Just what I needed—another damn journey through nightmare and death. I’d kill for a proper catnap right about now."

  Mattie crossed her arms and smirked. "Oh, come on, Zef. How bad could it be?"

  I glanced at her with a raised brow, chuckling darkly under my breath. "Kid, I swear to every god that’s ever existed, you just jinxed us harder than any curse in this damned place."

  With a shared look, the three of us gathered our resolve and set off once more into the shadows of the underworld. The journey was far from over.