My last week of suspension passed like smoke through a cracked window—fast and without a trace. The Kid moved back in, and for the first time in a while, life had a rhythm. We fell into a routine, something close to normal. But normal wasn’t meant to last.
The night before my return to the Order, Pendragon called. His voice on the other end of the line was as serious as a priest at a funeral. “Report to my office first thing,” he said.
Morning came, crisp and golden. The summer air carried a rare clarity as the first rays of dawn spilled over Lake Michigan, glinting like fire on water. Driving down Lake Shore Drive, with my audiobook murmuring in the background, I felt an unfamiliar sense of calm. For a fleeting moment, Chicago offered up perfection—a city of chaos giving me a stolen moment of peace.
But peace has a way of evaporating when you step into Gabriel Pendragon’s office. The air inside was heavy, thick with unspoken tension. He didn’t even wait for me to sit before he started.
“Julius, take a seat,” he said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk.
“No problem, Gabe. Let’s get this over with.” I dropped into the chair, lighting a cigar with a snap of my fingers, the flame flaring briefly before settling into a glow. “What’s the crisis this time?”
Gabriel didn’t rise to the bait. “We’ve got a problem—several, actually. The Occult community is on edge, teetering on the brink of war. Vampires, Were-Animals, Fae… everyone’s at each other’s throats. Members of their communities are going missing, and the usual tensions are escalating.”
Mattie leaned forward, her notebook already out. “What’s causing it?” she asked.
Gabriel rubbed his temples. “No one knows for sure. But we need to show that the Order is taking action. Which brings me to your first task.”
Zefpyre, in his cat form, stretched lazily in Mattie’s lap. She scratched his chin, earning a low purr. “So, what’s the rush?” he asked, his voice dripping with casual indifference.
Gabriel’s gaze sharpened. “You’re going to the Underworld.”
The room went quiet. Even Zef stopped grooming himself to stare.
Gabriel continued, “The soul gems collected during the Necromancer’s spree need to be released. Those souls have suffered long enough—they deserve rest. And we need to show the Magical community that we’re committed to restoring balance.”
I sat up, the cigar dangling from my lips. “You do realize going to the Underworld isn’t a Sunday stroll, right? Especially without an escort from Chiron.”
Gabriel sighed, the kind of sigh that carried the weight of too many responsibilities. “Chiron will meet you there, but only to guide you. He says this task must be done without the aid of the dead. He can offer you ‘somewhat safe passage,’ but that’s it.”
Mattie’s brow furrowed. “What does ‘somewhat safe passage’ mean?”
“It means the Underworld won’t actively try to obliterate you,” Gabriel said.
I barked out a laugh, bitter and sharp. “Not actively. Great. But that doesn’t make it safe. The Underworld is for the dead, kept by the dead. They’re addicted to draining the life essence of any poor soul who wanders in alive. There’s a reason it’s considered a fate worse than death.”
I paused, narrowing my eyes. “This isn’t my mother’s doing, is it? She’s been trying to get me banished there for decades.”
Gabriel smirked, a faint glimmer of amusement breaking through his grim demeanor. “No, Julius. Believe it or not, your mother doesn’t control the cosmos.”
I scoffed. “Tell that to her.”
Snapping my thumb, I lit the cigar again, the small flame reflecting in Gabriel’s desk. “Might as well tell the Kid the rest of it, Gabe. No sense sugarcoating now.”
Gabriel turned to Mattie. “Only souls can enter the Underworld. That means nothing can be brought with you—no weapons, no tools, no talismans. You’ll have to acquire everything you need once you’re there. And to release the souls, you’ll need to provide an offering. What kind of offering, I don’t know, but it’ll have to be something significant.”
Mattie’s face fell, her voice barely a whisper. “Anything else?”
Gabriel’s expression darkened. “The only way out of the Underworld is through pearls blessed by Poseidon or divine intervention. And we have neither. Chiron says he’ll provide a way out after the task is done, but he won’t say what it is.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I said, exhaling a stream of smoke. “This sounds like a delightful walk through Navy Pier. Let me grab my coat and a lemonade.”
Gabriel spoke, his tone firm. “Look here, Julius. I understand this is a horrible situation, but the three of you are the only ones who could actually accomplish this. And it needs to be done. We can’t keep those gems—they’re too dangerous.”
I stood, my cigar glowing like a tiny furnace. “Fine. But I promise you, Gabriel Pendragon, son of Alfred and Marianne, if this is some kind of trap, or if Mattie doesn’t make it back alive, not even divine intervention will save you from me.”
Gabriel rose, his eyes steady. “I swear on the River Styx, on the honor of my Lord whom I serve faithfully, and on my soul for all eternity, that I offer you this task in good faith.”
The room filled with a divine light, thunder cracking somewhere beyond mortal comprehension as his oath sealed itself in the fabric of reality.
I nodded. “Well, let’s get this portal open and start this ludicrous quest.”
Zefpyre stretched and yawned, his feline form lazy and disinterested. “Do I actually need to go? I think I can serve the Order better here.”
I glared at him. “Look here, fuzz face. You’re my handler, remember? You need to be there to handle me.”
Zefpyre groaned, leaping down with a flick of his tail. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when this goes sideways.”
The catacombs of the Order weren’t on the tourist brochure, and for good reason. The only way in was through the basement crypt, hidden behind a statue of Lancelot, the so-called Guardian Protector of the Order. The statue loomed tall and imposing, his stone gaze cold and unyielding.
I ran my fingers over the carved insignia on his shield, tracing the grooves until I found the hidden lever. With a satisfying click, the statue shifted, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling downward into darkness.
“Charming,” Mattie muttered, her voice echoing faintly as we descended.
The air grew colder with each step, the kind of chill that burrowed into your bones. The walls were lined with ancient carvings, tales of knights, and battles long forgotten. The faint smell of damp stone and decay hung in the air, a constant reminder that we were venturing into a tomb.
At the center of the catacombs, the Arch awaited—a massive structure of black stone, etched with runes that seemed to writhe and shift when you looked too long. The air around it buzzed with a strange energy, like the hum of power lines before a storm.
Gabriel was already there, waiting. He stepped forward, his face as grim as the tomb we stood in. “This is it,” he said, gesturing to the Arch. “Once the portal opens, there’s no turning back.”
He raised his hands, murmuring an incantation. The runes on the Arch flared to life, glowing an eerie blue. The hum grew louder, vibrating through the air until it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.
The center of the Arch shimmered, the stone dissolving into a swirling vortex of light and shadow. The portal to the Underworld.
“Remember,” Gabriel said, his voice steady but heavy with warning, “nothing you bring with you will cross over. Only your souls will pass through.”
I looked at Mattie and Zefpyre, their faces pale but resolute. “Well,” I said, forcing a smirk, “let’s see what the Underworld’s got. Maybe they’ve redecorated.”
And with that, I stepped through the Arch, into the void.
The sensation was like being wrung out by the universe itself, my soul squeezed and stretched until it felt as if I was unraveling across eternity. Memories, thoughts, even the core of who I was blurred into a haze. I clawed desperately at the remnants of my identity, repeating my name like a mantra.
Then, with a jolt, it ended.
I gasped, the cold, heavy air of the Underworld flooding my lungs. For a moment, I lay there, disoriented, staring up at a sky that wasn’t a sky—just a swirling, oppressive darkness that felt alive, watching.
I pushed myself up, my head pounding. The air around me was a contradiction—freezing, like the breath of death itself, yet laced with a suffocating heat that gnawed at my skin. It wasn’t just unwelcoming—it was hostile, a silent scream that I didn’t belong. The two sensations warred within me, leaving an unease that set my teeth on edge.
I stumbled forward, my boots crunching on what might’ve been ground, though it felt wrong—like it wasn’t meant to be walked on. Beside me, Mattie lay sprawled on the ground, still unconscious. Zefpyre, though, was already up. He wasn’t in his usual cat form but his true self—flames licking along his ethereal frame, casting flickering shadows across the bleak landscape.
He looked pissed.
“What’s your problem?” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck.
He glared at me, his voice low and sharp. “I can’t take my cat form here. This place won’t allow it—lies don’t hold in death.”
I smirked despite myself, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “And in death, all lies shall be set free.”
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Zefpyre’s glare could’ve burned hotter than his flames. “Don’t start, Julius. Let’s wake Mattie, find Chiron, and get the hell out of here.”
The moment the name “Chiron” left his mouth, the air grew heavier. A faint sound broke through the oppressive silence—a rhythmic splash, like oars cutting through water.
We turned as one, and there he was.
The Ferryman of the Dead.
He emerged from the shadows, his boat gliding silently over a black river that seemed to drink in the dim light of Zefpyre’s flames. He stood tall and skeletal, draped in tattered robes that whispered like dry leaves as he moved. His eyes—or what passed for them—glowed faintly, like dying embers.
“Welcome,” he intoned, his voice like a whisper clawing its way out of the grave. It didn’t just pierce your ears; it reached down into the marrow of your bones, the deepest parts of your soul, as if it knew every sin, every secret you’d ever buried.
I didn’t respond right away. I couldn’t. My throat felt like it had been stuffed with ash.
Mattie stirred behind me, groaning as she woke. Zefpyre’s flames flared brighter, his form tensing.
“Let’s hope Chiron’s in a good mood,” I muttered, forcing myself to meet the Ferryman’s hollow gaze.
We stood before Chiron, the Ferryman of the Dead. The moment we stood before Chiron, the weight of his presence hit like a freight train. The air around him didn’t just feel different—it was different, his presence an unsettling pull on the very fabric of my soul. The air around him didn’t just exist—it resonated, heavy with the promise of transition. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and feeling the pull of the abyss. Every instinct screamed at me to stay put, to root myself in the fragile threads of my existence, but my soul—it wanted to go with him. It was the kind of pull you couldn’t fight for long. It took every ounce of focus to stay grounded in my own skin, to resist the silent urge to follow him on a journey that would have no return.If I gave in, I knew it’d be a one-way trip. No return ticket.
Chiron’s voice cut through the tension, low and steady, carrying the echoes of a thousand lifetimes. His voice, a rasp that echoed with timeless authority, broke the suffocating silence. "Visitors to this realm are a rarity. While I wish we were better hosts, hospitality is not among the strengths of the Underworld." His tone wasn’t apologetic—it was factual, a statement as immutable as death itself. "I will do my best to ensure you are not harmed intentionally, but even I cannot hold back the tides of Death."
I forced my throat to work, asking, "Can’t you… you know, ask your boss for help?"
Chiron chuckled, a dry, brittle sound like bones rattling in the wind. "Oh no, Master Wizard. While Lord Hades is indeed the most proactive of the Lords, he does not meddle in the affairs of those who have not ascended. Perhaps, should you continue on your path, you may one day earn such an audience. But for now, you must face this trial as you are." He straightened, his expression growing somber. "My time with you grows short, as even now, the cries of the dead call to me, and I must answer."
He fixed me with a look that went straight through me, like he was staring at something beneath the surface. “The task ahead is no small one. It will test you in ways that you cannot yet fathom. Frankly, I have my doubts that you three will succeed. But now that you’re here, you must try—or you will join the others on my ferry.”
His words hung in the air, heavy and final. My mouth felt like it was full of sand, the words I wanted to say choking in my throat. Being in his presence for the second time in my life left me raw, stripped of every defense I’d built over the years. All I could do was nod, a small gesture that felt inadequate under the weight of what lay ahead.
His words hung in the air, and I found myself unable to respond. Standing in his presence, for the second time in my life, left me stripped of words, of wit, of the armor I wore daily. All I could do was nod.
Chiron’s empty eyes settled on Mattie, his gaze softer than I expected from a creature steeped in eternity. “Do not worry about the child,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, like a dirge whispered over a grave. “She is strong. Brimming with life. Her transition here will take the longest, for she, more than the two of you, does not belong in this place.”
I nodded, the weight of his words sinking in like stones in dark water.
“The road ahead of you is perilous,” Chiron continued. “In the Underworld, there is no such thing as a straight line. It is a journey before it is a destination. To fulfill your task, you must bathe the soul stones you carry in all five rivers of this realm.”
He began listing them, each name carrying a foreboding chill. “First, the River Phlegethon—the river of fire. Then the River Acheron—the river of pain. Followed by the River Cocytus—the river of wailing, and the River Lethe—the river of forgetfulness. Finally, before you reach the River Styx, you must find an offering for the souls. There are places in this realm where such offerings can be found, but the choice and sacrifice must be yours.”
His voice grew heavier, the finality of his instructions hitting like a funeral bell. “Only after you have secured a suitable offering may you bathe the stones in the Styx. Once that is done, seek me at the entrance of the Veil, and I will aid you in securing passage back to the land of the living.”
The way he spoke, calm yet unyielding, left no room for questions. It wasn’t a suggestion or advice—it was law, carved in obsidian and dripping with inevitability.
I finally found my voice, though it felt like dragging words up from a deep, dark well. “Seems like there are a lot of details missing from those instructions.”
Chiron smiled. If you could call it that. It wasn’t warm or reassuring—it was the kind of grin that could chill a man to the marrow. Like staring death in the face and realizing death was glad to see you. That smile crawled under my skin and coiled around my soul.
“You’ll have to figure out the details yourself,” he said, his tone as matter-of-fact as a gravedigger measuring a coffin. “If I simply told you how to proceed, you wouldn’t truly pass the trial ahead.”
He paused, that skeletal grin stretching impossibly wider. “Oh, and Julius... there’s a guest waiting for you along the way. Perhaps they’ll point you in the right direction—or maybe they just want revenge. I ferry the dead, but I do not speak for them.”
Before I could press for clarification, he faded from view. One moment he was there, towering and eternal; the next, he was gone, leaving behind nothing but the sound of a boat’s paddles slicing through unseen waters. The haunting rhythm echoed through the Underworld like a heartbeat, steady and unnerving, until it, too, vanished into the oppressive silence.
A low, guttural croak echoed from behind us, cutting through the heavy stillness like a knife through fog.
“Who’s the guest he’s talking about?” Mattie asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Zefpyre let out a sharp laugh, a sound like dry leaves caught in the wind. “Knowing your mentor, I’m surprised it’s not an angry mob waiting to tear us apart.”
I shot him a glare, my patience running as thin as the air down here. “When you get as powerful and old as me, it’s impossible not to ruffle a few feathers along the way.”
Zefpyre smirked, his flame-wreathed form flickering in the dim, otherworldly light. “I’ve lived four times as long as you, Julius, and I haven’t caused even a fraction of the chaos you’ve managed to stir up.”
“And that,” I said, lighting a fresh cigar with a snap of my fingers, “is why you’re still an Adept and I’m a Master.”
He scoffed but didn’t bother firing back. I turned to Mattie, who still looked dazed, her wide eyes trying to take in a world that didn’t make sense by any stretch of mortal imagination. I reached out and helped her to her feet.
“To be honest,” I said, brushing the dust from my coat, “there are way too many possibilities for who—or what—that guest might be. I just hope it’s not who I think it is.”
Mattie nodded, swallowing hard. Zefpyre just grunted, clearly unimpressed by my theatrics.
“Let’s get moving,” I said, taking the lead. “I’ve got a feeling this isn’t going to be a quick stroll through the park.”
The oppressive air seemed to tighten its grip on us as we began to walk, the silence broken only by the crunch of our steps on the dry, desolate ground. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of water dripping echoed like a ticking clock, counting down to whatever awaited us.
Walking through the Underworld was like wandering through a bad dream, the kind that clings to you even after you wake up. There was nothingness all around me, but it wasn’t empty—no, it was worse than that. It was a nothingness that pressed down on you, that whispered promises of eternity while giving you nowhere to stand. My feet moved forward, each step firm beneath me, but there was no ground, no sound of impact. Just the sensation that the Underworld itself was leading me, pulling me along like a fish caught in a silent, black current.
There were no landmarks, no horizon, nothing to anchor my senses. The cigar clenched between my teeth was the only thing tethering me to myself. Each puff of smoke spiraled out into the void, disappearing as if the air itself swallowed it whole.
Mattie glanced over at me, her eyes wide with the kind of unease that only comes when your surroundings refuse to make sense. “Julius,” she asked hesitantly, “if we weren’t allowed to bring anything into the Underworld, how are you smoking right now?”
Before I could answer, Zefpyre’s voice cut in, dry and sharp like the crackle of distant flames. “Because he’s so addicted that those death sticks are probably grafted to his soul.”
“Ha. Ha.” I shot him a deadpan look, blowing a cloud of smoke his way. “Very funny.” I turned to Mattie, adjusting my hat. “When you become a Master, you’ll understand. You learn to conjure what you need out of thin air—or, more accurately, out of your own will.”
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “And the cigars?”
I took another drag, letting the ember glow for a moment before answering. “That’s not entirely up to me. Lord Hades has the final say on what enters his realm. Lucky for me, he seems to think I need my cigars as much as I do.”
Zefpyre snorted but didn’t argue. Mattie just nodded, though her expression was still skeptical. She’d figure it out someday—if she made it that far.
As we walked, the nothingness around us began to shift. Shapes bled out of the void, hazy and indistinct at first, like shadows cast by a flame that wasn’t there. Then, slowly, a scene emerged: an endless field stretching as far as the eye could see, lifeless and gray. The ground looked like cracked ash, and the sky above was a sickly shade of smoke-stained yellow. No wind. No sound. Just the weight of silence, heavy enough to crush a lesser soul.
I paused, the tip of my cigar smoldering in the gloom. “Well,” I muttered, “this looks promising.”
The field stretched before us, a grotesque tapestry of carnage and decay. The air carried the copper tang of old blood, mingled with the acrid bite of charred flesh. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the ground itself was dragging us down, feeding on our resolve. The earth beneath our boots was a patchwork of shattered bones and scorched soil, each fragment a silent testament to the violence that had played out here.
A fractured sword jutted from the dirt, its blade stained black and jagged from use. Shields, dented and twisted, lay like discarded shells, their insignias too marred to read. Here and there, the remnants of armor clung to skeletal forms, their hollow eye sockets staring up at a sunless sky that refused to mourn them. Torn banners fluttered weakly in the airless void, their colors leached away, leaving only faded ghosts of the causes they once championed.
There was no sound but the crunch of our boots against the brittle detritus of war. Even the Underworld’s eternal silence seemed heavier here, as if the place itself had taken a vow of solemnity. I lit another cigar, the flame flaring briefly in the oppressive gloom. The smoke tasted harsher, bitter, like it carried a hint of the suffering that had soaked into this place.
Mattie moved closer to me, her small frame tense as her eyes darted across the wasteland. “What happened here?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might awaken something better left undisturbed.
“A battle,” I said, my voice gruff. “And not a clean one.”
Zefpyre, in his elemental form, flickered uneasily. “The ground reeks of magic,” he muttered.
We pressed on, the battlefield stretching endlessly, as if mocking us with its vastness. Every step felt like an intrusion, as if the dead were watching us, their resentment palpable in the air. I glanced down and saw what looked like a child’s doll, half-buried in the dirt. Its glass eyes stared up, cracked and empty, its once-soft fabric hardened by time and ash. I nudged it aside with my boot and kept moving.
The horizon wavered, distorted by a haze that wasn’t quite heat and wasn’t quite mist. As we crested a small rise, I stopped dead in my tracks. In the distance, perched atop a massive boulder that seemed to rise out of the battlefield like a gravestone, was a figure. He sat there, still as death itself, his posture casual yet unnervingly deliberate.
The haze obscured his features, but there was no mistaking the aura he exuded. It wasn’t just power—it was the kind of presence that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. He might as well have been carved out of the stone he sat on, a monument to something ancient and dangerous.
“Who the hell is that?” Zefpyre asked, his voice a low growl.
“I don’t know,” I muttered, taking a long drag from my cigar, the ember glowing like a single defiant star in the gloom. “But we’re about to find out.”
