The raft from Aeaea pushed westward into waters that grew colder and blacker with every stroke, the sea thickening until it felt like rowing through oil, the golden calf tethered in the center lowing softly as though it sensed the boundary they were crossing.

  The sky had turned a bruised, starless gray, the horizon swallowed by mist that smelled of asphodel and damp earth, the air heavy with a silence broken only by the creak of oars and the crew’s ragged breathing.

  Jax stood at the front, Circe’s scroll unrolled in one hand, the bronze bowl in the other, the moly pouch secured at his belt like a final shield against what waited.

  Eurylochus rowed beside him, voice low and strained.

  “This is it. The edge. The river Acheron meets the sea here. Once we cross, there’s no turning back.”

  Jax nodded, the weight of Tiresias’s prophecy pressing on his chest, six men lost, one of their own.

  “We cross. We dig the pit. We speak the names. We get the prophecy. Then we leave. No lingering.”

  Thea scanned the mist ahead, scout eyes sharp despite the chill seeping into her bones.

  “The mist is alive. It’s watching. I can feel it.”

  Phil nocked an arrow, fingers steady.

  “I’ll cover the raft. If anything rises from the water, I’ll put it down.”

  Ment stirred a small pot of broth, the smell of herbs and salt a faint comfort.

  “Eat before we land. The dead can’t take what’s full.”

  Pol and Kid exchanged a look, faces pale but resolute.

  “We’re with you, Captain,” Pol said quietly.

  Jax felt the pull of the boundary, a cold tug at the edges of his mind, whispers of doubt, of failure, of Penelope waiting alone forever.

  He gripped the rail.

  “Stay anchored. Names. Promises. We are going home.”

  The crew repeated it, low and steady.

  The mist parted.

  The raft crossed the line.

  The sea became the river.

  The river Acheron flowed into the sea like ink into water, black and slow, the boundary marked by a sudden drop in temperature and a low, moaning wind that carried the scent of decay and forgotten flowers.

  Jax signaled to beach the raft on a narrow strip of gray sand between two jagged rocks, the ground soft and spongy underfoot, the air thick with a silence that pressed against the ears.

  They worked quickly, digging the pit one cubit square, lining it with stones, filling it with the bronze bowl Circe had given them.

  Jax cut his palm with his dagger, letting blood drip into the bowl, barley and honey mixed in, the liquid turning dark and thick.

  He spoke the names, voice steady despite the cold that seeped into his bones.

  “Elpenor. Polites. Philocrates. Mentes. Leucothea. Eurylochus. Tiresias. Come.”

  The mist thickened.

  Shapes rose, pale, translucent, eyes glowing pale blue.

  The dead came.

  First Elpenor, young, sad, reaching for the blood.

  Jax stepped between him and the bowl.

  “Not yet. Tiresias first.”

  The shade wailed, then faded.

  More came, fallen comrades from Troy, faces twisted with accusation.

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  Jax held firm.

  The crew stood in a circle around the pit, weapons ready, voices low, repeating names, promises, reasons to live.

  A tall shade approached, blind eyes milky, staff in hand, cloak of black wool.

  Tiresias.

  He stopped at the pit’s edge.

  “Odysseus,” he said, voice like dry leaves. “You seek the way home.”

  Jax nodded.

  “Tell me.”

  Tiresias knelt, drank from the bowl.

  The dead surged forward.

  The crew fought, Eurylochus shield raised, Phil arrows loosed, Thea blade flashing, Ment pot swinging, Pol and Kid spears thrusting.

  Jax stood before Tiresias.

  The prophet spoke.

  “You will lose six men before Ithaca. One will be your own. The sea will take them. The gods demand balance.”

  Jax felt the words land like blows.

  “Tell me how to save them.”

  Tiresias smiled sadly.

  “You cannot. But you can choose who. The choice is yours.”

  A blue box appeared.

  The dead pressed closer.

  Jax shouted.

  “Back to the raft! Now!”

  The crew fought their way free, dragging the raft into the water.

  Tiresias faded last, voice echoing.

  “Remember. The choice is yours.”

  The raft pulled away from the river’s mouth, the mist thinning, the sea growing warmer as they fled the Underworld’s edge.

  The crew sat in silence, faces pale, hands shaking on oars.

  Kid spoke first, voice small.

  “Six. And one of us.”

  Pol looked at Jax.

  “Who?”

  Jax met their eyes, one by one.

  “I don’t know yet. But I swear this: I will carry the choice. Not you.”

  Eurylochus nodded slowly.

  “We follow. Whatever the cost.”

  A blue box appeared.

  Jax looked at the horizon.

  Ithaca waited.

  But the sea remembered.

  The dead remembered.

  The crew rowed on.

  The path home was darker now.

  They rested that night on a small, rocky islet, raft beached, fire small and shielded, the golden calf grazing what little grass grew between stones.

  The crew sat in a tight circle, sharing broth and stories to keep the prophecy at bay.

  Kid spoke first, voice small.

  “I heard my sister. She said I was never coming home.”

  Pol clapped his shoulder.

  “You are. We all are.”

  Thea stared into the fire.

  “My father. He said I abandoned the family.”

  Phil added quietly.

  “My wife. She said I chose glory over her.”

  Ment stirred the pot.

  “My boy. He said I failed him.”

  Eurylochus looked at Jax.

  “And you? What did it whisper?”

  Jax stared at the flames.

  “Penelope. She said I was too late. Telemachus said I was a stranger.”

  Silence fell.

  Jax looked at them.

  “But it lied. We’re here. Together. That’s what matters.”

  He stood.

  “From now on, every night, we speak our anchors. Wives. Children. Homes. Promises. Whatever keeps us human. The dead can’t take what’s real.”

  The crew nodded.

  Kid spoke.

  “My sister. She’s waiting. I promised to bring her a shell from the sea.”

  Pol added.

  “My mother. She taught me to row. I’ll row home for her.”

  Thea smiled faintly.

  “My father. He said ‘scout ahead, but always come back.’ I’m coming back.”

  Phil nodded.

  “My wife. She said ‘shoot straight.’ I’m shooting straight for her.”

  Ment laughed softly.

  “My boy. He said ‘cook something good when you get home.’ I’m cooking.”

  Eurylochus looked at Jax.

  “My family. They said ‘come home a man.’ I’m coming.”

  Jax spoke last.

  “Penelope. Telemachus. They said ‘return.’ I’m returning.”

  A blue box appeared.

  The fire crackled.

  The sea lay calm.

  For now.