The sun hung low over Aeaea, casting long shadows across the palace courtyard where the crew gathered their gear in silence, the golden calf tethered nearby, lowing softly as though it sensed the gravity of what lay ahead.

  Circe stood at the edge of the terrace, gown catching the last light like spilled gold, her eyes sharp and unreadable as she watched Jax check the raft’s lashings one final time.

  The scroll she had given him the night before lay open on a stone table, black wax broken, instructions written in a flowing script that seemed to shift when not looked at directly.

  Jax rolled the scroll carefully, tucking it into his pouch beside the remaining moly leaves.

  The crew moved with purpose but without haste, Eurylochus sharpening his sword with slow, deliberate strokes, Phil testing arrow flights against the wind, Ment packing dried meat and bread from Circe’s stores, Thea coiling rope with steady hands, Pol and Kid securing water skins, their faces pale but resolute.

  Circe descended the steps, voice low and carrying.

  “You have the moly. You have the scroll. But know this: the dead do not give answers freely. They hunger. They cling. They will try to keep you with them. Speak only to Tiresias. Offer blood, but do not let them drink yours. One taste, and you stay.”

  Jax met her gaze.

  “What does Tiresias say?”

  Circe’s smile was thin.

  “He will tell you. But the price is high. Knowledge always is.”

  She handed him a small bronze bowl, etched with symbols that glowed faintly.

  “Fill it with blood, yours or an animal’s. Scatter barley and honey. Call the names. The dead will rise. Tiresias comes last. Ask your question. Leave quickly.”

  Eurylochus stepped forward, voice rough.

  “And if we lose men?”

  Circe looked at him.

  “The gods demand balance. Six or more. The prophecy will not lie.”

  The crew shifted, unease rippling through them.

  Jax felt the weight settle heavier.

  “We do this. Together.”

  Circe nodded once.

  “Then go. The sea waits.”

  A blue box appeared, shared.

  The raft pushed off at dusk, the island receding into shadow.

  The sea west of Aeaea grew colder, darker, the water thick and sluggish, as though resisting their passage.

  The raft moved slowly, oars dipping in rhythm, the golden calf tethered in the center, lowing uneasily as the horizon darkened to a bruised purple.

  Jax stood at the front, scroll in hand, eyes scanning the waves for any sign of the river Acheron’s mouth.

  Eurylochus rowed beside him, voice low.

  “She said six or more. Who do you think it will be?”

  Jax didn’t answer immediately.

  He looked at the crew, Kid trying to joke with Pol, Thea watching the water, Phil nocking an arrow just in case, Ment stirring a small pot of broth to keep spirits up.

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  “I don’t know,” Jax said finally.

  “But we don’t leave anyone behind. Not if we can help it.”

  Thea joined them, voice quiet.

  “The dead don’t fight fair. They use memories. Guilt. Fear. We need to stay anchored to each other.”

  Phil nodded.

  “Names. Promises. Anything that reminds us who we are.”

  Ment ladled broth into cups.

  “Eat. Drink. Keep your strength. The dead can’t take what’s full.”

  Pol and Kid accepted cups, hands shaking slightly.

  A blue box appeared.

  The sky darkened further.

  A low mist rose from the water, cold and clinging.

  Jax felt it first, the tug at the edges of his mind, whispers of doubt, of failure, of Penelope waiting alone forever.

  He gripped the rail.

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

  The crew repeated it, low and steady.

  The mist thickened.

  The raft reached the place where the sea met the river Acheron, black water flowing into blacker, the boundary marked by a sudden drop in temperature and a low, moaning wind that carried the scent of asphodel and decay.

  Jax signaled to beach the raft on a narrow strip of gray sand between two jagged rocks.

  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.

  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.