The palace of Aeaea glowed softly in the early morning light, its open courtyards filled with the scent of blooming herbs and the low hum of bees moving among flowers that seemed to watch the crew as they passed.

  Circe stood on a terrace overlooking the sea, her gown catching the breeze like liquid sunlight, her eyes sharp and unreadable as she watched Jax and his men gather below.

  The pigs had been restored, but the memory of their squealing and rooting lingered like a bad dream; Kid still rubbed his arms as though checking for bristles, Pol kept his distance from the herb gardens, Ment eyed every plate of food with suspicion.

  Jax approached alone, dagger sheathed but hand near the hilt, the sea-blue cord from Nausicaa still knotted at his wrist like a reminder of kindness already paid for in stone.

  Circe turned, smiling that slow, knowing smile that never quite reached her eyes.

  “You survived my charm,” she said, voice soft as velvet over steel. “Few do. Fewer still refuse immortality. You are either very wise or very foolish, Odysseus.”

  Jax met her gaze steadily.

  “I have a home. A wife. A son. I need the way forward, not a cage dressed as paradise.”

  Circe’s smile faded slightly.

  “The way forward is dark. The dead hold the map. But the living cannot simply walk among them.”

  She gestured toward a narrow path leading down from the terrace, winding through dense cedar and cypress toward a hidden cove.

  “To reach Hades, you must sail to the edge of the world. There, dig a pit. Fill it with blood. Speak the names of the dead. They will come. But one herb alone will protect your mind from their pull. Moly. White flower, black root. It grows only in the shadow of my garden, guarded by things that do not sleep.”

  Jax felt the weight of her words settle over him like cold iron.

  “What guards it?”

  Circe’s eyes gleamed.

  “Shadows that hunger. Beasts that remember every trespasser. Fail, and your mind will join theirs, lost, forever wandering.”

  A blue box appeared, private to him.

  Jax exhaled slowly.

  “I’ll go alone.”

  Circe laughed softly.

  “You will not. The shadows know your scent now. Take your strongest. Leave the rest here. They are not ready for what waits.”

  Jax looked back at the crew, Eurylochus sharpening his sword, Phil testing arrows, Ment stirring a pot, the golden calf grazing nearby.

  He nodded once.

  “Eurylochus. Phil. With me.”

  The two men stepped forward without hesitation.

  Circe handed Jax a small pouch of salt and barley.

  “Scatter these at the grove’s edge. It will weaken the shadows for a moment. Use it wisely.”

  She turned away, gown trailing like liquid light.

  The path waited.

  The path wound down through thick cedar, the sunlight dimming with every step until the air grew cool and heavy, the scent of herbs replaced by something older, damp earth, decay, and the faint metallic tang of fear.

  The trees closed in, branches intertwining overhead until only slivers of gray light pierced through, casting long, shifting shadows that moved when they should not have.

  Jax led, dagger drawn, [Nobody’s Guile] active at low strength to soften his outline.

  Eurylochus followed close, sword ready, shield raised.

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  Phil brought up the rear, arrow nocked, eyes scanning every flicker of movement.

  The grove opened suddenly, a clearing ringed by black-rooted plants, the ground soft and spongy, the air thick with a low, whispering hum that seemed to come from the shadows themselves.

  In the center grew the moly, small white flowers on slender stems, black roots twisting deep into the earth like veins.

  Jax felt the pull immediately, cold, insidious, tugging at the edges of his mind, whispering memories of failure, of lost men, of Penelope waiting alone.

  Eurylochus gripped his sword tighter.

  “I hear voices. My mother. My brothers. They’re calling me.”

  Phil’s hands shook slightly on his bow.

  “My wife. She’s crying. She says I abandoned her.”

  Jax gritted his teeth.

  “It’s the shadows. They feed on doubt. Ignore them. Focus on the moly.”

  He stepped forward.

  The shadows moved.

  They rose from the ground, tall, thin, man-shaped, eyes glowing pale blue, mouths open in silent screams.

  They drifted closer, whispering names, failures, regrets.

  Jax scattered the salt and barley in a wide circle.

  The shadows recoiled for a moment, hissing.

  He lunged for the moly.

  A shadow lashed out, cold fingers wrapping around his ankle.

  Pain exploded in his mind, images of Penelope weeping, Telemachus dead, the crew turned to pigs forever.

  Jax staggered.

  Eurylochus roared, sword swinging through the shadow.

  It parted like smoke, then reformed.

  Phil loosed an arrow.

  It passed through harmlessly.

  The shadows laughed, low and echoing.

  A blue box flashed.

  Jax dropped to one knee.

  The shadows closed in.

  Eurylochus charged, shield raised, slamming into the nearest shadow.

  It recoiled, shrieking, giving Jax a moment.

  “Captain!” Phil shouted.

  “On your feet!”

  Jax gritted his teeth, forcing [Voice of Resistance] to flare.

  The whispers dulled.

  He surged forward, dagger slashing at the roots of the moly.

  A shadow wrapped around his arm, cold burning through armor.

  Memories flooded him, Penelope alone, Telemachus slain by suitors, the crew dead on the sea.

  Jax screamed, rage cutting through the doubt.

  He severed the root.

  The moly came free in his hand, white flower, black root, glowing faintly.

  The shadows howled.

  They retreated, dissolving into the ground.

  The grove fell silent.

  Jax staggered back, clutching the herb, chest heaving.

  Eurylochus lowered his shield.

  “You got it.”

  Phil exhaled.

  “That was too close.”

  A blue box appeared.

  Jax looked at the flower.

  It pulsed once, softly.

  He tucked it into his pouch.

  “We’re not done,” he said.

  The path back to the palace waited.

  But the shadows remembered.

  They returned to the palace in silence, the moly’s glow fading in Jax’s pouch.

  Circe waited on the terrace, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

  “You have the moly,” she said. “You are stronger than I thought.”

  Jax met her gaze.

  “What now?”

  Circe gestured toward the sea.

  “To reach the dead, you must sail west. Find the place where the river Acheron meets the sea. Dig a pit. Fill it with blood. Speak the names. They will come. But beware, the dead are hungry. They will try to keep you.”

  She handed him a scroll sealed with black wax.

  “Instructions. And a warning. The prophecy will cost you. Knowledge always does.”

  Jax took the scroll.

  Circe looked at the crew, then back at him.

  “You will lose men. Perhaps more than six. The gods demand balance.”

  Jax felt the weight of her words.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Circe smiled, sad and knowing.

  “Do not thank me yet. The dead do not lie. But they do not spare pain.”

  She turned away.

  The crew gathered their gear.

  Jax looked at the sea.

  The raft waited.

  The Underworld called.

  A final blue box appeared.

  Jax gripped the rail.

  The sea lay open.

  The dead waited.