Cyd had seen a lot of strange things lately—goddesses in disguise, heroes picking fights, magical forests that tried to eat him—but the Underworld? Yeah. This was a new level of weird.
"…So this is the Underworld," he muttered, exhaling a breath that felt too heavy for someone still technically alive. "Took long enough."
And it had. Escaping Atalanta had been its own kind of trial. It wasn't just that she was fast—she was relentless. He'd had to outsmart her, outpace her, and finally use Demeter's blessing to warp the terrain of an entire forest just to shake her off his trail.
A few days ago, he was dodging arrows. Now, he was standing at the edge of a fog-choked river, staring into an endless stretch of gray, empty water.
"Why do I feel like I finally made it to hell… and I'm happy about it? I'm definitely going insane."
The riverbank was still, blanketed in mist thick enough to cut. Cyd approached the edge and peered out, squinting into the haze.
"Where's the boat guy…?" he sniffed the air, immediately regretting it. The stench was exactly what you'd expect—damp rot and something sour underneath. No wonder Demeter insisted Persephone hated staying here. Nothing that still had a pulse would ever like this place.
Still, he couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the god stuck down here. Hades—the oldest of the three brothers. Technically the eldest. Yet somehow, Zeus was king of the gods, and Hades was stuck babysitting ghosts in a basement that smelled like corpses and wet socks.
"Schhlup… schhlup…"
The rhythmic splash of oars snapped him out of his thoughts.
A small wooden boat creaked through the fog. A cloaked figure stood at its bow, paddling with smooth, mechanical strokes.
"Well, well…" came a low, gravelly voice. "A live one. Haven't had one of those in a while."
Cyd leaned toward Medusa and whispered, "Is black just the dress code down here, or is this guy trying to be dramatic?"
"He's not human," Medusa replied flatly. "Neither am I, remember?"
"I heard that," the boatman grunted, smacking the water with his paddle like a wet warning slap.
"We need passage," Cyd said, reaching into his pocket. "Pretty sure Hephaestus gave me a travel stipend for this part…"
"You're alive," the boatman cut in. "I don't ferry the living. Come back when you're a corpse."
Cyd pulled out a leather pouch. He flipped it open.
Golden drachma shimmered inside like starlight.
"Travel stipend," he said with a grin.
The boatman froze.
"…Right this way, sir!" he exclaimed, suddenly a whole lot friendlier. He even produced a wooden plank and laid it from the shore to the boat like a gentlemanly bridge.
"…Weren't you just saying you don't ferry the living?" Cyd flicked two coins toward the skeleton's bony hand.
The boatman snatched them out of the air with surprising grace. "Everyone's got bills to pay. Dead or alive."
"And what are you buying in the Underworld, exactly?" Cyd muttered as he hoisted Medusa into his arms and stepped onto the boat.
"Gold's gold," the boatman replied, slipping the coins beneath his robe. "Doesn't matter if you're breathing. Greed doesn't die."
Cyd shook his head and settled onto the bench. "So that's a yes to being shameless, then."
"Hey, I don't make the rules," the boatman said, hopping aboard. "I just row the boat. Honestly, I'm lucky. One round trip and I'm off for the day."
That made Cyd's eyebrow twitch.
"…'Round trip'?" he echoed.
"Ah, right—you can't see them, can you?"
The boatman raised a hand and pulled back his hood.
Blue fire flickered in empty eye sockets. Bone clacked as his jaw stretched into a skull-wide grin.
"You were standing right among them."
Cyd turned slowly—like someone rotating toward a horror movie jump scare they really didn't want to see.
The fog had thinned. And what it revealed made his stomach twist.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of pale, writhing forms crowded the bank. Human-shaped. Hollow-eyed. Arms outstretched toward the boat, toward him. Hands clawed at the mist, the air, the memory of life they couldn't quite grasp.
He had been standing right in the middle of them.
Cyd clapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to gag. Medusa leaned against his side, tilting her head.
"You're pale," she said, brushing his hair gently.
"Your expression's priceless," the boatman chuckled, his voice echoing hollow through bone. "Though honestly, you're not so different. Between life and death—only a heartbeat apart."
"You have the worst bedside manner," Cyd muttered.
"Hey, I've heard worse. A hero came through here once, looked those ghosts dead in the eye and said, 'Oh yeah, I recognize a few of you.' Didn't even flinch."
"Wow," Cyd deadpanned. "Charming."
"Listen," the boatman said, leaning on his paddle. "This ferry only runs because I run it. I am the river, in a way. And plenty of folks want to play god down here."
A coin clinked off his skull.
He blinked. Or… the flaming eyes blinked.
"…Would the great hero like a shoulder massage?" the boatman offered brightly.
"Just do your job and row," Cyd said through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Your voice is starting to sound like those ghosts wailing."
"That's not your imagination," the boatman said, blue flames flickering brighter. "This is the River Acheron. Once you go under, you don't come up. No second death. No rest. Just sinking. Forever."
Cyd narrowed his eyes. "What happens to the ones who do sink?"
The boatman shrugged. "Ran out of coin. Simple as that. Paid half the fare, I take them halfway. Can't pay the rest? Over they go."
"You throw them in?" Cyd asked, horrified.
"I don't make them board," the boatman said. "They walk on themselves—chasing hope like it's a real thing. You think they'd wait on the shore knowing someone else made it across? Not a chance."
Cyd looked down. The river glowed faintly beneath the boat, and now that he knew what to look for, he saw them—faces pressed against the bottom of the hull. Silent. Screaming. Slowly sinking.
"So you could've warned them," Cyd muttered.
The boatman grinned again. "Would they have listened?"
Silence fell.
"…You're a real piece of work," Cyd muttered. "Remind me to carry a bag of coins on me when I do die."
"I'd appreciate it," the boatman said cheerfully. "Next time, drinks are on me."
"…What would it take to make you jump off your own boat?" Cyd asked.
"A bribe," the boatman replied instantly. "But it'd better be shiny."
Cyd sighed. "Of course."
The mist swallowed their voices. The boat creaked forward, heading into a silence no sound could break. And somewhere far ahead, deeper than darkness, the halls of the Underworld waited.