Page 145 of Blood of Olympus

That’s it — the guide!

“You’ve been dreamwalking, haven’t you?” I asked her, smug at having figured it out.

Her grin changed again. “Not so obtuse, after all,” she purred. “Indeed, I have. And indeed, we are,” she said, raising her hands to encompass this entire, strange place.

“Why?”

“Because I have another warning for you.”

Wasting no time, I asked her: “What is it?”

Her grin dropped altogether. “Hellespont. Follow the prayers.”

And then the dream vanished — dissolved in the breeze — and I sat bolt upright, panting, with nought but a name on my lips and a fierce sense of urgency in my veins.

CHAPTER 36

Nyssa

Hellespont had always been the true pride of Strathos. Not the might of its warriors, or its balmy desert landscape, nor even the clear blue waters just off the coast of Vireon. No — it was the idyllic coastal city of Hellespont that was the beating heart of Ares’ kingdom. Just a stone’s throw from Cytheros and the beauty of Aphrodite’s lands, it was a safe haven for the families of Strathian warriors.

Until it wasn’t.

Until a scout — sent prompted by a witch’s warning — returned waxen and stuttering.

Until the prayers started rolling in. Prayers for strength, for wisdom, for loved ones. Prayers for the sun to shield them, for the moon to guide them, for love to save them. And worst of all: prayers for the safe passage of souls to the beyond. Prayers for a quick and painless death for themselves.

We heard them all. We felt them all.

With no idea what we were walking into, we did as we were bid and travelled to where the prayers rang loudest. And upon walking through the black nothingness of the in-between, following their cries until they were deafening, we emerged in the centre of the once-great Strathian city.

It looked nothing like the stories. Not anymore.

Today, Hellespont was where the prayers were most vociferous, because today, Hellespont was a battlefield.

Surrounding us were the sounds of war; the smell of blood and carnage. Iron-thick, the air lay heavy with loss — raw and scraping to inhale, weighed down by all the many departing souls I could feel deep in my chest. My power thrummed, aching to be set loose. Both twisting darkness and fluttering light longed to break free of the confines of my skin — to be made useful in their own unique capacities.

Because they were being called upon. Prayed for. Begged for.

Children begged for Death to give their parents back. Newly forged orphans prayed for Life to return to the ones who gave it to them. Soldiers asked for the safe travels of the souls of their brethren. But perhaps worst of all, were the mothers weeping, pleading for the return of their babies.

I heard every single one.

Lahveh ô ahn bulesaì — ahl oû to teknon mû.

Take whatever you wish — but not my child.

Oîda hóti apothanòn eî — kaì éti ouk aphesō se.

I know you are dead — and still, I will not let you go.

Hádēis, káneis láthos.

Hades, you are mistaken.

Oh, how I wished that were true. That the trusting brush of tiny souls were not grazing my own on their way past me to the Isle — so light, so curious, so bright I could feel their tiny hands running over my skin.

That the adults following them were not heavier, lingering briefly around those they were disinclined to leave behind. Those whose souls I could not yet feel because it was not their time to go.