The makeshift temple was a curious blend of elegance and chaos, much like its deity. Candles flickered lazily, their uneven flames casting elongated shadows on the mismatched tapestries adorning the walls. Trinkets and treasures—some stolen, others gifted—littered the altar, their origins as eclectic as the worshippers who left them. Antioch lounged on a high-backed chair that served as his crude throne, one leg draped over the armrest, a half-empty goblet of wine in hand.

The air was heavy with incense and a faint metallic tang—a reminder of the strange offerings left by rogues and fools seeking his favor. Antioch barely noticed.

Three months had passed since Harahel left for her service to Soter. He had counted the days without meaning to, each one marked by a pang of something he refused to name. It wasn’t loneliness, of course. He was Antioch—the Trickster, the Fool, the God who laughed at seriousness and scoffed at attachments. And yet, the hollow ache in his chest suggested otherwise.

He swirled the wine in his goblet, watching it catch the light. The room was silent save for the crackling flames. His worshippers had long since departed, leaving their offerings and prayers behind. Draining the last of his wine, he set the goblet down with a dull thud.

Antioch leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and stared at the altar. Among the offerings was a golden lyre, its strings untouched. A bard had left it, claiming to have heard tales of Taliesin’s disappearance and offering the lyre in gratitude for Antioch's role in saving him.

Antioch stood abruptly, the chair creaking in protest. He approached the altar, his footsteps muffled by the worn rug beneath him. Plucking the lyre from its resting place, he turned it over in his hands, its golden surface gleaming in the dim light.

A soft creak of the door broke the silence. Antioch didn’t look up immediately; he didn’t need to.

“Hello, Reynard,” Antioch said casually, his tone as smooth as the wine he'd been drinking.

Reynard entered, his fox mask concealing his face. Its sharp, angular features were painted in fiery reds and oranges, adorned with bright feathers and beads. A pelt draped over his shoulders swayed slightly as he moved.

“Still brooding, my lord?” Reynard asked, gesturing to the empty goblet and the lyre in Antioch's hands.

Antioch smirked and set the lyre back on the altar. “Brooding? Me?” he drawled. “I don’t brood, Reynard. I contemplate. It’s a much more dignified pastime, wouldn’t you agree?”

Reynard chuckled, tilting his head slightly. “Ah, of course. Forgive me for misinterpreting. But contemplating what, I wonder? The mysteries of the universe? Or perhaps... the absence of a certain bard?”

Antioch’s smirk widened as he turned fully to face his disciple, leaning casually against the altar. “And here I thought you’d be the one brooding today,” he countered smoothly. “After all, didn’t your darling Gadriel leave just this morning?”

Reynard stiffened almost imperceptibly, the feathers on his shoulder piece swaying. “She did,” he replied, his tone measured but curious. “To be honest, I’m surprised you let her go.”

“What do you mean?” Antioch quipped, pushing off the altar and circling Reynard with the air of a predator toying with prey.

Reynard’s voice was smooth, tinged with suspicion. “Well, my lord, you did everything in your power to keep Harahel off that ship. But when Gadriel asked to join her, you didn’t even put up a fight.”

Antioch’s smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with mischief as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Perhaps,” he said, drawing out the word, “I’ve seen the error of my ways. Growth, Reynard, is a hallmark of wisdom, after all. Even for gods.”

Reynard chuckled, his mask tilting slightly. “Ah, yes. Growth. Self-reflection. There are gods capable of such profound introspection—gods of light, wisdom, compassion... You, my lord, are not one of them.”

Antioch feigned a gasp, clutching his chest as though struck by a dagger. “Such a cruel observation, Reynard,” he said, his voice heavy with mock offense.

Reynard chuckled again. “I think, my lord, you let Gadriel go because you believe their journey will lead them to the third human embodiment of the muses.”

Antioch’s smirk faltered briefly. The room’s tension grew palpable as the flickering candlelight cast sharp shadows across the tapestries.

He stepped closer to Reynard, his voice soft but dangerous. “And did you, Reynard, share this... fascinating theory of yours with Gadriel before she left?”

Reynard held his ground. “I did not,” he replied. “I know better than to interfere in matters already so delicately poised.”

Antioch’s smile returned, slow and sly. “A wise choice, Reynard. You’ve always been a good disciple—sharp, resourceful, and, most importantly, knowing when to keep your clever tongue still. A rare skill among my followers.”

Reynard bowed slightly. “I live to serve, my lord.”

Antioch stepped away, his gaze drifting back to the altar and the golden lyre. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, then, with suddenness, he turned back to Reynard.

“I’ll be ascending to my realm for a time,” he announced, waving a hand dismissively. “Matters of divine importance require my... undivided attention.”

Reynard inclined his head. “For how long, my lord?”

Antioch grinned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, time. Such a fickle thing. Let’s just say I’ll be out of reach for a while. You’ll manage.”

Reynard nodded. “Of course, my lord. We’ll ensure your absence does not cause too much chaos.”

Antioch chuckled. “Good. That’s the spirit.” He paused, his gaze sharp. “And, Reynard, while I’m gone, keep your ears open. The winds are shifting, and our little game is about to take a very interesting turn.”

Reynard inclined his head. “As you wish, my lord.”

With that, Antioch shimmered briefly and vanished, leaving Reynard alone. He lingered for a moment, gazing at the golden lyre, before chuckling softly. “Interesting, indeed.”

Antioch materialized not in his celestial domain but amid the lively chaos of a twilight port. The briny scent of the sea mingled with the earthy musk of damp timber and the sharp bite of freshly caught fish. Lanterns swung gently in the evening breeze, casting flickering light over sailors unloading crates and merchants locked in animated bargaining.

Antioch's divine presence was concealed, his sharp smirk replaced by Finnegan’s cynical scowl. His form shifted, shedding his divine mantle like a second skin. In moments, he became the spindly, unassuming ship’s hand. His weathered boots thudded lightly against the cobblestones as he wove through the crowd.

Antioch's keen eyes scanned the bustling port until they landed on the unmistakable silhouette of the Serpent's Fury. The ship loomed in the harbor, its dark sails rippling faintly against the evening breeze. A sly glint flickered in his eyes as he adjusted the worn cap now resting atop his disheveled hair.

Without hesitation, he made his way toward the ship, weaving deftly through the throng of dockworkers and sailors. His movements were deliberate but unremarkable, blending seamlessly into the crowd. As he approached the gangplank, he paused for the briefest moment, his fingers brushing over the railing with a faint smirk.

Then, with the casual air of a man returning to a place he belonged, Finnegan—the guise of the Trickster—stepped aboard the Serpent's Fury, disappearing into the shadows of its deck.

In the guise of Finnegan, Antioch carefully studied his daughters. Raidne, ever the trickster, stood with a half-smirk, her hands loosely on her hips as if she found his arrival amusing. Teles, on the other hand, looked wary, her green eyes flicking between him and her sisters, her unease palpable. Leucosia, as always, radiated authority, her cold glare unyielding. And Ligeia, poised at her side, was tense, her hand resting near the hilt of a dagger at her belt.

None of them recognized him. Not a flicker of recognition crossed their faces.

Without breaking her icy stare, Leucosia motioned sharply to Ligeia. “Restrain him.”

Ligeia stepped forward, her tone sharp and unyielding. “I suggest you cooperate,” she said. “It’ll save us both a lot of trouble.”

Antioch gave an exaggerated scowl. “Oh, come on now,” he grumbled. “Is that any way to treat an old sailor? My knees ain’t what they used to be.”

Ligeia remained unmoved by his theatrics. Her sharp gaze stayed locked on him as she closed the distance between them. She grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, forcing him to his knees.

“I warned you,” Ligeia said. She kept a firm grip on him, her hand checking for concealed weapons as she restrained him.

Antioch let out a grunt of discomfort, though his expression remained one of exaggerated indignation. “Rough crowd,” he muttered.

Leucosia took a step toward him, her expression imperious as she looked down at him. “How did you get here?” she demanded, her tone brooking no argument.

He rolled his shoulders as best he could under Ligeia’s grip. “Well, I didn’t sprout wings and fly here, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he quipped. At the sharp look from Leucosia, he sighed and relented. “Alright, alright. I came by rowboat from my ship—orders from the Captain.”

Leucosia’s brow furrowed. “What captain? And why would they send you here of all places?”

“Captain Blackthorn,” he replied. “He doesn’t tell me much. Just said to drop off some passengers and leave ‘em here. Seemed to think the place suited them.”

Ligeia tightened her grip slightly, making him wince. “Passengers?” she pressed. “Who?”

 “Two women,” he said. “Striking, in their own ways. Though I must say, their dispositions were just as sour as yours.

Teles shot her a warning look, but Leucosia didn’t flinch. Her cold stare bore into him. “Where are they now?” she demanded.

 “Somewhere on this island, I reckon,” he said. “We got separated due to a nasty wave.”

Leucosia’s eyes narrowed. “What was their plan when they got here?”

“Ah, plans?” he drawled. “You must think the Captain shares such lofty schemes with lowly deckhands like me. Truth is, I row where I’m told, keep my head down, and try not to end up on the wrong end of his temper. Keeps life simple.”

Leucosia’s expression hardened. She stepped closer, her shadow falling over him. “If you’re holding anything back,” she said, her voice low and deadly, “I promise you, I can make you talk. And trust me, you won’t like it.”

 “Oh, ease up there, sweetheart,” Antioch said. “You might be a mighty siren, cold and terrifying as the deep itself, but you’re not nearly as scary as my ex-wives. Now those were women who knew how to make a man talk—and regret it.”

Raidne let out a bark of laughter, unable to contain herself. “I like this one,” she said, smirking at her sisters.

Ligeia, meanwhile, had not loosened her grip, though her lips pressed into a thin line of annoyance. “You’d do well to stop provoking her,” she said.

Leucosia’s stern expression shifted unexpectedly into a cold, predatory smile. The sudden change caught even her sisters off guard, and Raidne’s smirk faltered.

“Oh, I don’t need fear to make you talk,” Leucosia said smoothly. She took another step closer, her commanding presence filling the space. “There are… other ways.”

Her voice dropped to a softer, melodic tone as she began to sing. The notes were haunting and otherworldly, each one carrying an unnatural beauty that wrapped around the listeners like an invisible current. Her sisters straightened instinctively, as if compelled to witness the full force of her power.

Antioch, in the guise of Finnegan, tilted his head as if caught by the sound. His posture slackened, and his scowl faded into an expression of blank reverence. His eyes fixed on Leucosia, and he seemed to sway slightly in time with the melody, giving the appearance of being utterly enthralled.

Ligeia loosened her grip just enough to let him move his head freely.

Leucosia kept singing, her voice weaving a spell as potent as the tides. When she finally paused, her gaze bore into him. “Now,” she said, her voice honeyed and coaxing, “tell me—what was the plan for these women when they came here? Why would your Captain send them to this island?”

Antioch allowed a faint, dreamy smile to cross his lips, playing the role of a man under her spell. “Like I said,” he murmured, his voice distant and slack, “the Captain didn’t tell me much. Just said this island would suit them. I reckon he thought they’d find what they were looking for here.”

Leucosia frowned, clearly dissatisfied with the lack of new information. She glanced at Ligeia, who looked equally puzzled.

“Perhaps he’s too simple-minded to know more,” Ligeia suggested, her voice tinged with disdain. “Or he’s hiding something.”

Leucosia’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she stepped back, her song fading into silence. “No, he has told us all he knows.” she said coolly.

Antioch, still feigning a dreamy haze, inwardly marveled at his daughter’s performance. Clever girl, he thought. But not clever enough.

Leucosia turned sharply toward Ligeia. “Take him to the cave,” she ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Ligeia hesitated for a moment, her hand still gripping his arm. “Is that… wise?” she asked cautiously. “What about the—”

Leucosia cut her off with a single, stern glance that froze the words on Ligeia’s tongue. “Do as I say,” she said firmly. The tension in her voice made it clear the matter wasn’t open for discussion.

Ligeia tightened her grip on Finnegan’s arm. “Come on,” she commanded, steering him toward the cave.

As the two began to walk away, Raidne’s curiosity got the better of her. She leaned toward Leucosia, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And what’s so special about this cave?” she asked. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you, dear sister?”

Leucosia didn’t look at her but fixed her gaze on the cave. “Mind your place, Raidne,” she said coldly. “You’ll know what you need to know when the time comes.”