An hour had passed.

Selene sat hunched against the wall, chains slack enough to grant her the illusion of freedom but never enough to truly move. Her hands rested in her lap, her fingers twitching unconsciously, brushing the grooves of the chains in time with her thoughts.

But it wasn’t the physical confinement that gnawed at her.

It was the lingering echo of the vision.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the silk weight of Melpomene’s robes against her skin, the brittle warmth of Thalia’s laugh brushing her ears. The emotions clung to her—not sharp like knives, but heavy like soaked cloth: sorrow, longing, guilt.

She couldn’t tell where Selene ended and Melpomene began.

Across the chamber, Antioch—still cloaked in the guise of Finnegan—watched her from under drooping lids, his expression schooled into bored disinterest. But Selene wasn’t fooled. Every few minutes, she caught the glint of sharp focus beneath his weathered facade, the barely-hidden calculation ticking away behind his craggy mask.

He was waiting for something. Watching for something.

And Selene didn’t know if she was what he was waiting for—or merely the warning bell before something worse.

Before Selene could sink deeper into the torrent of thoughts swirling behind her weary eyes, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the narrow tunnel—measured, deliberate, and far too graceful to belong to ordinary mortals.

She straightened instinctively, chains scraping against stone. Her eyes flicked toward the cavern’s entrance just as two figures emerged from the shadows, framed by the flickering torchlight like dark silhouettes from a forgotten legend.

Leucosia entered first—poised and predatory. Her presence was regal, her dark gown trailing like smoke across the cavern floor, untouched by the dust and damp that clung to everything else. Her pale gaze swept the room in a single glance, cold and assessing, before settling on Selene with calculated indifference.

Ligeia followed silently behind, the more restrained of the two, though no less lethal. Her eyes held a stillness that made Selene’s spine tighten—a calm that could shatter in an instant. She said nothing as she moved to stand just beside her sister, arms folded neatly over her chest.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Selene let the silence stretch, savoring it like a long-held breath—then exhaled with a smirk.

“You’re late.” she drawled, her voice hoarse but still edged with venom, “I was starting to think you’d forgotten your mother.”

Leucosia’s eyes narrowed—barely—but her expression remained composed, a mask honed to cold perfection.

“Your tongue still works, I see,” she said coolly. “A pity your memory doesn’t.”

Selene gave a thin, defiant smile. “Maybe if your hospitality didn’t involve divine shackles and solitary confinement, I’d be feeling more generous with my recollections.”

Leucosia took a measured step forward, the sharp click of her heels against the stone matching the new edge in her voice.

“The time for playing games is over, Selene. No more riddles. No more stalling. I will have the answer I seek—whether you give it willingly or not.”

Selene’s smile faltered for the briefest instant. She opened her mouth to reply, but the air shifted—again. This time, it wasn’t subtle.

Leucosia raised her hand, and the torches in the cavern flared brighter, casting their flames high and wild. With her other hand, she reached across her body and tugged at something invisible, something tethered just beneath the surface of the world. The chains binding Selene rattled to life, glowing faintly as though awakened by her voice.

Then, with terrifying grace, Leucosia extended her arm—and a new chain slithered into existence, coiling like a serpent around her wrist. It gleamed black as obsidian, its links thin but unbreakable, woven through with silver threads that shimmered like spider silk in the firelight.

The other end tightened around Selene’s chains with a hiss of tension, binding the two women together—one link pulsing between them like a vein of living magic.

Now tethered together, the magical chain between them hummed with a resonance that made Selene’s bones ache. She could feel it already—Leucosia’s presence bleeding into her own, brushing against the locked doors of her memory like a cold hand fumbling for a key.

Leucosia gave a slight tug, and the chain responded—not with a jerk, but a subtle pulse that drew Selene forward, her body moving against her will with the grace of a marionette on a silken string.

“Come,” Leucosia said. Her tone was not unkind, but it was absolute. “Your time in the dark is over.”

Selene’s jaw clenched, but she said nothing. She walked, if only to keep her footing, her wrists still bound, her steps echoing behind Leucosia’s as the two began the slow, deliberate ascent through the tunnel.

Behind them, Ligeia turned to the dim corner where Antioch, in the guise of Finnegan, still sat slouched in the shadows. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, but she said nothing—only strode forward, quick and controlled, and grabbed his arm.

“Up,” she said curtly.

Antioch grunted, affecting the reluctant sluggishness of an old man stirred from sleep, though his eyes gleamed with something sharper. “No need to be so gentle,” he muttered.

Ligeia didn’t respond. She yanked him to his feet with little effort and shoved him forward, staying close behind as they followed the others up the tunnel. The narrow passage constricted the light, but the torch flames flared as they passed, illuminating the procession like a funeral rite—Selene, tethered to her daughter; Antioch, bound by silence and secrets.

As they emerged from the cave into the jungle’s open mouth, moonlight bathed them in silver. The air was heavy with dew and thick with the scent of earth and moss. Somewhere far off, a nightbird cried.

Selene stumbled slightly, blinking against the sudden sky. She turned her head just enough to glance at Leucosia beside her—the daughter she did not remember. The magical chain between them whispered with every stride, its pulse brushing her nerves like a heartbeat that was not hers. The farther they walked, the more she felt the pull—not just physical, but metaphysical. Memory stirred at the edge of thought, like ghosts watching from the foliage.

Behind them, Ligeia walked in silence, a sentinel in shadows, her grip steady on Antioch’s arm. He let himself be led, expression slack with feigned irritation, but behind the crags of his disguise, the Trickster God watched everything.

The jungle thinned near the edge of the island, where the trees gave way to white sand and towering rocks worn smooth by the sea. A cove stretched wide before them, glowing under the moon’s pale eye. The waves here were strangely gentle, their lapping rhythm like breath drawn in reverence.

At the center of the cove, three figures moved with intent around a ring of carved stones etched with sigils that pulsed faintly with starlight. Raidne stood at the edge of the ritual circle, draping cords of silver thread over a shallow basin as if stringing constellations. Teles knelt nearby, carefully arranging vials of glowing water and powdered ash in deliberate arcs around the outer edge.

And Rhaemisia—tall, still, and severe—stood at the head of the circle, one hand raised toward the sky, the other holding a blade pressed to the sand before her like a banner in the earth. She didn’t move as they approached, but her eyes flicked toward Leucosia and narrowed.

Just beyond the circle, Himerope stood like a statue. Her expression was calm, but there was tension in the way her eyes never left the figure at her feet.

Gadriel.

The woman knelt in the sand, bound at the wrists and ankles, her hair tangled, her pride intact.

Gadriel lifted her head at the sound of footsteps crunching over the sand. Her gaze rose slowly, defiantly, expecting to meet Leucosia’s cold stare—but what she saw made her breath catch.

Selene.

Gadriel’s mind reeled, trying to reconcile the sight before her: Selene—Antioch’s disciple, the famed rogue who had vanished like smoke—now bound and drawn, tethered to Leucosia like a prisoner of war.

Selene met her eyes. Neither of them spoke, but something passed between them nonetheless—an echo of shared allegiance, a devotion to a mischievous god. Then her gaze drifted past her and landed on Finnegan.

Standing stiffly beside Ligeia, his face as lined and crusty as she remembered, he was unmistakably alive. Her surprise softened into the faintest exhale, and she lowered her head, hiding the subtle lift of her brows and the smallest twitch of a relieved smile.

Leucosia led Selene to the far side of the ritual circle and, with a firm but wordless tug on the chain, forced her to kneel across from Gadriel.

Without needing to be told, Raidne stepped forward, her silver-threaded cords trailing from her hands like strands of moonlight. She moved around Selene with a dancer’s grace, methodically tracing a circle in the sand around her, the silver threads unfurling from her fingers in a pattern so intricate it almost seemed alive. The woven sigils glowed faintly as they took shape, responding to the latent magic in the air.

At the same time, Teles moved to Gadriel’s side. She knelt quickly and began her own work. She traced a second circle—encasing Gadriel in the same careful, binding pattern that grew luminous under the moon’s watchful eye.

The sand seemed to hum under the weight of the symbols forming around them, the two circles linked by invisible threads of energy, like spider silk woven between two trembling branches.

Selene watched as the trap took form. Her wrists throbbed against the divine chains, but she remained silent, her mind racing. Beside her, Gadriel kept her head bowed, but her fingers flexed subtly against her bindings—a silent defiance Selene recognized all too well.

Selene shifted slightly within the glowing boundary of her circle, the magical threads brushing against her skin with the faintest static hum. She let her gaze wander—and found Finnegan standing stiffly as Ligeia hovered nearby like a warden. His expression was a mask of irritation, but Selene, sharp even in chains, caught the flicker of calculation behind his eyes.

Her attention snapped back when Gadriel stirred at last. The woman raised her head, just enough to meet Selene’s gaze across the glowing sand. Her voice broke the heavy silence between them.

"I should have known," Gadriel said, her words curling like smoke through the moonlit air. "That you were the missing one."

Selene didn’t answer. She let the words hang there. Gadriel’s insight—her instinct—was dangerously close to the truth Selene was trying not to accept.

She thought she had been a disciple, a servant of Antioch’s whimsy and chaos alone.

But she wasn’t just a rogue, a wanderer, a trickster’s favored blade.

She was Melpomene. Terpsichore. Urania. She was the living memory of forgotten songs, lost dances, and broken constellations.

Selene’s fingers curled into the sand, feeling the power thrumming beneath it—the echo of who she had once been, who she might be again.

Across from her, Gadriel’s gaze sharpened, reading too much into the silence. "You still don’t remember, do you?" she asked.

Before Selene could form a reply, Leucosia’s voice cut through the charged silence like a blade.

“She will remember soon enough,” Leucosia said, her tone like iron wrapped in silk. She stepped forward, the hem of her gown stirring the sand, the chain between her and Selene pulsing tighter as if responding to her will. “Memory is not a luxury either of you can afford to cling to anymore.”

Selene clenched her jaw, the magic of the circle prickling against her skin, but she stayed silent, feeling the inevitability closing around them like a tightening snare.

Leucosia’s pale eyes flicked from Selene to Gadriel, sharp and calculating. “This ritual will not be stopped. It will peel back every lock and barrier you’ve hidden behind. Your memories are the last pieces I need to find my mother.”

Gadriel straightened slightly, her wrists straining against the binds as she stared up at Leucosia with open defiance. “You won’t find what you’re looking for,” she said, her voice low and bitter.

Leucosia’s lips curved into the faintest, coldest smile. “I don’t need to find it,” she said. “It will come willingly—or be ripped free.”

Before the heavy silence could settle fully, a rough voice broke through it—wry, weathered, and maddeningly casual.

“Well,” said Finnegan—Antioch in his borrowed skin—shifting slightly where Ligeia’s hand gripped his arm. “Looks like I’m not really needed for all this ritual business.” He gave a lopsided, mock-thoughtful smile. “Suppose I’ll just see myself out, then.”

He made a half-step backward, feigning an old sailor’s creaky shuffle.

The response was immediate—and chilling.

Leucosia’s head turned slowly, her expression sharpening with predatory satisfaction. A dark smile curved her lips, one that made even the moonlight seem to retreat.

“Oh no, sailor,” she said, her voice silk over steel. “You are very important.”

Antioch froze—just for a fraction of a second—his instincts honed over eons catching the shift in the air, the deadly weight behind her words.

Leucosia stepped closer, her gaze bright with a cruel certainty. “This ritual needs a tether,” she said, savoring each word. “A key to unlock what’s buried. And unfortunately for you...”

She paused, letting the moment stretch, before delivering the final blow with soft, merciless finality:

“It requires a human sacrifice.”

The silver threads around the ritual circles shivered at her declaration, the sigils in the sand pulsing once—hungrier now, aware.

Antioch, ever the master of masks, gave a bark of incredulous laughter, still playing the crusty old sailor even as the snare tightened around him.

“Well, ain’t that just my luck,” he said. “Always in the wrong place at the wrong time.”