The road to the Thracian Forest reeked of overripe fruit and honey wine. Worse, I could hear them—Pan's flute weaving through drunken singing and laughter. Dionysus's revel was close.

  "If they don't let us in when they see Midas—" I pulled two spare cloaks from my pack. "—we use one of Finnik's tricks."

  Lena grinned. It meant we were about to do something stupid and brilliant. I handed cloaks to Hebe and Midas. "Hoods up. Heads down. Don't speak." Midas fumbled with the cloak, his rag-wrapped hands making him clumsy. Hebe pulled hers on with a solemn nod.

  With every step, the music grew louder. Through the trees, I saw flickering bonfire light, shifting shadows. The boundary between the normal world and Dionysus's domain hummed with raw energy. We were at the threshold. The plan was as flimsy as the cloaks we wore. Perfect.

  The flicker of green light—my spell fading from the concealed Hebe and Midas—was small, a mere wisp. But Altha Vie saw it.

  The Drunken Fist Vice-Captain. Deep tan skin and wine-red eyes marked the athletic woman, her short unruly hair dancing in the wind. She wore loose purple layers cinched with golden cords, the fabric shifting like storm clouds around a fighter ready to spring.

  She was leaning against a moss-covered oak, chugging from a white wineskin. She lowered it with a satisfied gasp, her wine-red eyes snapping to the spot where my magic dissolved. A wide knowing smirk spread across her face.

  "Well, well." She slurred, her voice carrying over the party noise. "Look what the forest coughed up. Little mice, thinking they're sneaky."

  That was our cue.

  Lena and I stepped out from cover, deliberately weary-looking from travel. I hid my tired face from the last spell. The two hooded figures shuffled behind us, stayed in shadow.

  Altha Vie pushed off the tree, movements a loose-limbed graceful sway. "The Hebe kids. Heard you made a splash with Pan. Who're your shy friends?" Her gaze flicked past my shoulder, trying to pierce the shadows.

  How did she know we were Hebe's retainers? We'd never even— The thought melted like honey in my skull.

  Everything tasted like wine. The AIR tasted like wine. My thoughts were getting... fuzzy. Warm. Pleasant. Oh. Oh shit!

  "Lena!" My voice slurred. I backstepped unsteadily. "S-Sideros!" My spear lit with green light, but it wavered like I was drunk.

  Altha Vie laughed, the sound rich and mocking. "The air's got a kick! My little 'Drunken Aura.' Welcome to the party!"

  Behind me, I heard a faint thud and gasp—Midas had slumped against a tree. Hebe swayed on her feet, clutching her hood.

  Lena snarled, shook her head like a wet dog, fought the intoxication. "Fight dirty, why don't you!"

  Altha Vie's smirk widened. "It's not a fight yet, firecracker. Just the welcome wagon."

  We were poisoned before the first blow was thrown.

  "Let's go, Lena!" I hurled a pre-prepared pouch of glowing herbs behind me. It burst into soft cleansing light that pushed back the alcoholic fog.

  "Whisper, spirit of the green glade—Mend the flesh, breathe life once more." Color returned to Hebe's cheeks. Midas groaned, pushed himself upright.

  Buy time. Get them clear. Then we could actually fight.

  I used the moment to lunge back, extended Sideros to full length to stay out of her Aura's worst effects. The poisoned wooziness made my thrust less precise, turned a lethal strike into a shallow cut. But training carried it through. The spearhead glowed as it sliced her arm, drew a thin line of crimson.

  She barely flinched, licked the blood away. "A little sting. That's more like it!"

  Lena shook off the disorientation, eyes blazing. "My turn, lush!" She blurred forward, fists igniting. CRACK!

  Her first strike hammered Altha's guard with the sound of splitting stone, Promethean Flame sizzling. The second staggered the Vice-Captain back, robes smoking.

  Altha Vie laughed—pure exhilaration. "NOW we're dancing!" Her form became a dizzying swirl, the Drunken Fist style in full glory.

  She exploded into motion. My thrust found air. My sweep—nothing. Too fast. Way too fast.

  She flowed around every strike like smoke. I wasn't fighting a brawler—I was fighting a martial artist with decades of experience. We are so outclassed it isn't even funny.

  A palm-heel strike slammed into Lena's chest, knocked wind from her. A spinning back-fist cracked against my temple. Stars exploded in my vision.

  She finished by taking a huge swig from her wineskin, exhaled thick purple fog—a Drunken Mist Cloud that swallowed her form. Her laughter echoed from within, directionless. We were blind.

  I brushed off the stinging hit, mind racing through residual fog. Did she cast a spell? I didn't hear a chant... but she was a brawler. Not a spell—pure Sthénos manifestation?

  Lena's gaze locked on me—pure fiery impatience. "I get it!" Don't give me that look.

  I focused inward, pulsating green light flaring in my palm before I pressed it to my forehead. I channeled Sthénos, pushed the intoxicating energy out like expelling poison. The wooziness receded. My head was clear.

  "Lena! Hit that cloud! If it's truly alcohol, it'll ignite with your fists."

  Lena's eyes widened with savage understanding. "OH, I LIKE THAT!" She plunged her Promethean Flame-wreathed fists directly into the purple mist. WHOOMF!

  The entire cloud detonated in a spectacular fireball. Heat washed over me, singed my eyebrows. From within the inferno, Altha Vie's laugh cut short into a sharp yelp.

  The mist burned away, revealed scorched ground and a very surprised, slightly charred Vice-Captain. Her clothes were smoking, infuriating smirk finally gone.

  "Okay." She coughed, patted out a smoldering patch. "That was clever. Annoying, but clever."

  Her cover was gone. She was exposed. Now the real problem started. She was mad. Play time was over.

  Altha Vie's posture shifted—the loose drunkenness remained, but now it flowed with a predator's grace. "Enough warm-up."

  She moved—too fast to track. My spear thrust found only air, my defensive sweep caught nothing. She was reading every move before I made it, flowed around my strikes like I was moving in slow motion.

  "Crap! I can't touch her!"

  Lena planted her feet, then jumped, unleashed a raw axe kick from midair, slammed down with concussive force. Stone erupted in fire and impact. "Ember Blast!"

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  Altha Vie stumbled back with a grunt, robes singed, positioning finally disrupted. "Tricky! Impressed." She barked, her eyes narrowing on Lena as the greater threat. She closed in, Drunken Fist becoming brutally direct.

  A Stunning Strike hammered into Lena's guard with shocking force. Lena gritted her teeth, shook it off. But a follow-up cracked into her side, drove air from her lungs.

  Direct attacks were useless. We needed something else.

  I sank my spear into the dirt, snatched pebbles. If I couldn't reach her, maybe projectiles could. "PSILOI!" I hurled two Magic Sling shots—they flew true, glowing with druidic force.

  But Altha Vie just laughed. As the first stone neared her face, her hand flickered—she caught it, redirected its momentum. In the same spin sent it rocketing back. The returned stone smashed into my shield with a deafening CRACK.

  She just—she CAUGHT a magically-propelled projectile and threw it back?! My arm went numb from the impact. But that wasn't what scared me. She just turned my own spell into a weapon. With her HANDS.

  We were fighting someone so far above our level it was ridiculous.

  Lena launched a furious series of kicks and punches, but Altha wove through the assault like a serpent, body contorting around every flaming strike.

  Finally, Altha planted her feet, expression shifting from playful to stern. What's she doing? Why stop moving?

  Altha Vie's expression turned serious. "A lesson, then. Watch closely." She took a deep pull from her wineskin—instead of swallowing, she held it. Her Sthénos flared in a shimmering purple aura.

  Then she exhaled. Dozens of hardened razor-sharp droplets of wine flew forth like violet daggers. "Vintage Shrapnel Volley!"

  Lena and I raised our arms. But it was useless. The projectiles hit like glass shrapnel dipped in acid. Each cut wasn't just physical—the wine was BURNING through my Sthénos, draining my reserves with every drop that touched me.

  Beside me, Lena's Promethean Flame sputtered out completely. She dropped to one knee, gasping. Blood seeped through a dozen cuts. We were done. Beaten. The gap between us and a Vice-Captain was an ocean, and we just tried to swim it.

  Altha Vie wiped her mouth, no longer grinning. The playfulness was gone. "You're brawling with divine gifts you don't understand." Her voice was flat and instructive.

  I coughed, blood on my lips. "What... what was that attack?"

  "Projection." She gestured at our wounds with her wineskin. "You wrap Sthénos around your weapons—Cladding. That's basic. Your spear glows green. Her fists burn. You're reinforcing what's already there." She took another swig, purple aura flickering around her.

  "But I manifested mine OUTSIDE my body as a weapon. Wine droplets that exist beyond me. That's Projection—making your will and Sthénos real in the world." Her eyes swept over us, critical and cold. "That's the gap between you and a real retainer. You're children playing with fire."

  The words stung worse than the cuts. She was right. We were completely outmatched. If this was a fight.

  But I locked eyes with Lena—blood trickled from a cut on my brow, but I let no defeat into my gaze. Only cold sharpened resolve. She saw it. Her pained grimace twisted into that familiar feral grin. The flame around her fists roared back to life, burning hotter than before.

  Altha Vie saw the unspoken communication, raised an eyebrow, stance shifting to genuinely wary. "Oh? Still got some fight left? Let's see it then!"

  A low chuckle escaped my bloody lips. I locked eyes with Altha Vie, pure calculated triumph on my face. "WELL, THANK YOU FOR BEING TRICKED!"

  I flicked my thumb toward the treeline where Hebe and Midas had been huddled. One cloak was still there, slumped unnaturally—and now it simply collapsed into dirt. The other figure was gone. In its place, three hares materialized from the collapsed cloak, hopped to my side.

  It was never a stealth spell. The flicker of green light from the start was Kalo—my Conjure Animals chant. Altha's stare widened. She'd been so focused on the two brawlers, she'd dismissed the "non-combatants." She'd fallen for Finnik Redscarf's oldest trick: misdirection.

  "You little—"

  Too late.

  The hares swarmed her feet, a chaotic tangle of fur and sudden movements, tripped her flawless Drunken Fist rhythm. Her perfect flow was broken. For the first time, Altha Vie looked genuinely annoyed.

  The opening was tiny. Our only one.

  "Now!" Lena didn't hesitate—as Altha stumbled over the hares, Lena lunged. Not a strike, but a full-body tackle. She wrapped her arms around Altha's torso, locked her in a crushing bear hug.

  Altha's eyes blazed. "Get off—!"

  I slammed the root catalyst into earth, voice ringing with command. "Roots of the ancient earth, awaken! Grasp, bind, and hold the trespassers of the wild! Ampélia!"

  The ground erupted—thick sinewy vines burst forth with unnatural speed. They didn't discriminate. They lashed around my legs, Lena's waist, and Altha Vie's entire body. She struggled violently, purple Sthénos flaring as she tried to form a counter.

  "Enkra—!" But it was cut short—a thick vine whipped across her face, wrapped around her mouth, silenced her. More vines coiled around her limbs, pinned them against Lena's grip.

  In seconds, all three of us were ensnared in a writhing cage of vegetation. The struggle was fierce but brief—the vines tightened with finality. Silence fell, broken only by heavy breathing and creaking plants.

  We were all trapped. But we trapped her.

  -?-

  From the clearing's edge, Hebe slowly emerged from behind a tree, led a dazed Midas. "...Nihl? Lena?"

  Altha Vie's eyes—the only part not completely bound—darted from the collapsed cloak, to the hares, to Hebe stepping out. Realization dawned.

  Then pure unadulterated fury. Her face went through a cascade of emotions in seconds—shock, understanding, incredulous rage. Then—finally—grudging venomous respect. You lost the moment you took the bait.

  I met her furious gaze, voice calm but cutting. "You had one job. Stop us from reaching Dionysus. But you got distracted by a good brawl." I tilted my head, explained as if to a slow student.

  "The only right move was to grab Midas or Hebe. A hostage. Instant victory." Her eyes narrowed, but she was listening, forced to hear the dissection of her failure. "But you didn't. So let's play out your options."

  I gestured toward the revel. "If you freak out and run back inside to look for them? The moment you leave your post, they walk in behind you. Since they were never inside for you to find."

  "If you'd stopped to check the cloaks? That would've given them time to sneak past while you were distracted searching." My gaze flicked to the decoy cloaks.

  I let the silence hang. "You saw two combatants and thought it was a fight. It was never a fight. It was a distraction."

  From within her vine-gag, Altha Vie let out a muffled infuriated scream that slowly morphed into something that might be a laugh.

  Lena, still tangled with her, flashed her teeth in a savage grin. "Told you he's clever."

  Hebe approached cautiously, Midas trailing. "So... what do we do with her?"

  The path to Dionysus was clear. "Well... since we're trapped with her—"

  My words were cut off.

  Clap. Clap. Clap-clap-clap! Slow mocking applause echoed from the grove entrance. The revelry had quieted—a crowd gathered. Satyrs leering, nymphs peeking from trees. Lord Pan leaning on his syrinx flute with a raised eyebrow.

  Dionysus stood at the forefront. Blue mid-length hair threaded with grape vines swayed gently, his purple-and-white tunic draping loosely over half his torso, revealing a slender well-worked physique. A faint pink flush warmed his nose, as if he lived in a constant pleasant haze. Expression one of deep amusement.

  Beside him were the other two Hyades. Ariadne, the eldest, moved with snake-like grace—long black hair flowing down her back, framing a tunic of purple and gold, oriental in cut, with sweeping sleeves that shimmered like temple silks.

  She lowered her hands. "Delightful entertainment. Though it all proceeded exactly according to my little plan, of course." Her sharp eyes glinted at me. "It seems Deiah's prophecy bore fruit, as I knew it would."

  The quietest, Deiah—grape-colored irises unfocused as if watching something beyond us, her short dark-purple hair entwined with tiny vines brushing a modest white tunic. Everything about her screamed oracle.

  "I merely spoke the words given to me. 'A youth accompanied by a lioness and a fox will seek audience with our god.' The threads were tangled... but they led here."

  "Lord Dionysus. I beg you. Release me from this curse." Midas, face set in grim resolve, stepped forward, bowed deeply.

  Dionysus took a long contemplative drink from his goblet. "You begged for gold. You received it. Why is its weight suddenly unbearable?"

  Before Midas could answer, Ariadne flicked her wrist—a single impossibly sharp red thread unspooled from her sleeve, sliced through the air. Where it passed, my Entangle vines withered into dust, freeing all three of us.

  "The solution was always in your own house, little king." Ariadne said smoothly. "The River Pactolus runs behind your palace."

  Dionysus nodded, gaze distant. "Bathe in it. Wash the gold and greed from your soul." His eyes fell upon the distant palace roof, visible through trees. A rare flicker of pity crossed his face. "Then take that same water... and splash it upon your daughter."

  "But—" Ariadne interjected, voice hardening. "—a test of resolve is still required. We will be waiting for you in your own palace."

  Deiah nodded slowly, prophetic gaze unsettling. "To see if your heart is truly washed clean... or if you will simply find new things to covet."

  With that final warning, Dionysus turned away—music and revelry swelled around him as he was absorbed back into celebration. The Hyades melted into the crowd.

  We were left standing with a freed Altha Vie—who simply shot me a look of pure venomous respect before disappearing into shadows—and a king who now held the fragile key to his redemption. The way to Midas's palace and the river was clear.

  But the true test was just beginning.

  My jaw tightened. Blood still dripped from a dozen cuts. We outplayed a Vice-Captain. Not through strength. Through cunning.

  A fox-like smile touched my lips despite the pain.

  Finnik would be proud.