Jax stepped onto the spongy sand first, Circe’s bronze bowl in one hand, the moly pouch at his belt, the scroll clutched in the other.
The crew followed, Eurylochus shield raised, Phil arrow nocked, Thea blade drawn, Ment carrying the small sack of barley and honey, Pol and Kid securing the raft with trembling hands.
The golden calf stayed tethered aboard, lowing softly as though it knew better than to set hoof on this ground.
The silence was absolute, no birds, no waves breaking, only the low moan of wind through the reeds and the distant murmur of voices that were not quite human.
Jax knelt at the chosen spot, a flat patch of earth between two jagged rocks, and began to dig, dagger slicing into the soft ground.
The pit took shape quickly, one cubit square, lined with stones from the shore.
Eurylochus watched, voice rough.
“This is it. The blood pit. Once we fill it, they come. No turning back.”
Jax nodded, the prophecy’s weight pressing harder, six men lost, one of their own.
“We fill it. We speak the names. We wait for Tiresias. No one touches the blood but me.”
Thea scanned the mist.
“The dead are already here. I can feel them watching.”
Phil kept his arrow trained on the fog.
“If anything rises before we’re ready, I’ll put it down.”
Ment opened the sack, scattering barley and honey into the bowl.
“Food for the dead. Strength for us.”
Pol and Kid stood close, faces pale.
“We’re ready, Captain,” Pol said quietly.
Jax cut his palm deeper this time, letting blood drip into the bowl, dark red mixing with barley and honey, the liquid turning thick and black.
He spoke the names, voice steady despite the cold that clawed at his chest.
“Elpenor. Polites. Philocrates. Mentes. Leucothea. Eurylochus. Tiresias. Come.”
The mist thickened.
Shapes rose, pale, translucent, eyes glowing pale blue.
The dead came.
Elpenor appeared first, young, sad, reaching for the bowl with trembling hands.
His voice was a whisper carried on the wind.
“Captain… I fell. I never made it home. Let me drink. Just a taste.”
Jax stepped between him and the bowl.
“Not yet. Tiresias first.”
Elpenor wailed, a sound like breaking glass, then faded into mist.
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More shades rose, fallen comrades from Troy, faces twisted with accusation, hands outstretched.
“Blood… give us blood…”
The crew formed a circle around the pit, weapons ready, voices low, repeating anchors, names, promises, reasons to live.
Eurylochus raised his shield.
“Stay back! We’re not your feast!”
Phil loosed an arrow into the nearest shade.
It passed through harmlessly, but the shade recoiled, shrieking.
Thea slashed at another, blade cutting mist.
It reformed, laughing.
Ment swung his pot, cracking a shade’s ethereal skull.
It dissolved with a hiss.
Pol and Kid thrust spears in unison, pinning a shade long enough for Jax to shout.
“Hold the line! They can’t touch what’s anchored!”
The dead pressed closer, whispers turning to pleas, then demands.
A tall shade approached, blind eyes milky, staff in hand, cloak of black wool.
Tiresias.
He stopped at the pit’s edge.
“Odysseus,” he said, voice like dry leaves. “You have come far. Ask your question.”
Jax stepped forward.
“How do I reach Ithaca? How do I save my men?”
Tiresias knelt, drank from the bowl.
The dead surged.
Tiresias spoke, voice echoing across the shore.
“You will reach Ithaca, but not without cost. Six men will die before you see your halls again. One will be your own, chosen by the sea, not by fate. The choice is yours, but the gods demand balance.”
Jax felt the words land like blows.
“Tell me how to save them.”
Tiresias smiled sadly.
“You cannot save them all. But you can choose who. Sacrifice the weak, or the strong. The sea will take its due.”
The dead pressed closer, hands reaching for the bowl.
Eurylochus roared.
“Back! We’re not done!”
Phil loosed arrows into the crowd.
They slowed the shades but did not stop them.
Thea slashed, blade cutting mist.
Ment swung his pot, cracking skulls.
Pol and Kid thrust spears, holding the line.
Jax stood before Tiresias.
“Anything else?”
Tiresias leaned closer.
“The suitors wait. They plot the boy’s death. The bow will decide. String it. Reveal yourself. But know this: vengeance has a price. Blood calls blood.”
A blue box appeared.
The dead surged forward.
Jax shouted.
“Back to the raft! Now!”
The crew fought their way free, dragging the raft into the water.
Tiresias faded last, voice echoing.
“Choose wisely, Odysseus. The sea remembers.”
The raft pulled away from the shore, the mist thinning, the sea growing warmer as they fled the Underworld’s edge.
The crew sat in silence, faces pale, hands shaking on oars.
Kid spoke first, voice small.
“Six. And one of us.”
Pol looked at Jax.
“Who?”
Jax met their eyes, one by one.
“I don’t know yet. But I swear this: I will carry the choice. Not you.”
Eurylochus nodded slowly.
“We follow. Whatever the cost.”
A blue box appeared.
Jax looked at the horizon.
Smoke rose in the distance.
Ithaca.
Burning.
He gripped the rail.
The final trial waited.
one of your own chosen by the sea, not fate. The suitors plot Telemachus’s death. The bow will decide. Vengeance calls blood. Quest updated. Homecoming at 85%. Smoke on the horizon, Ithaca burning.
- ?? Jax’s blood mixing barley and honey, the ritual begun, no retreat
- ?? Crew anchors chanting names, promises, reasons to live as shades pressed
- ?? Tiresias kneeling, drinking, delivering the prophecy blow by blow
- ?? “You cannot save them all. But you can choose who.” - the gods’ cruel balance
- ?? Raft fleeing, silence on the oars, Kid’s small voice: “Six. And one of us.”
- ?? Jax swearing to carry the choice alone, captain’s burden heavier than ever
- Was Tiresias’s warning mercy… or the cruelest trap the gods could set?
- When the prophecy says “one of your own,” is Jax already choosing by refusing to choose yet… or delaying the inevitable?
- Did holding the line against the dead prove brotherhood unbreakable… or just show how fragile it truly is?
- Can vengeance against the suitors ever balance the blood already spilled, or will it only call more?