Stepping over the carnage of battle never bothered Ellia—especially when it was Triarch scum—but something about these bodies unsettled her. The air stank of burnt hair and scorched flesh, yet the scene itself felt wrong. Most of the corpses were frozen mid-motion: hands reaching for weapons, fingers hooked into railings, a few crawling as if will alone might save them—eyes locked between terror and determination.

  Honestly, it reminded her of the time she tried to thaw meat in the microwave and left the power too high. The thing came out frozen, raw, and cooked all at once.

  Weirdly, that thought helped.

  Only once did bile rise—when she passed a body near the top of the stairs. The corpse looked like a half-popped kernel of burnt popcorn. Ellia scratched her head. Again with the microwave? She frowned. I must be getting hungry. She hadn’t eaten since… damn. Since shit hit the fan yesterday morning.

  Her stomach growled in agreement.

  I know. I know. Almost done.

  By the time she reached the bridge of the Triarch’s ship, the feeling eased—just enough to be ignored.

  Inside, her attention snapped to the Tetra captain in full Hero of Olympus glory. Tinga sat sideways in the pilot’s chair, back against one armrest, legs draped over the other. Purple light spiraled from the gem in JAX’s hand and flowed into her breath. The bullet wound in her thigh flared—then a nub of metal pushed free, growing before dropping to the deck with a muted tink—tink. Muscle rewove. Skin stretched and sealed. The wound flashed once more, then vanished.

  All that remained was a star-shaped scar.

  Ellia was grateful for her mask—her jaw had gone slack. She’d never seen Diafotisi used to heal. She hadn’t seen it used to kill either—not up close. In those moments, she was usually running the other way. Good thing, she thought. The bodies on the stairs told the story well enough.

  Sixteen lives. Two people. Seconds.

  I wonder if my spark will ever awaken?

  “Thank you, Jax,” Tinga said, dipping her head in a brief salute. “You are dismissed. Prepare Herme to push off.”

  The giant nodded and exited. Tinga turned back to the commandeered console, fingers already moving. She tuned the radio, lifted the microphone.

  “Port Captain of Delos. Port Captain of Delos. This is—” She glanced at the display. “—patrol vessel Mythos. Patrol vessel Mythos. Do you read?”

  Static crackled, then a voice broke through.

  “Vessel Mythos. Vessel Mythos. We read you. Switch to channel FOPI. Channel FOPI.”

  “Switching to FOPI.”

  Tinga pressed six. The console blinked—FOPI. She lifted the mic again. “Port Captain of Delos, this is patrol vessel Mythos.”

  “We hear you, Mythos. Report your status.”

  “We’ve regained control of the vessel and detained the crew. The support craft you dispatched was sunk. I repeat—support craft sunk.”

  A pause. Then, “We are aware. Once the port gate is operational, a recovery ship will be dispatched. Transmit your coordinates immediately.”

  “Aye.”

  Tinga tapped the nav console, copied the readout, and pushed it through the channel.

  37°23'54.9"N 25°15'42.1"E

  “Sir,” she continued evenly, “this vessel needs escort to a protected port until the gate is functional. Our craft was destroyed by the hostile forces and the engines have been compromised. Enemy support remains active in the area—Herme will be their next target if we remain adrift.”

  Ellia watched, transfixed.

  They’d fooled the Triarchy before—through costumes, timing, luck. This was different. This wasn’t acting. This was manipulation, clean and precise, built on authority and knowing exactly what to say—and what not to.

  Then Tinga drew her pistol.

  She unscrewed the suppressor, leveled the weapon at the open doorway behind Ellia, and fired three controlled shots mic still transmitting in the other hand.

  Ellia flinched.

  The transmission cut mid-response as Tinga spun the radio dial dead. Silence fell. Without hesitation, she turned back to the console. Lines of code bloomed across the display as her fingers moved with inhuman speed.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Still half-reclined in the pilot’s chair, she pushed off the consoles base with one boot, rotating to face the bridge entrance.

  Her eyes hardened when they passed over Ellia.

  A moment later, the captain adjusted her posture—professional again, composed—just as footsteps echoed on the stairs. Her second appeared in the doorway.

  “Transfer the radio signatures,” Tinga said, pointing at the console.

  Chip hesitated only long enough to glance at Ellia. She gave a quick nod. He crossed the bridge and slid into the pilot’s seat, pulling a device from his bag and linking it to the system.

  Tinga hadn’t taken her eyes off Ellia.

  They narrowed—not angry. Not amused. Assessing.

  Ellia glanced behind herself. No one there.

  The Hero of Olympus was staring at her.

  What did I do?

  If anything, she thought, they deserved a medal. The other ship was gone. No losses. No collateral.

  “Is there something on my mask?” Ellia asked.

  Tinga stood.

  Water dripped from her hair and coat as she crossed the bridge, each step deliberate. Chip worked quietly behind her. The second remained by the door, standing ready.

  The captain stopped inches away.

  Her expression was unreadable—not displeased, not approving. Just… irritated.

  Ellia didn’t like that.

  Time to switch tactics.

  Innocence first, she thought. Then control.

  “So you are a Hero of Olympus?”

  Ellia pointed at the star-shaped scar visible through the tear in Tinga’s pant leg, her tone caught between awe and accusation. “Then what are you doing with us? You could’ve taken us out at the desalination plant. You could’ve pulled the entire heist alone.” She spread her hands. “So why didn’t you?”

  The captain didn’t answer at first. Her expression stayed carved from stone, eyes locked on the black lenses of Ellia’s Raven mask.

  “I don’t trust you,” Tinga said at last. “But—”

  “But you’re still here,” Ellia cut in, the words tumbling together. “If you don’t trust us, why stay?”

  For a moment, something in Tinga fractured.

  Her gaze sharpened, unfocused and distant all at once, as if thousands of calculations were unfolding behind her eyes. With Diafotisi, that wasn’t a metaphor—it was entirely possible. Ellia had never seen awakening firsthand, but she’d heard enough to know the truth: a Hero’s potential didn’t cap out. It expanded. Given time, discipline, and enough Prax, they could ascend. Become more. Become gods.

  And that—that—was why this war existed.

  The Demis stood one rung below divinity, close enough to frighten the Olympians. Centuries old and already demanding parity with beings who had ruled for millennia. Gods versus Demis. Heroes versus horrors. Humanity crushed between them, paying the price.

  Ellia realized too late she’d pushed too hard.

  She drew breath to apologize—

  —but Tinga spoke first.

  “When I woke in your care, my only thought was escape,” the captain said. “Then you entered the room.” She paused, brows tightening, eyes flickering as though reading data only she could see. “My A.I. didn’t register you until you were already close. I blamed dehydration. Stress.” A beat. “Then it happened again. After you gave me water.”

  Her jaw set.

  “I played along. I wanted answers. Instead, my questions multiplied. I understand less now than when we began, and that—” her fist curled at her side, “—frustrates the hell out of me.”

  Ellia understood that feeling too well.

  “If it's any consolation,” she said carefully, “I don’t know why that happened either.”

  For a heartbeat, Tinga just stared.

  Then her eyes creased, lips breaking into a grin—and she laughed. Loud. Sudden. Like a thunderclap in the confined bridge. She clapped a hand on Ellia’s shoulder—

  —and jolted as energy snapped between them.

  Tinga withdrew her hand instantly, laughter spilling into something deeper, sharper. “No. No consolation at all.” She wiped at the corner of her eye and refocused. “I want to trust you. You’ve kept your word so far.” Her gaze hardened again. “But my questions still outnumber my answers.”

  Ellia didn’t hesitate.

  “Then ask another.”

  Silence stretched across the bridge, broken only by the rapid staccato of keys as Chip fed data into the console.

  If he pulled this off, Ellia was promoting him. No question. Make it official. Give him a title.

  Hacker felt boring.

  Key logger sounded lame.

  Cyber mastermind was trying too hard.

  Pirate.

  Yeah. Pirate worked.

  Ellia let the thought settle with a quiet grin before her attention drifted back to the Hero of Olympus.

  Tinga looked worse now—not weaker, just… strained. Like someone thinking too fast for their own good. Ellia wondered, briefly, if that was what she looked like to the flock when she stood in front of them pretending she had answers she didn’t. The thought made her wince.

  The captain’s eyes were sharp, dissecting possibilities with surgical precision. Tear it apart. Discard it. Move on. Her brows were drawn so tight a faint ridge of skin had formed at the bridge of her nose.

  Ellia softened her tone.

  “What’s the newest question?” she asked. “Let’s start there.”

  Tinga didn’t hesitate.

  “The fact that you bypass my A.I.’s tracking,” she said flatly. “That bothers the zoozahs out of me.” Her gaze locked onto Ellia’s mask. “What bothers me more is that you don’t know why.”

  She circled once, slow, measured.

  “I don’t detect Prax resonance from you. So I don’t think you’re a Hero of Olympus.” A pause. A tilt of her head. “But then there’s your connection to that… drone.”

  She lifted both hands, fingers flexing to form exaggerated quotation marks in the air.

  “And that,” Tinga said quietly, “doesn’t add up.”

  The bridge fell silent again.

  Ellia didn’t answer.

  Not because she wouldn’t—

  —but because, for the first time, she wasn’t sure she could.