Marco and Samantha continued to solve each puzzle in turn, watching the golden door’s glyphs ignite one by one. Some tasks required simple actions; others proved convoluted, like the sprinting match they raced to honor Zeus. Throughout the trials, Marco cast his fireball spell repeatedly. The scorched smell of air and sulfur invaded his mind, dragging memories to the surface. ALAN was excavating something within him. One intrusive memory, in particular, etched itself into his consciousness—a searing reminder of the moment he learned that actions have consequences.
The image solidified, hijacking his senses. It was a Saturday morning, he was four again, sprawled across the living room floor with giant Duplo blocks scattered around him. His younger brother, Alexander, barely two, knocked over a tower of blocks and yanked Marco’s hair, laughing as he did it.
“Mom! Alexander won’t let go of my hair!” Marco cried, his small face scrunched in frustration.
“Goddammit, Alexander, let him go!” their mother shouted, rushing over. She swatted Alexander on the behind and knelt to separate them. Her gaze landed on Marco, her expression frantic. “Please stop playing and help me with breakfast. Max will be up soon.”
Max—the man of the house, the father of the unborn baby she carried—loomed over their lives like a storm cloud. Marco’s stomach twisted at the thought of him. Max made the air feel heavy, charged, and dangerous before he even crossed the threshold. Marco knew the rule: even the smallest mistake triggered chaos.
Marco had left bread in the toaster too long. To hide his mistake so his mom wouldn’t get mad, he buttered the slices and sandwiched the slightly black, charred sides together. That was the plate Max got.
When Max bit into the toast, his temper exploded. He grabbed his plate and hurled it across the room. “Why the fuck are you feeding me burnt food? I don’t work all day supporting this family for this!”
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Shards of ceramic flew like jagged stars. Eggs splattered across the linoleum, the walls, and the sink, a large chunk settling in his mother’s hair. Bacon hit the floor in greasy clumps. Marco froze, wide-eyed, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Their dog, Koda, a brown Labrador, crept forward with his tail tucked, sniffing the mess to lick at the bacon. Max’s grin widened, sharp and cruel. Without warning, he stomped on Koda’s ribs. “Bad dog!” he barked. Koda’s high-pitched yelp echoed through Marco’s tiny chest as the dog scrambled away.
Then Max turned on Marco’s mother. He spat in her face, the saliva striking her cheek. He grabbed the back of her neck and shoved her head toward the mess. “Eat it! On your knees!” Her trembling hands moved to support herself, tears streaming freely. “No hands! Eat it like the bitch you are!”
Marco’s stomach knotted as he watched Max crush her dignity. She ate the tear-soaked bacon, and Marco’s small hands balled into fists. He caused this. It was his fault. His error—the burnt toast—unleashed the storm. Tears poured from Marco’s eyes.
“Little crybaby,” Max sneered, pointing a finger at him. “I’ll give you something to cry about if you don’t cut that shit out.”
Marco whispered through stifled sobs, “I made the toast…”
Max smiled, satisfied. He grabbed a beer and retreated to the living room, leaving a trail of physical and emotional destruction in his wake. Marco’s body shook, not just from fear, but from a helpless rage he didn’t yet know how to channel. That day, he learned the lesson that would resonate through his mind for years: mistakes bore consequences, protection was an illusion, and control was a fragile thing.
The system notification seemed like a taunt. Marco swung his staff toward it, but it stayed. “Fuck this place.” The spell he cast this time wasn’t mere incantation; it was a snarl born of trauma and rage. It slammed into the statue of Hephaestus—a fitting offering to the god of flame. The impact didn’t just light the glyph; it branded it a bright, angry red.
