Held like a rag doll in the eagle-woman’s unyielding grip, Han felt partially shielded from the goddess’s suffocating aura. Defiance burned hotter than fear.

  “She’s way more attractive than you!” he sneered through gritted teeth. “Her soul isn’t corrupt like yours.”

  The words struck like sharp stones. The goddess’s golden eyes widened in raw disbelief; for one suspended second the vast chamber held only stunned silence.

  “Error,” the avatar said delightedly, breaking the tension as she rose smoothly to her feet, still beaming at Han with unnerving warmth. “Error… Han Dover Fist.” She pointed at him like a proud child showing off a new toy. Han never broke eye contact with the goddess who wanted his soul extinguished.

  Fury twisted her divine features. She lunged forward and seized Oshun by the head, fingers sinking into ethereal hair. A torrent of stolen memories poured through the link: the amulet’s fall to Earth, this insolent human’s messy, stubborn life. “Oshun!” With a crack that echoed like breaking marble she slapped the avatar across the face. Oshun didn’t blink. Han, however, felt fresh rage coil in his chest, this goddess was nothing but a heartless tyrant wearing beauty like armor. He vowed revenge, silent and ironclad, whether in this existence or the next.

  “What is the time slip from Earth to here?” the goddess snapped, voice tight.

  “176.4, Mistress,” the avatar replied, serene as still water.

  Panic flickered across that perfect face—brief, but unmistakable. Han’s lips curled into a grim, satisfied smile. Whatever nightmare the time differential represented, it clearly terrified her. Data screens shimmered into existence around her in a halo of cold blue light, scrolling rapidly through fragments of his recent past: work, candlelit dates with Mars, absurd cleaning montages set to rock anthems, quiet nights tangled in sheets staring at the ceiling, the final, choking plunge into black waves.

  The images pressed onward into what must have unfolded after. Mars walking the same stretch of beach at dusk, expecting a date, calling his name into the wind. His ex-wife standing with police officers, trying to look mournful. Then the funeral: a gray day, folding chairs on wet grass, Mars seated in the front row, shoulders hunched, grief carved so deeply into her features it looked permanent.

  The sight ripped a hoarse cry from Han’s throat: “Mars!”

  Considered dead. Washed out to sea. Erased. Everything he had built, everyone he had loved—gone. He glared up at the goddess with undiluted loathing. “You bitch.”

  She either ignored him or the words never reached her. She could not kill him outright now; the other gods could never learn of this breach. A trial would follow, then a thousand years in chains deeper than any mortal prison. The risk was too high.

  Without warning she began to spin. Low chanting rose from her throat as strange, iridescent magic coiled around her limbs; slowly she lifted from the floor. Oshun drifted upward to match her, mirroring every turn. Like twin aspects of the same fractured deity they danced, voices soft and perfectly entwined, the air thickening with layered power until it pressed against Han’s skin like warm honey. Confusion swamped him, the atmosphere had flipped so violently he could scarcely track it.

  A sudden burst of dark smoke coalesced into a raven-woman, kneeling gracefully before him. She extended both hands, offering another gleaming gold coin with solemn respect. Then she sprang skyward, ebony wings wide, and merged seamlessly into the swirling dance. Their song swelled, euphoric and wild.

  Another plume of luminous smoke birthed a towering figure—two-and-a-half meters of alabaster skin and radiant white wings that proclaimed her some ancient avian divinity, perhaps an angel carved from dawn's light. She soared upward to join the circle.

  Han remained cradled in the eagle-woman’s embrace, but her crushing grip had eased into something almost protective. The oppressive weight of divine auras lifted as she floated upward, carrying him gently between the wheeling dancers. Their voices sharpened into intelligible words:

  “Badb Raven, fruits of plenty… Elea Swan, full of prepare… Hebe Eagle, protein of twenty… Oshun Creation, assassin of despair…”

  The chant gathered impossible weight, resonating in his bones. Without meaning to, Han found himself mouthing their names, caught helplessly in the hypnotic spell of their harmony. Ethereal clouds rolled in, soft and pearlescent, enfolding the entire group. Together they ascended, passing straight through the vaulted ceiling, clipping upward through layers of earth and stone as though reality were only thin, malleable code.

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  They burst into blinding sunshine. Warmth bathed his face; the clean scent of wildflowers rode a gentle breeze. Endless rolling meadows unfurled in every direction, dotted with vibrant blossoms. Birds trilled from the branches of towering, ancient trees whose leaves shimmered like living jade. A small, sturdy log cabin waited ahead.

  The ritual terminated as sharply as it had begun. The goddess and Oshun simply vanished, no flash, no farewell, no trace. Badb shot him a quick, mischievous wink; Hebe snapped a crisp salute. Both streaked away at blinding speed in opposite directions, leaving contrails of shadow and light. Only Elea remained. She inclined her head in a minimal bow and gestured toward the cabin—expression indifferent, yet the motion carried careful politeness.

  “So your name is Elea?” Han asked, voice gentle despite everything.

  She offered the faintest ghost of a smile and nodded as they started walking.

  “Where are we? My name is Han.”

  Location hardly mattered though. As long as that hateful goddess was gone, any place trumped the cold cathedral or the endless white void. Elea said nothing.

  “Is there any food? Please—I’m starving.”

  She pushed the cabin door open and stepped inside first, as though proving the space held no traps. Han followed, thinking: if any of them truly wanted me dead, I’d already be ashes. Simple gratitude flooded him, for escape, for solid ground beneath his feet, for not being abandoned alone in nothingness.

  “Is this my new home?” Despair edged his words.

  “No,” she answered quietly, conserving syllables the way a prisoner rations bread.

  Relief crashed through him like a cool drink of water, on a hot summer day. While Elea knelt to kindle a fire in the stone hearth, he scanned the interior. No food in sight—not even a stale heel of crust. “What’s for dinner?” he pleaded.

  Silence. She arranged several iron pots in the fireplace, after filling them from a wooden-handled tap that ran clear, cold water. Han wondered briefly how plumbing existed here but shelved the question for later. The kitchen boasted three brick ovens, an iron grill and hot plate. copper pans hanging in neat rows over the window danced in the sun's rays. The main room held a wide hearth, a sturdy oak table flanked by six mismatched chairs. A single interior door opened onto a cramped bedroom; beyond it lay a surprisingly spacious bathroom. Hot water flowed freely; the toilet flushed with reassuring normalcy. He twisted the tap to fill the deep copper tub, still marveling, then froze as the rich aroma of frying fish and herbs drifted in.

  He rushed back to the main room. The others had returned, everyone except the goddess, a mercy he silently thanked whatever powers listened. Badb greeted him with a slow, warm, unmistakably seductive smile and patted the chair beside her. Oshun, also already sat at the table; offered a shy smile and held out a perfect red apple from the heaped bowl of fruit at the table center. Han bit into it ravenously while glancing through the window. Outside, Hebe knelt in the yard, deftly butchering a massive wild boar and a stag, blood-slicked hands moving with practiced grace. In the kitchen Elea worked with quiet efficiency, frying golden fish, stirring thick stew, and prepping a dozen other dishes. Han peeled a banana next, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, the tension in his shoulders began to loosen.

  “Han?” Oshun’s soft voice drew his attention. She held up a small brown-wrapped package. Inside rested his old shirt, he had almost acclimated to everyone else’s casual near-nakedness. Tucked within the folds lay the book he had nearly forgotten: The 3R’s.

  “Badb, explain,” Oshun said quietly with an almost sad face.

  The raven-haired beauty slid closer, taking his hand in hers. Her touch steadied him and calmed his disrupted soul. She spoke before he could interrupt: “I, Badb, will be your escort through the spirit world.” Her voice carried a low, sensual edge that sent a shiver down his spine. “We will walk this journey together. We’re all here for you. We will all help you.”

  The book sat on the table like a silent accusation. Han slammed his forehead against its worn cover, voice cracking with frustration: “But I didn’t even die!”

  Elea set down heavy platters of steaming food and pitchers of chilled fruit juice kissed by faint magical frost. As the meal slowly wound down, Han studied the four women more closely, quietly assembling the puzzle of their roles in this strange, liminal place.

  Hebe had retreated to perch on the thatched roof, a hunter, gatherer, am unyielding guardian. She tore into raw flesh with relish, too colossal to enter the cabin. Elea remained distant and openly disdainful toward him, yet duty chained her to the role of chef. She preserved every dish in a “magic box” that seemed to halt time itself. Her own diet was strictly plants and raw fish. Her world rarely extending beyond the kitchen or hearth.

  Badb, by contrast, was bright and relentlessly talkative, a seasoned traveler between Earth and the spirit realms, guiding countless souls along the way. She visibly bristled at Elea’s constant flirty glances or passing brushes of their bodies in the tight space. Lowest rung on whatever invisible ladder governed this group, she nonetheless answered Han’s questions with eager patience and swore she would help him unravel every secret locked inside the book. She had volunteered for this assignment, she admitted—exhausted after nearly a century of ferrying the dead.

  Oshun, the living avatar, mirrored the goddess so closely it hurt to look at her—yet she carried none of the malice. Naive, almost child-like, her English came halting and broken, though understanding gleamed bright in her eyes. Every time their gazes met, her smile felt achingly genuine. Deprived of the amulet, her power was muted, yet she still eclipsed the other three combined without effort. She required neither food nor sleep. Her singular purpose in this quiet refuge was to oversee—and ultimately approve—Han’s character selection process.

  Badb leaned in, lowering her voice. “Most souls are handed ten randomly generated characters, each stitched together from scraps of their mortal life and memories. They choose. You…” She smiled, sharp and conspiratorial. “You build yours from nothing. Full agency. We’re even willing to bend a few rules. You’re an exception, Han Dover Fist.”