Sirens wailed behind them and gunfire bit at their wake, but Tinga stayed locked in—steadfast as a falcon on the dive, unshaken by the chaos snapping at their heels. She’d learned early, back when command was still a borrowed coat on her shoulders, that a captain set the weather inside the ship. Calm made calm. Panic made panic. Even irritation had its uses, if you wielded it like a blade. So she kept her focus forward—on the navigation computer and the compass perched on its pedestal—and let her crew borrow her composure.

  Their course ran west, skirting Rineia, threading between the empty isles of little Revmatiaris to the north and big Revmatiaris to the south. Their true destination—the desalination plant—sat just over half a click south of their current position, 574 meters according to the nav readout. Close enough to taste. Too close to risk dragging the Triarchy straight to their doorstep.

  So Tinga chose the long way.

  She swung Herme around the perimeter of big Revmatiaris instead of cutting straight for home—not only to shake pursuit, but to bury intent. If they looked like they were leaving Delos for open Aegean waters, the Dominance wouldn’t imagine their stolen ship circling back. Hiding in plain sight. Let the hunters sprint past the trail while you walked calmly the other direction.

  Tinga nudged the throttle forward and brought the bow toward the island’s tip. The heading settled southwest—242 degrees—and the sea ahead lay deceptively calm, a dark sheet waiting to betray anyone who trusted it. With a few swift inputs she engaged autopilot, then corrected three degrees west to 245, a quiet insurance policy against unseen rocks near Revmatiaris’s northern edge if she had to step away from the helm.

  Only then—once the ship was locked on course—did her thoughts finally loosen from the water ahead and return to the deck behind.

  She left the bridge, cast one last glance back toward the port gate, and engaged Diafotisi.

  Her vision layered instantly with a wash of data: notifications, status readouts, and three bars anchored in the lower left of her sight. Health—red—full, the small damage from her earlier skirmish already repaired. Stamina—green—also full, sitting clean at three hundred. Restored. Ready.

  And the third bar waited beneath them, darker in hue, holding what mattered most.

  The final bar glowed a deep, enigmatic purple—her paradox reserve—sitting just under three-quarters full. It had dipped hard when she’d burned Diafotisi dealing with the maintenance crew. Outnumbered five to one, even with drink dulling their reflexes, should have been a death sentence.

  For anyone else.

  But Tinga had long since stepped beyond else.

  She was a Hero of Olympus.

  By feeding paradox particles into her body, she’d bent speed and strength past human limits. That power had won her the fight—and, in many ways, had won her everything since the day Diafotisi activated. She was no longer merely human. She was something in motion. Something ascending.

  Like Antaeus, she would one day become a Demi.

  And when this god-forsaken war was finally over—

  a god.

  Her gaze lingered on the port gate a moment longer before she nudged Diafotisi again with a focused thought. The purple bar dipped almost imperceptibly. In response, the world sharpened.

  The gatehouse bloomed in her vision, magnified and crisp. On the dock below, soldiers moved with sudden urgency. Ten of them clustered near the mouth of the channel where the gate spilled into the open Aegean. Then—movement.

  A roll-down door slid open beneath the elevated platform.

  A small craft emerged. No bigger than a fishing boat—but sporting three oversized engines bolted to its stern.

  Fast.

  Overpowered.

  Purpose-built.

  They weren’t clear yet.

  “Their funeral,” Tinga murmured, letting her vision fall back to normal.

  Dante had stepped out onto the deck beside her. The rest of the crew—nine in all—were already moving with practiced efficiency, checking lines, securing gear, bracing for whatever came next.

  Dante reached into his coat and produced a small pouch. From it, he drew a purple gem and placed it in her palm.

  Tinga closed her fingers around it.

  Light bled between her knuckles—violet and electric—as a static hum wrapped around her skin and sank inward. She opened her hand and issued a silent command.

  ISO Paradox Particle (Tier 2: Clear)

  Resonance: 78 / 100

  No matter how many times she interfaced with Diafotisi, the speed of it still impressed her. Thought to data. Intention to truth.

  Her eyes flicked back to the paradox bar. Nearly full now—save for a narrow slice missing.

  She checked her log and exhaled softly. Right. The suppression. The mythic-ranked quest she’d shoved into the dark for later.

  Not today.

  She returned the gem to Dante, eyes still tracking the distant craft peeling away from the gate. “Seventy-eight out of a hundred.”

  Dante closed her fingers around the pouch. “It’s yours, Captain,” he said quietly. “And I’ve got a feeling we’re not out of rough waters yet.”

  Tinga didn’t look away.

  “Neither do I.”

  “Yeaaaah.”

  Diafotisi’s projections slid into place. Intercept in approximately fifteen minutes.

  Herme was fast—faster than most transport or colonization vessels—and impeccably maintained, but still larger, heavier, and less agile than the pursuit craft clawing its way out of the gate behind them. Even so, Tinga couldn’t help but admire the ship beneath her boots. The paint was flawless. Cleats sat tight and unscarred. Systems responded instantly. Someone had taken care of this vessel.

  That care made her wary.

  A tracker, maybe. Possible—but unlikely. No one planned for a military ship to be stolen outright. Mutiny, sabotage, desertion—those happened. Theft? Almost unheard of. The thought bought her a thin sliver of reassurance, nothing more.

  Herme’s bow cut the water with predatory intent, a modern evolution of the ancient trireme. Where rams once shattered hulls, this one had been honed into a dagger—meant to slide beneath an enemy ship and open it like a wound. The stern, squared and low, hugged the waterline, keeping the engines submerged for stealth and stability at speed.

  Power came from a prax reactor core—condensed Paradox particles far denser than the ISO gem she’d just used, luminous by nature and lethal in excess. Enough energy to outrun storms. Enough to kill a city if mishandled.

  The deck stretched fifty yards, clean and utilitarian. A crane sat just aft of the bridge, mounted over a central seam that split the deck into a reinforced hatch. That hatch fed directly into the hold—fuel, munitions, paradox crystals, volatile cargo meant to be moved quickly and guarded fiercely.

  The bridge sat forward—unusual, but brilliant. No need to peer down the length of the ship. No interference from running lights at night. Command and sightline aligned.

  Above it all, an elevated quad-cannon loomed—silent, imposing. Below its platform, the anchor chain compartment rested snug against the hull, integrated rather than bolted on. Efficient. Purpose-built.

  Tinga skimmed the ship’s log and confirmed what she’d already suspected.

  The cannon was unarmed.

  Herme was en route to Piraeus. Admiral Makithorus—Maki—would take command there and begin his southern push toward Libya, clearing the sea lanes of pirates and Tetra alike. Colonization ships like this one were priceless. They didn’t just carry supplies—they carried futures. Laborers. Infrastructure. Weapons. Paradox shards. Everything needed to settle and start anew or more accurately infect and spread.

  An empire’s momentum, packed into steel and fire.

  Every kingdom feared losing one.

  And every rival dreamed of it.

  One successful strike—just one—and power shifted. Wealth, prestige, leverage. Entire wars turned on less.

  Which meant this chase wasn’t just about reclaiming a ship.

  It was about making an example.

  And Tinga had no intention of being it.

  Sirens wailed behind them, gunfire still snapping at the edges of the night, but Tinga didn’t look back. She had learned early—painfully early—that a captain’s composure set the rhythm for everyone else. Calm steadied a crew. Panic infected it. Whether she served as balm or abrasion depended entirely on her state of mind.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Right now, she needed to be steel.

  “Dante,” she said sharply, eyes still on the dark water ahead. “Where is that bird that kept us waiting?”

  Dante didn’t answer.

  His gaze was fixed over the railing.

  Below the bridge, along the starboard side, two figures were bent double with laughter—masked, breathless, alive. The sound hit Tinga like grit in a wound.

  Celebrating. Now?

  Her jaw tightened. She shoved past Dante and took the stairs two at a time, boots hammering against metal. Had they learned nothing? Their recklessness had nearly compromised the entire operation. One mistake—one second longer—and they would all be dead or chained.

  She hit the deck hard.

  And stopped.

  A hand clamped around her forearm.

  Tinga spun—and found herself nose to beak with a Raven mask, its dark curve inches from her face. The sudden proximity jolted her, heat flashing behind her eyes.

  “What!” she snapped.

  “Wow—sorry,” Ellia said calmly, lowering her hand at once. “Just wanted to suggest we head north. Toward the smaller island.”

  Tinga exhaled sharply. “That takes us away from the desalination plant.”

  “Exactly,” Ellia replied without hesitation. “I’d rather lose time than get caught. And I’ve got a bad feeling there’s a Triarchy patrol sitting near the tip of the larger island.”

  Tinga’s irritation spiked. “And what would you know?” she shot back, jabbing a finger into Ellia’s chest. “You’re just a—”

  “A what?” Ellia asked, unflinching. “A kid?”

  The word landed harder than Tinga expected.

  She felt it immediately—her pride flaring, her tongue moving faster than her judgment. Too late. Before she could recover, Dante stepped between them.

  “No offense meant,” he said smoothly. “And she’s right.”

  He pointed across the bow.

  Another vessel was cutting through the dark from the northern edge of big Revmatiaris—fast, purposeful.

  Tinga pressed her fingers to her temples, slow and deliberate.

  Your pride will be both your rise and your downfall.

  Her father’s voice echoed with infuriating clarity.

  She turned.

  “YOU. And YOU.”

  The laughter died instantly.

  Tinga opened her mouth to continue—and stopped.

  Two kids stared back at her. Not soldiers. Not operatives hardened by years of blood and loss. Just children, masked and shaking with adrenaline, still riding the high of survival.

  Of course they were laughing.

  They had beaten gods. Outsmarted adults who would have killed them without blinking. For a moment—for just a moment—they had won.

  Tinga’s reprimand dissolved on her tongue.

  Her head swam.

  Were they all like this?

  Were all the Ravens children?

  No words came.

  And for the first time since taking command, Tinga didn’t know what the right reaction was.

  Tinga had never been good at working with strangers.

  Her own crew had been forged over years—trust hammered into place through blood, failure, and shared survival. Every bond had been earned. Every weakness exposed and accounted for. Introducing unknown variables into that equation was dangerous enough.

  Introducing children was worse.

  Their youth made trust feel fragile, almost irresponsible. And yet… she couldn’t deny the facts. These kids had stolen a military vessel. They had extracted her team. They had won.

  That contradiction gnawed at her.

  Then the realization struck.

  Not just operatives.

  Not just allies.

  Catalysts.

  Her quest had shifted—violently. Elevated beyond anything she had ever seen before. Not Olympian. Not divine.

  Titan Grid.

  The thought landed with crushing weight.

  Tinga went still.

  Her shoulders crept upward, tension locking them near her ears. Her breath stalled halfway through an inhale. Her hands clasped together without her noticing, fingers digging into one another as her eyes widened—fear and awe colliding like opposing tides.

  She must have looked broken.

  “Is she okay?” a small voice asked.

  “I don’t know,” Atticus murmured. “It’s… kind of creeping me out.”

  “She looks like she’s about to shatter.”

  Dante reached her just as Diafotisi came online.

  Caution: Cortisol levels rising at hazardous rate.

  Risk: Loss of consciousness.

  Source identified.

  Would you like to temporarily suppress stimulus?

  Yes / No

  She didn’t hesitate.

  Duration?

  10 min

  30 min

  1 hour

  2 hours

  Tomorrow

  Custom

  Tomorrow.

  A longer silence followed.

  Warning: Selection will create a paradox reserve.

  Cost: 90 points.

  Proceed?

  Yes.

  The pressure vanished.

  Not faded—cut.

  Tension unwound through her body in a sudden release, breath rushing back into her lungs as her shoulders dropped and her hands fell apart. The noise of the world snapped back into focus.

  She checked her status without thinking.

  Paradox: 180 / 270

  A third of the bar had gone gray.

  Not spent—locked.

  Diafotisi wasn’t just deducting power. It was holding it hostage, quarantining those ninety points to prevent her from burning herself into collapse if the fight escalated. A safeguard. A leash.

  Smart.

  Necessary.

  The truth of the quest would demand reckoning eventually—but not now.

  Right now, she had a crew to protect.

  Right now, she had to get them off this enemy-infested rock.

  Reinvigorated with hard-won clarity, Tinga’s attention returned to the youngsters.

  Dante stepped into her line of sight, positioning himself subtly—but deliberately—between her and the kids. Whatever tension had clouded her moments ago was gone. Her eyes were once again sharp and steady, her posture immaculate: shoulders relaxed, spine straight, authority settled back into place like a mantle.

  Dante’s gaze cut toward the children.

  “Is this a game to you?” His voice was edged with accusation, blunt and unforgiving.

  The kids stared back, dumbfounded. Brows pinched. Mouths slightly open.

  Tinga moved.

  “Dante.” She placed a hand on his shoulder—not restraining, but grounding. “They weren’t playing.”

  She tapped her temple twice. “I had a moment. Diafotisi. It’s handled.”

  That was all it took.

  Like a seasoned first mate, Dante didn’t press. No reprimand. No questions. His eyes met hers, understanding passing between them, and he stepped aside.

  Tinga nodded toward the kids.

  One of them—Mimi—caught the gesture and returned it with a grin that stretched ear to ear, clearly on the verge of saying something—

  When Ellia shoved her way between Tinga and Dante.

  “To Styx with you, girl,” Ellia snapped. “You scared us half to death. Good job—but be careful. Your recklessness put you and the whole team at risk.”

  The smile slid off Mimi’s face.

  Ellia exhaled sharply, then softened.

  “Hey. No moping.” She jabbed a finger lightly toward Mimi’s chest. “You did great. The debrief will sort the rest out. But it was a close call. If you’d taken any longer, we would’ve had to leave—and that would’ve weighed on us all.”

  She paused.

  “We need you.”

  The smile came back, smaller this time, but real.

  Ellia offered her hand, and Mimi took it.

  Tinga watched the exchange closely. Ellia treated the girl differently than the others—not indulgently, not protectively. As an equal. She noticed the Raven mask at Mimi’s hip—white-feathered, sleeker, more refined than Ellia’s.

  The only two Ravens she’d seen.

  Rank? Role? Coincidence?

  Too many questions. Not now.

  Once Herme reached the drop point, there would be time for answers. Or not. Kids were unpredictable that way.

  “Well,” Tinga said, planting her hands on her hips. “You made it. How do you want to handle the ships?”

  Ellia spun to face her. “Ships? As in plural?”

  Tinga nodded. “One left the gatehouse—thirteen minutes out. Roughly ten Tri aboard.”

  She tapped Diafotisi, her vision sharpening again.

  “The second is off our bow. Eight minutes, closing fast. I can’t get an exact headcount. Could be more. Could be less. You never really know.”

  “You’re a Hero of Olympus.”

  There it was.

  Not envy. Not fear.

  Admiration.

  Tinga felt it register through Diafotisi before she consciously acknowledged it—subtle shifts in tone, reverence threaded into the words. She gave a brief nod, neither confirming nor denying, then moved on.

  “Dante and I can handle one ship,” she said evenly. “But not both. Is there anything you can do?”

  Before Ellia could answer, Mimi stepped in—mask on now, posture different. Focused.

  “The ship off our bow has thirteen onboard,” Mimi said. “That’s what our eye in the sky is reading. Maybe a few more below deck, but I doubt it. If you can take them, we’ll handle the ten on our rear.”

  Tinga’s gaze slid to Ellia.

  Ellia nodded.

  So they were equals.

  The realization sat poorly with her—not because Ellia was wrong, but because Mimi was so young. Too young to be making calls like that.

  “Just the two of you?” Tinga asked.

  “And our eye in the sky,” Mimi added.

  Tinga frowned. “It’s armed?”

  She paused. “You have a weaponized drone?”

  Drones were still bleeding-edge tech. Weaponized ones even more so. Expensive. Restricted.

  Children didn’t just have things like that.

  None of this added up.

  Who were they? Who backed them? Who gave kids masks, drones, and access to Titan-grade quests?

  “In a way,” Mimi replied.

  In a way.

  By the twelve.

  Everything they said was like this—half answers, veiled truths, layers stacked on layers. An organization of masked children with advanced tech and divine-level entanglements. The thought alone made her temples ache.

  Tinga inhaled slowly and let it go.

  Why did she care?

  Trust was earned. If they said they had it, they could prove it.

  Her Diafotisi updated—numbers ticking down fast.

  Three minutes.

  “They’re accelerating,” she said. “Less than three minutes out.”

  She straightened.

  “Alright. You take the rear. We’ll take the bow.” She raised her voice. “Everyone to the main deck. Stay low.”