The chamber lay silent but for the whisper of her voice, the words curling like smoke from her lips as she began the incantation. Her arms lifted slowly, palms upturned, fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of the power gathering in the air. Before her, the marble table gleamed under the flickering light, its polished surface reflecting the shifting glow of the glass vial embedded at its center. At first, the vessel pulsed with the warm hues of a dying sunset—a rich, molten orange-red—but as the chant deepened, the light within twisted, warping into a sickly, phosphorescent green. The very air seemed to recoil, the temperature plunging so abruptly that breath misted before their lips, and frost spiderwebbed across the stone floor.
To either side of the table, the rows of prepared bottles stood like silent sentinels. Then, one by one, they burst alight—not with ordinary flame, but with something far more unsettling. The fire was a deep, venomous green, its light wavering as though seen through water, casting long, grasping shadows that writhed against the walls. And with the flames came something else—not heat, but a creeping, intangible sorrow, a grief so quiet yet suffocating that it pressed against the chest like a physical weight.
The sisters did not move. They stood as statues, their forms mirrored in perfect symmetry, their hands clasping the cold metal of the inverted lids. Above their fingers, the air itself seemed to fracture, and from nothingness bloomed that same unnatural green light, swirling like trapped mist. It emitted no warmth—only a cold so profound it seemed to leach the life from the very stone beneath their feet. Yet their expressions remained untouched by discomfort, their focus unbroken.
Then—a sound. A deep, shuddering groan, as if the earth itself were protesting. The far wall trembled, then split with a deafening crack of grinding stone and shrieking metal, the ancient mechanisms within straining as the barrier was forced apart. Beyond lay darkness, and then—the rush. The sea came roaring in, a black, churning surge that crashed against the floor, sending spray exploding upward in a glittering mist. The water rose swiftly, hungrily, but the sisters stood unmoved upon their high steps, the ritual unbroken, their figures untouched by the flood that swallowed the chamber below.
The churning waves, once violent in their fury, stilled as though commanded by an unseen force. In moments, the sea became a flawless obsidian mirror, its surface so impossibly smooth that the heavens themselves seemed to have descended upon it. The moon hung low and swollen, its craters etched in silver clarity, while the stars burned with unnatural brilliance—each pinpoint of light so vivid one might believe they could pluck them from the sky with outstretched fingers.
Then the sea began to breathe.
From its glassy surface, droplets lifted in defiance of gravity, trembling like liquid pearls caught in the pause between ascent and descent. They shimmered, suspended, then dissolved into vapor—first as delicate as a bride's veil, then thickening into great rolling banks of mist that climbed higher with each passing heartbeat. The transformation was swift, dizzying; reality itself seemed to fray at the edges, leaving only this dreamlike limbo where water became cloud, and cloud became phantom.
Within the fog's impenetrable embrace, sounds took on lives of their own. The rhythmic dip and pull of oars echoed through the void, the creak of aged wood and the drip of water from blades that never surfaced. No hull broke the water's skin. No silhouette disturbed the mist. Only the ghosts of movement remained.
A dozen leagues away, in the lamplit harbor of Ophiomer, life ceased mid-motion. A fisherman's net, half-mended, slipped from frozen fingers. A merchant's scales tipped, spilling silver coins across the docks in perfect, soundless arcs. Without a word, without a cry, the people turned as one—not in fear, but in ancient, bone-deep recognition—and fled to their homes. Doors sealed. Shutters latched. Within the shelter of candlelit walls, families clutched each other and whispered the old prayers, the ones carved into temple stones before their grandparents' grandparents drew breath.
The city did not sleep. It held its breath.
Not a rat dared scrape its claws against the cobbles. Not a nightingale risked a trembling note. Even the wind died mid-whisper, as if the world itself feared to draw attention from whatever watched from beyond the mist.
A sickly green light kindled within the fog's depths—a will-o'-wisp glow that pulsed in time with the now-deafening strokes of unseen oars. Yet still, the waters remained empty.
Then the sisters understood.
The ship emerged not as a vessel breaching the mist, but as a mountain shouldering its way through clouds. No sails billowed from its skeletal masts. No rudder gripped the black waters. Only a single colossal oar remained, its surface carved with spiraling motifs that shimmered like trapped starlight—ancient patterns repeating tales of forgotten pacts. At the prow, a bronze brazier vomited emerald flames, their light licking the underside of the fog like cursed lightning.
And then He manifested.
Charon stood taller than temple columns, His form draped in a tattered chlamys whose edges writhed with embroidered souls. The cloak's borders burned with the same viridian fire as the brazier, illuminating His cadaverous face—stretched parchment skin over prominent bones, eyes bulging as if straining against their sockets. A Greek sailor's cap sat askew on His skull, its shadow deepening the hollows of His cheeks.
"Charon," the sister whispered, and the name alone made the sea recoil. "Only He may bear you to the Titan realm," she told Pheropyr and pherodaro, "and no living thing dares challenge His passage."
The Ferryman bent His spine with the groan of a sinking galley, bringing His lipless mouth level with her ear. As she whispered her plea, the green fire atop their ritual lids snuffed out—not like flames extinguished, but like breaths stolen mid-inhalation. Pherodoro's face blanched to the color of grave-shroud linen, for she alone saw how Charon's fingernails elongated into rusted hooks as He listened...
After their hushed conversation, she gestured for the sisters to come closer. Pheropyr studied the woman's face - the slight tightening around her eyes, the way her fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh - before stepping forward. With deliberate care, she placed the ornate lid upon the weathered marble table, the metal clicking softly against stone.
"Hestia Hiereia will be waiting when you arrive," the woman said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I know you two well enough to trust you won't go looking for trouble." Her mouth quirked in a half-smile. "But trouble has a way of finding curious souls. Keep your purpose clear in your minds at all times."
The sisters bowed deeply, their matching silver bracelets clinking together. As they straightened, the woman rested one hand on the dagger at her waist and chuckled. "Well? Surely you've got questions before this old ferryman carries you off."
Pheropyr tilted her head, sunlight glinting off the golden pins in her hair. "If you're so powerful," she began slowly, "why haven't you taught us these secrets yourself?"
The woman's laughter rang out across the quiet harbor. "Oh, my dear girl," she said, wiping imaginary tears from her eyes, "what could I possibly teach you that compares to what you'll learn there? I'd just be in the way."
Pheropyr's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Then I suppose we'll have to discover things for ourselves," she said, a determined glint in her eye.
"Good answer," the woman approved, then turned to Pherodoro, who was worrying the edge of her shawl between nervous fingers. "And you, little one? What's burning in that busy mind of yours?"
Pherodoro's cheeks flushed pink as she stammered, "I-I was just wondering... that is..." She took a steadying breath. "Would it be permitted to touch Charon?"
The resulting silence was broken by a sound like grinding stones - Charon's rasping laughter. Pherodoro immediately clapped her hands over her mouth. "Oh! That was terribly rude, wasn't it? I do beg your-"
Her apology was cut short as an enormous, skeletal hand descended before them, palm upturned. The woman's eyebrows shot up. "Well now," she murmured, "it seems the Lord of the River is in an indulgent mood today."
With practiced synchrony, the sisters first bowed low, then helped each other step onto the massive palm. Charon's skin felt strangely smooth beneath their sandals, like polished driftwood warmed by the sun.
"Thank you," Pheropyr said earnestly, gripping her sister's hand tightly. "For everything."
The woman simply nodded, stepping back as Charon's fingers curled slightly to form a protective cage around his passengers. With his free hand, he took up the enormous oar - its surface gleaming with intricate carvings of twisting vines and strange beasts - and gave a single powerful stroke.
At the prow, the bronze brazier erupted with green flames so bright they cast the sisters' faces in eerie relief. The fog rolled in thicker than before, swallowing the ship whole as it began moving away from the docks.
Back in Ophiomer, the unnatural chill that had gripped the city dissipated like morning mist. Doors creaked open, and soon the marketplace rang with the familiar sounds of haggling merchants and laughing children. The scent of baking bread and spiced wine drifted through the streets as life returned to normal.
High above the celebrating city, the woman perched on the old hestia temple steps, her knees drawn up to her chest. She watched as the last glimmer of green fire vanished into the horizon, then leaned back with a contented sigh as the sounds of revelry rose up to meet her.
Meanwhile, Charon stood motionless at the center of his vessel. With one final, decisive motion, he raised his oar like a standard. The green flames roared higher, illuminating the sisters' determined faces for one last moment before everything dissolved into blinding light.
When their vision cleared, the familiar shores of Ophiomer were gone. Before them stretched an entirely new realm - one of towering obsidian cliffs and rivers that flowed upward into the sky. The Titan realm awaited.