24. Artemis
ARTEMIS
The corridor narrowed until my breath brushed stone.
The ceiling dropped. The walls pinched in. The floor tilted just enough to make every step require attention. Moisture clung to everything, turning the air heavy and warm. It stuck to my skin and made my clothes feel wrong in very specific ways.
The sensory overload was demanding to be handled, but there was no time for that now.
I reached for Arthur’s hand without looking.
He took it immediately, his fingers lacing through mine, grounding me just enough so my brain could catch up.
We climbed over fallen stone and squeezed through gaps that were clearly not built with modern human proportions in mind.
My shoulders brushed rock, and my back scraped against it. The sound echoed too loudly in my head.
“Tell me what you need,” Arthur said into my mind, his presence careful and calm, like he was approaching a startled animal instead of a woman who had just outsmarted murder tiles.
I swallowed and shook my head, then stopped walking.
He stopped with me.
Before I could wave it off or make a joke, he turned and took my face gently between his hands. No words. No questions. Just his eyes on mine, his thumbs warm against my cheeks.
He inhaled.
I followed.
We breathed together. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Again. Again.
The world shrank down to just that rhythm. His hands. The certainty that I was not alone in my body right now.
Somewhere behind us, Hadrian let out a soft, mocking sound.
“How cute,” he said.
Arthur didn’t look at him. Neither did I.
I nodded, letting Arthur know I was back where I needed to be.
He let go, just as gently, and we kept moving.
A sudden skittering sound exploded out of the rocks, and I shrieked like my soul had briefly left my body.
Something small, fast, and deeply offensive to nature launched itself across the path. All scales. Too many legs. It froze mid-scuttle when it noticed us, eyes glowing in the low light like it had just been caught committing a crime.
The thing and I stared at each other.
Then it made a sharp, indignant noise and vanished into a crack in the stone with the energy of someone who absolutely would be filing a complaint later.
Arthur’s grip tightened reflexively, then eased when the threat turned out to be approximately the size of a baguette.
I cleared my throat. “I would like it on record that I screamed strategically.”
His lips twitched. “Entirely justified,” he replied into my mind. “That creature was rude.”
“I agree,” I said. “It knew what it was doing.”
He squeezed my hand once, warm and reassuring, and we kept going—me with my dignity only slightly dented, him clearly fighting a smile.
The passage opened abruptly into a chamber so vast it felt like stepping out of a tunnel into sky.
Four enormous statues dominated the room, only upper bodies carved from stone, each one different.
There was one in each corner of the chamber.
A dragon. A massive sea creature with curling fins.
A human. And something that looked human-adjacent, taller, longer-limbed, its features sharper and more symmetrical. Atlantean.
Their hands and claws reached inward, forming a circular dais at the center of the room where an ancient scale sat, its arms balanced perfectly. Each pan held a single dusty object. Behind it all stood an altar crowded with items, some mundane, some clearly ceremonial.
Hadrian’s two remaining men stepped forward slowly, boots scraping against the stone as if it might react to the sound alone. Neither of them rushed. Both scanned the statues, the scale, the altar crowded with objects that suddenly looked less like offerings and more like choices with consequences.
One of them lifted a hand, then lowered it again. His shoulders rose and fell with a shallow breath.
Hadrian exhaled sharply, the sound edged with irritation. “Well?” he demanded, his voice snapping across the chamber. “What are you waiting for?”
No one answered.
He took a step forward, eyes cold, jaw tight. “Move,” he said. “Or I start killing you myself and see what the statues think of that.”
One of his men swallowed hard and stepped closer toward the altar, hands shaking as he grabbed a heavy stone weight. He looked back once, clearly hoping for reassurance that didn’t come.
The statue closest to him moved.
Stone groaned. The head turned just enough to be unmistakable. A massive arm moved with terrifying slowness, then came down hard.
Arthur pulled me against his chest in an instant, his body turned so my face was buried against him as the impact shook the room. Stone cracked. Dust exploded outward. When the sound settled, there was nothing left of the man but broken ground.
The statue turned still again.
Arthur didn’t loosen his hold until the dust cleared.
Hadrian stared at the ruin, fury flashing across his face. “Unbelievable,” he snapped. “This is why I brought expendable help.”
My stomach twisted.
I forced myself to slow down, to stop reacting and start reading the room the way I would a text that resisted being skimmed.
The statues weren’t identical. They weren’t symmetrical.
Each one represented a different figure, a different culture, a different way of existing in the world.
Dragon. Sea creature. Human. Atlantean. And the objects already resting in the scales weren’t heavy at all. They were small. Symbolic. Chosen.
My gaze snapped back to the altar.
Offerings, not tools.
My chest tightened as the pattern locked into place.
“This isn’t about physical weight,” I said, my voice even as my pulse raced. “It’s about value. Cultural value.”
I stepped closer, careful where I placed my feet now, studying the carvings again. The statues weren’t judges waiting to be impressed. They were representatives, each one demanding to be acknowledged on their own terms.
Not measured against each other.
I scanned the altar, my mind racing, cataloging symbols, materials, craftsmanship. My gaze snagged on a small, worn coin. Human. Old. Familiar.
My boss had one just like it in his collection.
“That one,” I said, reaching—
My boot caught on uneven stone. I pitched forward, caught myself, but the coin slid, bounced once, then vanished into a narrow crack in the floor.
Hadrian exploded. “Incompetent,” he snarled. “Useless—”
Arthur rounded on him so fast it startled even me.
“You got us into this,” Arthur said, voice sharp and cold. “And if you haven’t noticed, you’re rapidly running out of people willing to die for your impatience. So, you can shut up and show some respect, or you can keep talking and watch this place finish what it started.”
Hadrian’s lips flattened into a thin line, fury flashing in his eyes, but he said nothing.
Arthur turned back to me, dropping to one knee. “Are you hurt?”
“My knee,” I said automatically. My heart slammed in my chest, but my brain did what it always did under pressure.
It lit up.
I sucked in a breath, the rush of realization cutting clean through the panic. With shaking fingers, I dug into my pocket and pulled out the coin I’d taken from Percy a few days ago. I hadn’t thought about it until now.
Arthur followed my gaze, understanding dawning immediately. “That’s it,” he said softly.
He helped me to my feet, keeping his hand at my elbow, then he took the coin from my palm.
“You ready?” he asked.
I nodded, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Arthur stepped forward and placed the coin onto the scale beneath the human statue.
For a terrible second, nothing happened.
Then the pan dipped, and stone groaned again.
The scale settled, perfectly balanced. The chamber seemed to exhale around us.
My knees went weak with the delayed shock of it all, and Arthur caught me without comment, his arm firm around my waist.
“You did it,” he murmured.
He moved to the altar next, scanning with new understanding, and chose items for the dragon and the sea creature with careful precision. Both scales balanced, the statues remaining still.
Only the Atlantean remained.
The other three scales sat balanced and quiet, their statues frozen once more in stone stillness. The fourth loomed over us, taller, leaner, its features too precise to be human and too restrained to be draconic. Its hands were open, palms up, waiting.
The altar felt different now. Lighter. Stripped of obvious answers.
I stared at the objects laid out there, my brain churning through symbols, materials, context. Everything that worked for the others failed here. Nothing felt specific enough. Nothing felt right.
My pulse picked up again, that familiar edge where focus threatened to tip into overload.
“It’s not lineage,” I murmured, mostly to myself. “Or power. Or sacrifice. Atlanteans didn’t value those the same way.”
Arthur stayed close, his hand warm around mine, grounding without interrupting. He didn’t rush me. He never did.
“They built this to endure collapse,” I said slowly. “A society that expected to fall wouldn’t worship dominance. They’d worship continuity. Systems. Knowledge that survives disaster.”
Hadrian went still behind us.
I felt it before I heard it. The subtle shift of attention. The intake of breath like a memory snapping into place.
“That’s it,” Hadrian said sharply.
Arthur turned. “What?”
Hadrian’s jaw worked, irritation and reluctant admiration warring across his face. “The conduits,” he said. “The texts I dismissed as ceremonial nonsense. They weren’t prayers. They were schematics. Atlanteans believed knowledge only mattered if it could be carried forward.”
He pointed at the altar. “That one.”
Arthur followed the line of his gesture to a small object I’d barely registered. A smooth, disk-like piece etched with layered symbols, worn thin at the edges from handling rather than time.
“Why that?” Arthur asked, not moving yet.
“Because it’s portable,” Hadrian snapped. “Because it’s encoded. Because it’s meant to be passed down, not hoarded.” His eyes flicked to me, sharp. “She’s right. They didn’t value power. They valued survival.”
Arthur didn’t hesitate.
He released my hand just long enough to step forward, pick up the disk, and place it onto the scale beneath the Atlantean statue.
The pan dipped. Paused.
My breath locked in my chest.
Then the scale leveled. The statue remained still.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
The tension drained out of my body all at once, leaving me lightheaded and shaky. Arthur’s hand found mine again, fingers lacing through with quiet certainty. He squeezed once, just enough to remind me we were still here.
Still alive. Still moving forward.
Against all odds, against ancient stone and a cousin with blood on his hands, we were still working together.