The fishing boat was old, smelling of rotting scales and diesel exhaust. It rocked violently against the choppy wake of the Mediterranean, a rhythmic thumping that felt like a headache inside my bones. I sat on a crate of rusted nets, clutching Toby so tightly I could feel the frantic gallop of his heart against my ribs.
Behind us, the horizon was still stained with the orange glow of the dying volcano. Hades Gate was gone, but the ghosts it birthed were just beginning to wake up.
I looked down at my hands. The purple glow had faded into a dull, bruised color beneath my skin, leaving my fingers trembling. Every time a spray of salt water hit the open gashes on my arms, a fresh jolt of agony forced its way through my nerves. But the physical pain was nothing. It was a distraction. A mercy
