And in the end, there was no milk. No honey.

No golden streets, no pearly gates. Harps nor halos. Father nor Son.

Instead, there was… something.

Something blue. Faint and thin, misted and hazy—it was something like the sky, had it been scraped clean, leaving behind only a suggestion of itself dripping in the air.

It was a confusing, special something that made a confused, special someone scrub the fog from what was left of his mangled glasses and lean in for a better look.

Just in time, too.

An arrow whizzed by precisely as he hitched forward, splitting a hole in the blue substance with a trail of smoke. He went stiff, heartbeat wild as its heat grazed his ear. It parked just overhead with a decisive ping, pegging a slip of aged scroll onto the void before him.

If you’re reading this, I’m running late.

My bad.

Big Man dropped an emergency assignment on my dash the second I left to come greet you. Something about Hera, a human, and a cow?

Long story.

Anywho, just sit tight. I won’t be long.

-H

So, in spite of the questions running through his head and the knots churning in his stomach, he sat.

And sat. 

And then he sat some more. 

He sat while the baby blue "sky" burned orange, broiled burgundy, then cooled to a deep, lonely navy. While clips from his life’s highlight reel flashed before his eyes—bright, then dim, then gone. While the lowlights snuck in like static, chopping and screwing each scene until fond felt foreign, and pride soured to prejudice. And even while his memories faded to shadows, and shadows to silence, he sat tight. Too tight.

That is, until… something loosened him up.

Fppt...

Fttp... Whup!

A harsh breeze kicked up, sending the note flapping in the wind, just violently enough to be heard over his chattering teeth. 

He picked his wet face up from his legs and squinted against the arrow’s bronze glare, trying to catch the scrawl scratched into the page’s underside.

P.S. On second thought, don’t do that.

It gets pretty chilly out there and we can’t have you catching a cold on your first day dead. 

Especially not when I’m this understaffed.

How about you get a head start?

Shouldn’t be too hard. It’s a straight shot. Mostly.

Then suddenly, another something stirred up—a tempest this time. Its violent waves sent the scroll flopping in the wind once more. 

He gripped onto his bare ankles for stability as he settled into the eye of the storm, staring in amazement as cotton fluff began to materialize from thin air, zooming past him from every which way. 

Heavy tufts of it snagged in his cashmere coils in their rush up to nowhere, weighing him down as he struggled to keep his head up.

The cloud fragments slotted into their places so quickly that he would have missed the whole ordeal had he blinked.

The man’s heart sank as the air went dead again. All at once, twists and divots, crooked paths and peeking passageways blended seamlessly, glowing in the dark as they solidified into a convoluted spider’s web across the cosmos.

When the awe wore off, all he could think was: …Straight?

At least until you reach the Midheaven. You aren’t exactly supposed to be there and the guards aren’t exactly amenable to bribes. So. 

Get ready for a little B&E.

Best case scenario? It’ll be Niamh. You should be able to slip right past her, no problem. Just stay light on your feet.

But if it’s Neve? Throw my arrow to distract her and run for her blindspot. If she catches you, just…

Don’t let her bang you up too bad, alright? Duck and weave. Asclepius’s waitlist has a waitlist—and the last 7 patients on it? You guessed it. All 7 of our team’s medics.

(Word to the wise, don’t go out for drinks and Pin the Tail on the Hellhound after work unless I’m the ringleader.)

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

At any rate, all you can do is your best. I’ve got faith in you, kid.

P.S.S. Forgot to add, if you get up there after dark

But before he could read the end of the note, a sneeze was snatched out of him—one powerful enough to send forth a gust of air so fierce that it tore the note from beneath its pinning. In an instant, the note was off, twirling up and away into the maze.

The man had barely recovered, nose still scrunched up, when he clambered to his feet and jumped up to grab the arrow. He took one uncertain step, another. Then he faltered.

And so did the note. 

When he started a light jog, it stuttered forward. And when he took off after it at full speed, it took to spinning, fluttering from platform to platform, always in sight, but never in reach.

So, like cat and mouse, they danced through the night—the note leading the way and the man hopeless to catch up.

And all the while, despite the sweat pooling on his upper lip and the adrenaline coursing through his veins, a chill bit deeper and deeper into his bones. 

Because each step forward was followed by a low fizzling behind him. And each time he dared a glance over his shoulder, the cloud he’d barely lifted his foot from had already dissolved. 

With every passing moment, his destination loomed closer, more vivid with each step. Hovering high in the center of the maze was a tall, dark tower, its bricks so close to the shade of the night "sky" that it seemed to vanish into the backdrop. It bobbed gently in all of its ominous glory, exhaling a thick fog from its every orifice. 

The man divided his attention between the crumpling sound of the scroll in the breeze and the building's labored breaths. His eyes flicked wildly as he moved—vaulting over gaps, balancing on floss-thin bridges, and scaling staggered slabs of white fuzz. 

Aborted sketches of two-headed ogres, one-eyed siamese cats, and triple-handed sniper twins haunted his every blink, so real that he swore he could see them lurking just beyond the smoke. The weight of the arrow in his sweaty palm, the only thing that could save him should a game of Pin the Tail on the Human ensue, filled him with a new bout of existential dread. Who—or what—was waiting for him?

Still, the note shot ahead, weaving through the thick fumes before slapping against the Midheaven’s entrance with a dull thwack. It flailed for a second, then snagged on a jagged edge above the doorway. The man slowed his pace, keeping his gaze on anything but what lie beyond the fog as he drew closer.

The pounding in his head drowned out his senses, masking the shifting behind him as he walked—even as the shifts built into shuffles, and the shuffles became heavy steps, echoing dangerously against the stillness.

Oblivious, he snatched the note down, straightened it out, and scanned the last lines.

P.S.S. Forgot to add, if you get up there after dark, it’ll be both of them.

Extra muscle for when things go bump in the night, y’know?

Doubt you’ll take that long, but I’ll have a bag of frozen peas with your name on it if you do.

His jaw didn’t have time to drop before a gentle hand gripped one shoulder and a claw dug into the other.

"My child, are you lost?" Two voices, one dipped in honey and the other ravaged by thorns, froze him where he stood. 

He nodded fervently, eyes on the nail scraping down his right arm, goosebumps chasing after it. He tightened his fist around the arrow, earning himself a gravelly chuckle.

"Is that right? And where exactly were you trying to—Oh?" The mocking rasp came to a pitch as she touched the tail of the arrow, pincer circling curiously over a small engraving the man hadn’t noticed yet: a set of wings. "Do my eyes deceive me?"

The talon pressed into his fist, prying the arrow into view. The creature tutted knowingly. 

“How curious. Even after he delivered the news himself… that boy is awfully bold, isn’t he, sister?” The hand on his left shoulder tightened just enough to make him gasp. "This arrow… Surely, it must be a trick of the light." There was a tap, tap, tap of a nail against solid gold. "Niamh, won’t you check for yourself?"

At the speed of a blink, the delicate hand disappeared from his shoulder and slipped the arrow away. His hand jerked after it instinctively, but one warning stab of claw in wrist stopped him in his tracks. Beads of sweat trickled down his face, sepia skin flushed maroon as the woman began sawing the arrow through the air, millimeters away from his face. He flinched, his back pressing against the bony shoulders behind him as his protests were ignored. 

"Its weight… the ease with which it cuts the air… oh dear.” 

The loud swishes then ceased with a long sigh from Niamh. Cold skin brushed up against his as she stepped forward, holding her ghastly green hand out for Neve to grasp. 

All thoughts of escape died half-baked as the two turned to face him. 

Niamh stepped forward, brushing her black locks away to reveal long, crusted ears and two bloodied craters where her eyes should have been. Her lips were pressed into a resigned fold. And Neve followed, her claws pulling wild white tendrils into a knot. Her face was dominated by bulging, bloodshot eyes, leaving barely enough space for her paper cut of a smile.

The man only stopped gawking when Niamh passed the arrow over to Neve, murmuring, "We take no pleasure in this, my child." Her tone dipped into something somber, almost tender. Yet the slight quirk in her sister’s lips told a different story. 

The arrow’s golden brilliance spoiled, rotting to match the sickly green of Neve’s hand as she turned it over. "But we have no choice in the matter. Your sponsor is well aware of the rules."

Neve neared, a surge of power coursing through the metal, making 'the matter’ as clear as day. 

"No! Wait!" He tried, hands raised in surrender. "You have the wrong guy, I don’t have a sponsor! I don’t even know where I am—all I have is this…" He waved the scroll like a white flag. "This stupid note!"

Seeing his eyes grow glossy, Niamh’s frown deepened as she gnawed on the inside of her cheek. But Neve didn’t react. She couldn’t. She had better things to do than read the human’s blubbering lips. Like sending him crashing down to Hades with an arrow through his chest. With half her eyes squeezed shut and the others fixed on her target, she muttered, "No humans, no exceptions." There was nothing but cold resolution in her voice as she steadied her aim. "Never again. Not even for Zeus’s little lapdog."

Equal parts of bewilderment and dread seeped into his chest as the arrow loomed closer, gleaming in Neve’s clawed grip. His lips trembled around the word "please," breath stalled in his throat. But before the arrow could fly—

Another …something crept in.

It was something like the Midheaven’s smog, though far thicker. Devastating. It poured out from the tower’s open mouth like a full-bodied yawn, circling the three like prey, poised to swallow them whole.

The twins stumbled, Neve grabbing onto Niamh for stability. "What is the meaning of this, boy?" she snarled, her bulging eyes darting, unfocused, trying to pierce the fog. She brought the arrow in front of her chest in a threat, thrusting it wildly. "What have you done?" 

For a moment, the man could have sworn he heard something in its currents—a whisper, smug and fleeting, like the quick intake of breath before a chuckle.

Niamh seemed to turn her hollow gaze toward the man, her brows knitting tightly. "Run," she uttered—so softly it could have been the fog itself speaking.

And he didn't need to be told twice.

The fog parted before him like an invisible hand had carved his path, revealing the entryway to the Midheaven. Behind him, Neve’s shouts grew muffled, distant, tangled in the mist. His heart thundered in his chest, every step forward shaking loose the fear anchoring him in place.

There was no turning back now.