Melita’s lips curled into a rare smile as the cool breeze kissed her cheeks. A glint of shimmering water peeked through the palm fronds, a lagoon brimming with promise. She hurried toward it, her parched throat aching for relief. The weather was nice and cool today, and coconut trees surrounded the water. She cleared a patch of sand and made a simple bed from palm leaves, promising to make something better tomorrow. As she plunged into the lagoon, the cool water rippled around her, carrying away sand and sweat. Each stroke felt like a balm, easing the ache in her muscles, removing the sand from her hair, and washing away the weight of her isolation.

A rustling in the underbrush startled her as she set the final stone in her fire pit. She froze, clutching her stick, her heart pounding against her ribs. The rustling stopped, and Melita’s grip on the stick tightened. She caught a glimpse of a piglet but scanned the underbrush again, wary of a lurking predator. It came into her camp, sniffing around, unconcerned. Melita took it in her arms, hoping its mother was not around. She didn’t manifest herself.

Close to sunset, her shoulders sagged, and she sank to the sand, fingers clawing at the earth. The realization struck like a tidal wave—weeks, months, maybe years without Aree.

Icarius would shape Aree into a man, but would that man remember her as his mother—or resent her absence? If she had waited, she and Aree could’ve faced the world together. Instead, he was with Icarius, becoming a man without her. They could have lived so many adventures together and created their own legend. Melita made a short prayer to Hera to look after her beloved son.

She grew up that way and eventually turned into an honest woman. The thought made her laugh out loud. Was she an honest woman? No. Never. Not even close! She taught her son to steal as though thievery was as natural as breathing. She claimed the household of a man whose mere mention repelled her. Her secrets weighed heavier now, her isolation giving her too much time to wonder if Aree would ever forgive the lies she told about his father—and hers.

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Returning to the beach, she scanned the horizon growing from orange to purple one last time, half-expecting to see a ship. She sat in the sand, hugging her knees to her chest. Her breath hitched as her gaze swept the endless expanse of water. The horizon mocked her, its vastness swallowing her hopes of a timely rescue. The prospect of a night alone on this unknown island drained away any fatigue she felt.

Night had fallen by the time she reached her camp. The lagoon’s waters sparkled under a thin moon. The lagoon lay still, its surface like glass under the pale moonlight. Even the palm fronds were motionless, their usual rustle conspicuously absent. Melita’s ears strained for any sound, her unease growing with the suffocating stillness as though the island held its breath. The birds squawking all day stopped their cacophony shorting before the sun disappeared.

With a flick of her wrist and whispered words, she lit a fire in her pit –a hole in the sand. Melita smirked as the flames leaped to life, her whispered incantation lingering in the air. Years spent hunched over grimoires and dusty scrolls had taught her more than simple survival—it made her life much easier. “Magic does make life easier, doesn’t it? All this would have been so much more difficult with two sticks!” She wiped her hands of sand before preparing the piglet for dinner.

Before eating, Melita collected the piglet’s bones, fat, extra skin, and gristle, wrapping them together. She threw the tight bundle into her fire as an offering to Hera. “Hera, you who know longing, grant me this: let Arakos come home. Let my son have his father. I’ll pay any price.” The scent of the offering floated up to the heavens.

Melita tore into the roast piglet, the crisp skin crackling under her teeth. Each bite was a celebration, its smoky flavor mingling with the night air. Her stomach felt full, and her spirits lifted.

The coolness of the day turned to a chill, but the fire kept away the cold. But the dancing flames warmed her, and she allowed her mind to wander. She felt no guilt about teaching the ways of Hermes to her son. Her lies had been tools, like magic, shaping the life she needed to survive—and protect her son.

She thought back to that first fire she and Arakos shared outside Ekkos. After the tragedy. When he took her bowl and ate it without thinking. The terror on his face as the Mists swallowed him. How he infuriated her by deciding things for her. His face when she told him they would have a baby.

At some point, she drifted to sleep on her leafy mat before the fire died.