My eyes opened slowly, the crusts of mud and tears flaking off the corners of my eyelids as I rolled over to my side.

The hard rock of the floor was hot to the touch and my back felt slick with sweat. I groaned and pushed myself off the ground with my good left arm, the other being practically useless after the last wave of monsters.

It had been almost a month since Annabeth and I fell into Tartarus. Despite this being arguably the greatest catastrophe we had ever found ourselves in, we were pretty confident we would get out alive, as always.

That was before we realised the environment itself was working against us. Turns out, drinking from the Phlegethon could only help so much. Under Tartarus' full attention, once the Death Mist had faded, we were once again fighting for our survival. The blistering and constant heat worked to squeeze my body of all moisture, weakening my godly powers.

Even the air was laden with some powerful mind-altering drugs or magic, I could not tell which. Not more than three days after being exposed by the fading of the Death Mist, Annabeth seemed to succumb to its effects.

It began with speaking names in her sleep. Not long after, she was accusing me of things I would never do. She should have known, being fully aware of what my fatal flaw was.

Next came the confessions. From all her fever wrought ramblings, they may have been the most painful to hear. She admitted to things the Annabeth I know would never do, no matter how long or abruptly we were separated. Not to me, surely. After all that we had been through together.

Nonetheless, I shepherded her as safely as I could towards my best approximation to the Doors of Death. All the while, unknowingly, being shepherded into hoards of monsters by the shifting landscapes of Tartarus. For all I knew, I had not made it even a mile closer to my destination.

It was Damasen who was the first to sacrifice himself for us. He stayed behind to hold a choke point in the mountainous region we were escaping through.

Then was Bob. He held a group of monsters at the banks of a literal river of blood as I carried Annabeth across. I could do nothing but watch as he fell to the claws of an Empousa.

It was while crossing the river of blood that I felt something familiar. There was power in that blood. In whatever water content it had, certainly; but also, in the blood itself. As it passively healed my wounds and washed away some of the weariness, I was sorely tempted to attempt to extract the power, regardless of the taboo, regardless of how wrong it felt.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, I was interrupted by one of Annabeth's more violent outbursts which proved to be a sufficient distraction from the desire.

A week later, I-I lost Annabeth.

That was two days ago.

I took a deep breath to steady myself and to keep the anxiety and fear at bay. Whatever it was that was in the air was still poking at prodding at my psyche, trying to break my will. And it was getting more and more effective. Either that or the uncertainty and hopelessness of Tararus was finally getting to me.

I hobbled past the failed campfire I had tried to erect before I passed out from exhaustion. Despite struggling for hours, I simply could not get the fire running. I have no idea how Annabeth was able to cook our meals. Thankfully, I still had the water-skin filled with goat's milk that Damasen gave me, seemingly the only quench for a live Demigod's thirst in Tartarus. Unless of course, I was bold enough to drink from the Phlegethon again.

Things were not quite so desperate… yet.

"Why struggle little Mortal?" boomed a voice that seemed to permeate the very fabric of reality.

"I can send you on your merry way, back to your precious camp. All you must do is stop struggling," intoned the deep voice.

I blinked. Doing my best to ignore the voice in my head, I bring the sheepskin container to my mouth and take a measured sip. I had perhaps a day's worth of milk left - the last of the drinkable fluids I had access to.

"Your friend might still be alive you know. There are plenty of creatures in these depths who would rather play with their quarry than kill it," it laughed wickedly.

Regardless of whether the voice was Tartarus himself, or just some voice in my head brought forth by the toxic environment, doing the opposite of whatever it said had become a valid strategy in my 'Survive The Pit' playbook.

"I can give her back to you, or better yet, you can join her," taunted the voice.

I limped over to Annabeth's effects, which I had desperately recovered from her site of disappearance. Despite my motivations to not believe anything Tartarus claimed, I could not help but hope that Annabeth was still alive. But for now, she will have to forgive me for destroying her favourite jacket.

I gripped an edge with my healthy arm and leveraged others with my feet. Despite my enhanced strength, ripping the material was difficult. I cannot even claim with any confidence the material was anything other than Mortal craftsmanship.

Nonetheless, I was able to fashion the ripped shreds of the jacket and a discarded scabbard into a passable bandage and splint. My accelerated healing did not seem to be working, despite the small amount of ambrosia I spared, but it would be best if my arm did not heal wrong whenever my divine powers do decide to kick in.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

With whatever first-aid I could perform completed, I organised my meagre provisions and headed out of the cave I had taken shelter in. Making sure that I had not left anything behind as I knew all too well, the short respite I had found would likely disappear once discovered.

Despite Tartarus' attempts to make me think otherwise, I could tell he was not as omniscient as he claimed, not nearly as infallible. But he certainly did his damnedest to ensure I got little to no rest.

Outside the cave, the blood-red clouds and grey sky gave no indication of time. I only needed to take one step out of the cave to draw the attention of the monsters in the area. I know because they came crawling out of the ground like worms.

I briefly thanked Lady Hestia, whether she had any influence (especially since my campfire never worked) or not, my hearth was safe while I rested.

I took out my trusty ball point pen as I faced off against the scores of Giant Scorpions emerging from the holes in the ground.

I grinned weakly, embracing the adrenaline and awakening of my demigod senses, I guess I'm going to learn how to fight ambidextrously.

----------------------------------------

I found myself in a damp room with no lights or windows. The word 'dungeon' came to mind.

The simple fact that I could breathe without pain told me I was not in Tartarus. The tell-tale haziness of demigod dreams was only confirmation of my guesses.

In the centre of the dark room, a boy was being held in chains. His arms were manacled and stretched wide by his restraints, leaving the rest of the body tied to a post that went straight into the cobbled-stone floor.

On one hand, he donned a silver skull ring.

"Nico!" I yelled to no avail.

His head lolled unresponsively, and his shabby black hair parted to show vacant eyes. They had even muzzled his mouth, like some sort of monster.

I would have continued calling out to him, no matter how hopeless I knew it to be without an empathy link like I shared with Grover, but two new actors made their entrance to the scene.

They were both around ten feet tall, clearly Titans. One of them wore black Stygian Iron armour, decorated with stars and constellations. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not make out the features of the other. His very being seemed to be made of clouds and thunder.

"You know, when I was given orders to guard the Doors of Death - like stopping one little girl was some mighty responsibility - you can imagine I felt rather…dissatisfied."

Nico's eyes widened in recognition at what the voice was hinting at.

I yelled and screamed, trying to get Nico to hear me. To try and make him see the lies for what they are. It had been a rough week since I lost Annabeth, but I was surviving on my own…just barely.

"She's not even one of yours, not really. She gave him up easily enough after all," laughed the voice in what really was an Oscar worthy performance.

Nico was active now, pushing and fighting against his restraints.

The voice paid his struggles no mind and carried on, "The one you love is dead, little Ghost Prince. Only traitors and deserters remain. You have held their secrets strong the past two weeks, but it is time to rest."

Nico seemed to lose all the wind from his sails.

Had the speaker not been wearing a weird ram's head helmet, complete with horns and all, I would have said he had a smug grin on his face. There was just something about his shift in demeanour.

"No, no, no! You can't give up Nico! He's full of shit!" I call out in frustration. I was not entirely sure what the voice meant, but the effect on Nico was undeniable.

As if sensing that Nico wanted to say something, the speaker bent over to remove the son of Hades' muzzle.

The inside of his mouth was red with blood, and his face was decorated with fresh scars. His pale white hands looked more skeletal than ever and his shirtless torso was riddled with lacerations.

"Go fuck yourself, Krios." He said with a bloody grin.

----------------------------------------

I was wiping the blood off my blade when I first sensed the monsters rushing toward me. It must simply be the barren landscape of Tartarus that allowed me to sense them, but every day I felt like I could scan further and further away.

I set my jaw in preparation and contemplated my options. I had not drunk any water or fluids in over forty-eight hours. My food had run out four days ago. The inability to establish a hearth meant no fire, which meant even the few creatures that did not simply burst into dust when slain, could not be cooked and eaten. As concerning as that was, I could not help but pray that Lady Hestia was alright.

Fuck this.

I grabbed the bloody cloth I was using the clean my blade in both hands and closed my eyes.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

I sapped away the moisture from the blood with a strong pull, a far cry from the gentle tug I need when I make use of water. In my tired state, the resistance was mentally taxing, and I could only hope the benefits would outweigh the drawbacks.

The blood went from red to nearly black in less than three seconds as I dehydrated it.

A tingle of power rushed through my body. Objectively, I knew that the meagre amount of blood on the rag could only replenish little of my strength. Yet it felt like a storm in a draught.

So starved was my body of even the tiniest speck of divine light, that I could feel my power divert to my back and arms, healing the lacerations and bones.

But not all of it. In fact, when I reached out to investigate, I could still feel the gruesome ridges on my back that were clawed open by the Drakon.

My body was no longer healing completely, I realised. It seemed like my powers would only heal life threatening wounds, perhaps stop the occasional bleeding. Everything else went straight to my body, where it was needed to fight off the waves of attacking monsters.

I was yet uncertain of delving into the deeper power locked inside the blood. Even dried to a powder as it was, I could still feel the strength inside it.

My moral dilemma would have to wait another day however as I sensed the Drakon and two Empousai encroaching my settlement.

I could have run, of course, when I first sensed them far away. But I had been playing this game long enough to learn that sometimes it was more efficient to just kill them and have them reform somewhere else. The chase can be far more taxing in the long run.

"I've been expecting you," I practically giggled. I was not…delirious per se, but I will freely admit I was not at my best. I had almost forgotten how good it felt to have Poseidon's power rushing through my veins and I was near drunk on it. I held Riptide in my right hand and a Greek style gladius in my left, I had them dug into the ground like ski poles as I lounged on my rock like it was a throne.

"Did you know there are 2.2 million farms in the United Stated?" I asked nonchalantly as I pulled my weapons out of the ground and swung them to face my opponents.

"I just learned that today and I have no idea why," I said grimly, staring down the Empousai.

Their flaming hair and eyes seemed to buffet under my gaze. They were not quite subdued, but they were certainly more nervous than before.

Well, they seem to have some guesses.