Page 55 of Blood of Olympus

All came to bear witness to the devastating remains of Poseidon’s mortal capital.

And it was devastation. Gutwrenching and nausea-inducing annihilation.

I forced myself to wade through ash and bones — almost all that was left of the once thriving seaside city. I compelled my feet forward, desperately attempting to ignore the singed scrap of a child’s stuffed toy, and the too-tiny bones of some much beloved pet. I took to scanning the ruins for any signs of life — or any evidence of who caused this.

Vel skirted the bulk of the carnage, careful not to disturb the final resting places of countless mortals. She sniffed at what little remained of someone’s home, then snarled, the sound grating deep in her throat.

This was no ordinary fire.

Can you tell what caused this?

Nothing natural, she growled.

It wasn’t until I reached the scorched shoreline that I knew I was getting close to whatever it was I’d felt compelled to find. These landmarks looked oddly familiar, even though I’d never set foot on this island before.

I blinked and fell back into my dream — to the flashing image of a domed building aflame. It was the last thing the woman had seen before succumbing to the fire.

I spun in a tight circle, scanning my surroundings. Desperate — and yet terrified — to find it.

Moments later⁠—

There.

“Nyssa!” Caelus called after me, but my feet were already kicking up sand in my wake as I bolted, trying to line up that image in my mind. “It’s not safe! This could be a trap!”

I ignored him, now running perpendicular to the building until it was framed exactly how I’d seen in my vision. Pulling up short, I swallowed, mouth dry, as I looked down at the blackened sand, slowly being swept away by the rising tide.

He’s not wrong, Vel said, her beating wings setting the ash aflurry.

I have to be quick. I have to find her.

Find who, godling?

Seconds later, I succeeded. Mostly.

Her.

All that was left of the burning woman were ash and blackened bones. She lay face down in the still-hot sand, her charred skeletal fingers reaching up like if she could only extend her arm a little further, someone would grasp that hand to save her.

Bile burned the back of my throat as I made myself look closer.

A scrap of skin still remained on her right forearm — preserved like the warning it was. On it were black intersecting lines: a tattoo. The tattoo I still bore the ghostly echo of on my own right arm.

And her fingers were not extended to her salvation, but instead, reached for our ruin.

She was pointing to a hastily carved message, written with her dying breaths. Melancholy threatened to exit my body in the form of vomit as I read each line.

All that was left of Neros was this. This warning. This promise.

The gods have abandoned us.

Long live the monsters.

Unfortunately, I found I could understand why the people here would turn to our enemies — we had been too late. Us. The Olympians. Their protectors.

Even death had not been quick enough to help them — and those few who remained would never forgive us for it. The fact that we were here, now, meant little to the survivors. The witnesses.

We could not bring back their families, or alter the fact that they had suffered — irreparably.