Char.

Figures entwined in a circle of burnt saplings as tangled as old cord in the bottom of a forgotten fisherman’s vessel. The char drifted from the burnt bark to the sodden grey shore in clumps. An orange ember faded to red in the centre, as dull as the ancient wooden boat older than pyramids, in the Dover Museum scant kilometres eastward. Inhaling to the side in a weak attempt to escape the funk and miasma, Judge Caleb Mauthisen lowered to his haunches with a grunt and a hiss. Gravel crunched under another man’s boots, a shadow upon Caleb’s back as the man shifted Caleb’s navy peacoat from the driftwood it laid upon to another person’s grip. 

"Bringing the Roman Empire back to Dover? A little late to pick back up at the Fort, isn't it?" Caleb rolled one sleeve to his freckled elbow, popped the button on the other cuff and rolled it up like its’ twin. He tried to push the other bodies from his mind, living and charred to carbon, the humans in their cars on the A20 and concentrate. 

Smoke melded with the salt water and petrol off the stretch of rocky beach, far from the sacred place the warrior souls buried in the trees deserved. An entire grove of honoured dead burnt to their ashes, before they could inhabit the trees which sprouted from their souls. The self-absorption of the humans in Midgard caused progress to set ancient ways to the side of the road, cast off with plastic bottles and crisp packets. Or untouchable piecemeal curios set behind security glass, reduced down to a plaque of suppositions by detached historians. 

“Think I ought to knock? Stroll up and kick my feet on the nearest ottoman?" The god who spoke towered over the figures in the sand, his ginger hair shorn in a style becoming of modernity. Stance militaristic as his shoulders and the pistol strapped to his thigh, kopis sheathed on the left, he surveyed the English Channel as if the primordial depths would regurgitate any number of Poseidon’s children for the hell of it. In his eyes, they likely could. "Helios found them, recognized the smell. We mobilize quicker than most. Helicopters and vehicles, my friend. Faster than Finn's doors and a hearty run.”

Not that Poseidon did anything but guide endangered fish away from nets and trawlers nowadays.

Soldiers in olive fatigues secured the beach, cordoned a few onlookers and waved off rubber-necking cars. One of the soldiers removed their Kopis with its utilitarian black handle and semi-curved blade. Cut a bunch of seaweed from the edge of a scuffed drag mark, which ended too abruptly to be anything but teleportation magic or flight, or so the person mumbled into a slim headset microphone. Golden embroidery of olive leaves and a titular blade on their lapels labelled the soldiers and the god:

Kopis Industries, front for the Hellenes & Olympians.

“Yeah, it’s distinct.” Ice-laden eyes scanned the charred branches and figures, one bent and crooked as a forgotten tree, the other as macabre and human as the half of him he couldn’t deny. Caleb Mauthisen watched the corpses crumble in the stiff winds from the Channel, nothing but embers and charcoal left behind. “Mâtarratu, or at least the recipe for it.”

“That” The god pointed to the pile of grey ash, “Was no god.”

“No, but she dressed like one. Seshat's leopard skin, brooch matches. Why would someone other than Seshat wear her cloak?” Caleb rose painfully slow, right hand favouring his stomach. 

"Given your history, I'm not explaining how people in a household share clothes." Ares sniffed out at three officers amidst the macabre, char-dead trees. They broke their attention and scurried off.

“The Dryad?” Caleb rose with the burning coal sizzling in his palm. If the man felt it, he said nothing. 

“I would guess Juliana, a Fae-born dryad who buddied up with Seshat's cousin Tiperet. We'll have more once we run the data.”

“Why was she in Dover? I thought she worked at the Brit Museum. It doesn’t make sense.” Caleb searched round the scorched trees, imagined the roots woven around veteran dead from a war which ceased during his infant cries. The poor bastards, first struck with Fae curses, then what? A promise of reunion dashed in flame? “Whoever did this followed the spell to create Mâtarratu incense, but they should have known it wasn’t going to create the poison once they lit up. So why not douse the flames? They're a kick away from the water. Why burn an entire Grove?”

“Tiperet might not have been a deity, but she had goddess blood. Enough I can’t see one person take her out. Where were the Fae? Are Queen Selyka's buckthorn not supposed to watch over our honoured dead? This Grove had Hellenes, Bogatyrs, Kehmeti. An Einherjar or two. Who has gripe against all of us?" Ares tossed sand to the ground, stared at the sea until its’ rhythm lulled the thoughts loose of his tongue. "Humans couldn't have done it, not with their fire." 

The waves rustled to the shore in a perpetual cycle, a rush to the ear, which receded to return in a few seconds’ time. Caleb searched the horizon, the walk to the road, where two Hellene recruits redirected traffic. No scraps of herbs or matchheads on the ground, nothing but the detritus of life in Britain: sandwich wrappers, old plastic drinks containers, a few clumps of garbage charred by the fire and bagged by diligent and silent Hellenes. One hundred sixty years of this didn't make Caleb hate the smells less. 

“Unless they were testing the method. Ares? Call Dite, Eros, Athene, the lot. Bring all your people into the Chalceus Citadel for a while." 

"You cannot be..." Ares growled, a film in the air. Pugilism a half-step closer to reality in Midgard's plane the moment the war deity tracked Caleb's thoughts down the line.

"Serious!? We haven't seen Mâtarratu incense in over a century for a reason. I am not letting it thin the divine herd. A weapon capable of god killing is not something I'm willing to allow lightly. Ever. This? This is a fail. Fails usually mean future attempts. Batten down the hatches, or I will batten them for you!" The Judge pointed at the Hellenes behind them, arm plastered to his side to staunch grit-toothed fire.

"You do not control me, truce child." Proud bearing jutted out with his chin, Ares was as regal as his aged pantheon. One of the many, who slunk out of the chaos into a sun newly created.

"Today I do." Caleb got down on his haunches with a hiss, snapped off one of Tiperet's fingers and held it up to the sun. Mystic marks, the odour of immolants combated with the macabre presentation of bodies. Flagrant, displayed. "Some part of the ritual must've gone awry. Want it to be you? Dite? How about Eros, or Harmonia? Call the Areides and your Olympian siblings back to Chalceus. Or better, Hellas." He grit his teeth as Ares snarled and shook his head. 

"Lochagos, call them in. Get the Judge what he needs." 

"Yes, Sir!" 

Ares pulled a slim smartphone from his pocket, tapped at the mirrored screen, while his staff continued to process the scene. "Dite's going to be pissed, she was due at another conference... better mad than dead." 

"I'm sure you and Leon can make it up to her." 

"Oh, so you want us dying of fatigue, instead of immolation, eh?" Ares smirked sideways, that bit of scoundrel present as ever after all his collected centuries. 

"Like she'd give you permission to die." Caleb tried to let out a chuckle and hissed, taking a second to blink hard and recentre. 

"Do you need the sample analyzed, Sir?" A Legionnaire with a plastic bag and tongs stepped to the charcoal. The uniform was as pressed and dressed as she was, even in inclement English weather. As Caleb eyed her, he saw the twinge of old beliefs, but nothing more substantial than a scant prayer or two. A convert? New believer?  

"Yes. Send the info..." 

"Aahh, wait nope! No, not the, nope, I ah, I got it thank you, hand the disembodied... body... part... here." A bumbling youth dove for the plastic bag and tongs, chin length black hair tied back from a round face and stark blue eyes. Ares' eyes, one of the only identifiers beside the froth of shaking limbs to seal the evidence bag. "I got it. Me, here. Me, I... it's not for me, you understand it's... I mean can ya blame her, like, been centuries since and..." 

"Hello, Icarus." Caleb sighed with a sordid smirk, in an attempt to cover the pain and heat of his side. "Sorry. Dr. Areides, I heard your dissertation was defended better than Thermopylae." 

"Well, ah, if you wanna get specific I'd rather it was likened to Marathon since... heh... I didn't die. Again." A toothed grin and Icarus hugged the bag with the ashen finger against their chest, angling their back to the sea. One foot tapped at the rocks in its sneaker, the hint of two ear buds in the youth's ears. "So... ah, yeah. Neat case. Gonna solve it, or..."

"You going to tell me why you of all Folk need a finger in a bag?" Caleb rose unsteady, shaking off the offer of Ares' hand to help him rise. An intrinsic offer from the God of War, one who knew well when a warrior hid their wounds. 

"Right." Tap, tap, tap went Icarus' foot, rocks beneath their sneakers rustling at each tiny kick. "Can we not be beside a massive body of water? Bad vibes, man, like... whew..." 

"Easy, Icarus." Ares' arm set across Icarus' shoulders, staying firm as Icarus squeaked and flinched half out of their hoodie and worn black jeans. "How did you get here so fast, you didn't come with us?"

"Oh, I took a door, then drove like a Fury after fratricide. Might've gotten a couple tickets, if I didn't hack the speed cameras, but egads I don't wanna get another strike on my Truce record, I can prove my hacking ain't magic if you need me to Mr. Judge Caleb Judge Sir, and... so Amita Athene was all 'Hark! Helios doth say some moron attempted the Mâtarratu Ritual!' and she was convinced there'd be fascinating data but like heck she'd leave her lecture hall to go get it, and like, it's my day to do Me Projects instead of Her Projects or Us Projects and I was, 'but dude it's by water and you know I hate that cause of the whole drowning to death thing' and she was all 'what would be more distracting than a couple of corpses ritually sacrificed to make powder capable of killing half the deities in the Cosmos, here, take this sample collection kit' and I was like 'yeah, but I don't wanna' and she let me rent the new Bentley and reminded me you was gonna be here Pappos, and I knew drivin' the car at its top speed would make Lou jealous so..." The torrent of words cessated with the repeated pop-smacking of Icarus' lips, fingers tapping at the plastic bag. Ares hugged the resurrected Hellene into his side with a smirk. 

"Athene wants her own study samples?" Caleb held back a snort at the twenty year old bundle of nerves. Genius was as it did, he supposed, the youth was still Daedalus' flesh and blood resurrected. "Is Athene going to share her findings? And, ah, it's alright Dr. Areides. I know your AI aren't breaking the rules, you don't have to be nervous." 

"Can I get that in writing? A kind'a Get Out of Truce Jail Card? Pass go, collect the $200?" 

"Icarus." Ares burst into a series of chuckles, immediate in his battle to quell them in front of his troops. "Child, breathe. I'm proud of you for coming, don't bother the Judge too much, he looks a bit rough."

"Can we give the luddite his new phone and get away from the water, please?" Icarus shut their eyes, fished a shiny silver smartphone out of a back pocket and shoved it at Caleb. "Sending emails are far more efficient than songbirds and transference spells into a notebook. It's primed for you to press your thumb on the button for biometric locking. Please take it. Save me from collective minutes of stalking you via satellite and CCTV. Adds up to hours, dude." 

"Icarus!" 

"It's okay. Thank you." Caleb took the phone and set his thumb on the button. The screen guided him through rolling his fingerprints across the surface. Once the screen switched to a picture of a green pomegranate carried by an owl, Caleb gave a grunt and slid the phone in his pocket. "I'd say tell Athene the 'track the Judge' mechanism worked, but she can already hear me, can't she?"

"I... ah... yeah, well... I mean c'mon..." Icarus' hood was flopped over their hair, and they shuffled a few paces away from the shore, Ares hovered - a protective shield from the surf. "... made it myself. Sized it for your hand, since... ya know... big hands, tiny touchscreen... recipe for suffering and after ah... yeah..." 

"I needed a new phone, thank you." Hazarding a tight smile, Caleb shuffled them all away from the immediacy of the shore. The careful mask of command twisted at the edges of Ares' eyebrows, melting into concern for his Alcippe's resurrected grandchild and the fears which bound them to their death. As weighted in Icarus' belly as an anchor in Poseidon's seas. 

"We know. The river outside Moscow ate it, totes saw the whole thing." 

"Oh really? How did it get there? Please, inform me." Caleb's eyebrow raised. 

"Sorry?" 

"My life you're talking about, remember? Hey, you spending enough time away from your computer, kid?" 

"Yes! Had your feed on like a lil livestream. You're kinda better to watch than half the BlastNuit streamers, but dude! How are you here already!? Did you run? And... oh gods... that's not what you meant, oh man I mean not man! I mean, you're male, but a demi-ma-ah I mean ah... you're not human-human, you're human adjacent so I shouldn't say oh man... I'm gonna shut up now."  

"Go on, go for a drive I'll catch up." Ares' smooth baritone was more calming than the waves of the sea behind them. Icarus tugged their hood up and fled back to the supply trucks and disappeared into a luxury sedan parked askew between a crew transport and a support vehicle.

"When's the last time that kid touched grass?" Caleb huffed with a shake of his head, dusted off his hands. "Power half the planet with their nervous system." 

"At least they didn't pass out this time. I brought a medic for you, if you want to get that demon wound checked." 

"Yeah, apparently, I didn't know this, but I was in Russia and my phone got destroyed in a river? Fascinating, you know? Learning about my own freaking life from a wet-behind-the-ears child with a camera phone in their pocket." 

"Wet-behind-the... bad choice of words, Cale. Bad fucking choice." 

"Oof, nope. No, you're right, I see it. Damn, I see it.. sorry kid." Caleb kicked at the ground around the bodies with a chortle, dug up a few charred sticks with his boot.

"They'll be spending a few more months in Athene's labs after this. Talk about the day they drove in England until their brother gets them back... Icarus wasn't supposed to tell you." 

"That you're watching my every move with a fine-toothed comb?" Caleb fiddled with the phone, sticking it into a back pocket, then the front. Damn thing even had his contacts installed. Apps, the whole shebang. The other back pocket, beside his anemic bill fold.

"You're the Judge, Mauthisen. Of course we are. What happens the day you need backup?"

"Your Kopis soldier brigade show up, blow a couple of bullet holes into potentially the wrong side, and starts another war. Gee thanks, I can do without. Kind of my job to prevent the whole Mystic dustup thing." 

"We're not about to let our only Judge get murdered." 

"Like in Russia?" Caleb smirked, with a raised eyebrow, trailing his hand to the wound on his side. 

"You lost us in the Moscow transit system. We didn't expect you to..." 

"What, ditch my phone?" 

"To take on the demon enclave by yourself." Ares crossed his arms over his uniform clad chest, too hasty in his mobilization for armour. "You could have called seven different Realms for backup and you didn't. Perun was within paces of you." 

"Not supposed to, am I? I'm the Judge, remember? There's only one of me." 

"Which is why we want you to have protection. Did you think I would let you out of my sight? Do you think Shiva does? Durga? Amaterasu and Inari? What happens if you investigate these deaths alone and you were the target?"

"Fuck, you've really thought about this." Caleb walked off the stitch in his side, pacing around the circumference of the dead trees. Their branches snapped to charcoal, the promise of a smooth reincarnation lost to the flames. War dead, honoured by their fellows and cursed by the Fae to grow into their enemies' likeness. 

"It's my job. Owe it to your father." 

"Huh." Caleb stared off at the ocean, hand on his side, while two technicians collected samples from the dead. A pair of songbirds hopped along the edge of the burnt ground, fluttered off. Two ravens cawed in the lonesome sky, their vast black wings scooping at the air. Fatigue pulled at Caleb's eyelids in dichotic conjunction to the knife-hot pain in his side, how many hours? "Course you do. Thick enough thieves razing country sides in your days."

"Yes, there was plenty of that in our youth. Although, way you're going through the Truce-less bastards, you're either going to give us runs for our coin or end up on the back side of Frigga's rolling pin. You do not want to get hit with that thing. She swings wide and true." 

"We don't bring others into this. Keep it contained, I'll inform the Truce and say I've taken on private investigatorial help before they try to hoist one of every Realm at me in an attempt to see through the lines." 

"You should get those wounds looked at." Ares winced at the push away from any mention of the Aesir, reaching out to steady Caleb as he stepped too gingerly over a blackened log. "The one in your heart and your side." 

"I should do a lot of things. Save the bloody world, quell an uprising of feline spirits in the Sahara, smash my head through an illegal black magic ring in Vancouver. Most of my life can wait." Caleb's boot stumbled on loose gravel, he flung his arm to Ares' shoulder with a hiss. Lungs heaved in a stutter, the lull of the channel's waves more of a comfort than they were to Ares' resurrected great-grandchild. 

"We're not your enemy." 

"Didn't say you were." 

"Sleep isn't your enemy either. It's been what, seven hours since Moscow? Nine? Kopis investigators have the scene, analyzing it will take time. Let's get you stitched up and slumped over. Amita Hestia cooked. Look like you could use a warm meal."  

"Sleep. Sleep! A dozen dead in a Sacred Grove, what do you think I was trying to do, when I got word?" Rubbing his hand over his face, Caleb groaned deep. If he closed his eyes, would he miss the clue he needed to push forward? Ever forward, never back. "... too much t'do." 

"You used to want our help. What changed?"

"Tough couple of..." Caleb shoved his hands in his pockets, kicked another pebble into the sea Icarus hated with a once dead passion. "Medic can stitch me up... what'd Hestia make? I might be coerced to eat, if the Olympian of the Hearth deigned throw something together." 

"Thank you." Ares hovered near enough to grab him if the demi-god faltered, the stiffness to Caleb's shoulders as telling as the way he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets to keep upright. "Lamb soup and lemon potatoes. Enough to feed half my army, if Leander isn't around." 

"Heh. Aww, those kids are alright." Caleb shook his head and pictured Icarus' brother inhaling half Hestia's kitchen. "Don't... ah... don't tell Icarus or Lou I said it, I'll hear Lou's 'eyyy' from anywhere across the Realms. Make the man even more insufferable." 

Both deities shared a quiet chuckle, as Ares herded Caleb toward the medic vehicle and his followers bustled through the scene in deference to their god and the Judge. Scooping up Caleb's peacoat, Ares felt its' weight, the heft of Caleb's belongings between it and the canvas rucksack it sat upon. Once the culprit who torched a sacred place was found and judged, would Caleb accept a bit more from the Hellenes? 

"Why didn't the ritual work?" Could Ares, unique among the deities of the Realms as the Aesir's Tyr and Olympus' Mars, help patch the Judge together? Caleb stunk of need, of the haggard plod of a fading soldier. Maybe Ares ought to call Tuija, give her a heads-up her lover was at his ends. 

"Aren't that many deities left, whose death could create the stuff in the first place. And killing the god? Even more on the unlikely side of the equation. Probably needed more divine-adjacent sacrifices. Ritual's lethal, but reverent. It's the opposite of Holy in the way a negative is the opposite colour of a photograph. Not demonic, but... flipped. Making it is an act of worship, a tempering and memorial of the dead. My hot take? Whoever tried didn't believe in a damn thing. Someone who knew the ritual, but didn't have the mindset to perform it." 

"There can't be many. Let me know, I'll track Icarus make sure the kid's okay, otherwise I'm on this. You're not shaking me, not with god death on the line." 

"Athene, Makosh, Izanami, Erishkegal, Thoth. I'll ask around, get a list from old Sal. Narrow down our search to the people who knew the spell enough to try to perform it, but lost faith in seeing it done. Can rule out your half-sister, if Athene did the ritual it would have been perfect."

"Narrow list." Ares guided Caleb to the medic vehicle, a hand hovering not far from Caleb's side. He tried not to smell the funk of the wound, how it stunk and how Caleb's shirt clung to his skin. It was the hardest battle to win, fending off another man's pride. 

"Yeah. Not many gods are atheists."