Curious, Achilles reaches outward, fingertip extended. The moment it hits the invisible border defined by the circle, his shade evaporates like incense smoke. He withdraws his finger, examining the dissolved tip of it. She certainly wasn’t lying.

It’s a little disappointing to know each of his visits will be accompanied by such an unnerving ritual, but far better than to go without. (And if the dead were more easily summoned, Hades would be livid.)

“Her name is Lyra, as given by her foster parents.” Achilles rubs his burned fingertip against his thumb. “We only just discovered her. It won’t be long before others mark her divinity—hence our eagerness to find a worthy guardian.”