The golden warmth of the courtyard was shattered by a sound like a thousand sheets of parchment being ripped apart at once. The air in the center of the courtyard twisted, contorting in on itself before tearing open into a seething, blood-red wound of light.
The pleasant aroma of nectar and blooming flowers was instantly choked out by the stench of a charnel house—of sulfur, burnt hair, and old blood.
Hermes, who had been mid-pour, froze, the nectar spilling over the rim of Apollo's cup. "You have got to be kidding me. What is that?"
From the pulsating portal, figures began to drop onto the polished marble. These weren't the simple scouts from before. They were larger, more varied. Most had the familiar raw, red skin, but among them were others with jet-black hides that seemed to absorb the light, their horns more twisted, their eyes burning with a colder, more intelligent malice. They were armed with wicked, serrated blades and shields that looked like fused bone.
