A brisk wind stung my cheeks as I stepped onto the frost-covered sidewalk outside my apartment. My breath misted in the air, swirling away like tiny ghosts of winter. The early hour clawed at my senses, but an undercurrent of excitement pushed me forward, each step a promise of new beginnings and uncharted adventures. The chill seeped through my coat, and I caught the distinct scent of pine lingering in the air, a keen reminder of childhood hikes and the thrill of discovery. It seemed as if that scent, more than the biting cold or the hour, whispered that the day ahead held something special, even if I had yet to have my morning coffee.
I stepped off the bus, duffel on my shoulder. Excitement and nerves buzzed beneath my skin. The sun barely lit the horizon, its orange glow smeared across the clouds. The terminal thrummed with the sound of suitcases, murmurs, and a wailing baby.
Then, as the terminal buzzed around me, Ethan appeared.
"Nate!"
Suddenly, someone threw an arm around my shoulders from behind, making me almost drop my bag. I turned and saw Ethan Carter grinning, wild as ever. It was hard to believe we'd just celebrated our month off from stress together the night before.
The fact that our trip to the Greek ruins counted as a final exam was a sweet victory, especially when compared to cramming in library corners. After intense exams in December, this felt like learning worth looking forward to.
"Look who finally shows up." He yanked me in for his signature half-hug. "Almost thought you bailed."
"Nah," I said. "Had to grab my passport."
He pointed, mock-serious. "Crucial. Good thinking, Indiana Jones."
Marcus Denevra stood out. His broad frame, Hawaiian shirt, and bold tribal tattoos wrapped his arms and calves. At a corner table, he flicked through a fishing game on his phone. Long hair in a bun, sun-kissed skin suggested past travels.
Marcus didn't look up. "Morning, boys. You two ready for the next month of bugs, dust, and professors pretending we're not free labor?"
Ethan grinned. "Can't wait. Maybe I'll discover the next Atlantis."
"Right," I muttered. "You can't even find your car keys half the time."
He opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when the airport doors hissed open, and a gust of air-conditioned wind blew past us.
"Alright," I said, pulling the strap of my bag higher. "Let's check in before we miss our flight."
Inside, chaos reigned, with students clustered and luggage piled high. A flickering overhead light cast its sporadic glow over the scene, while a vending machine hummed in a forgotten corner, its neon drinks untouched in the frenzy. The Westwood banners hung askew, one slightly torn at the edge, as professors with lanyards tried to herd their groups, their faces drawn by the challenge.
Dr. Halloway stood near the main desk, gesturing toward a clipboard as if it were a sword. "If you're with the Westwood Archaeological Program, line up and make sure you have your passports out and boarding passes printed!"
Ethan groaned and let his shoulders drop. "Seriously? Are we in second grade?" he muttered, looking over the luggage line and tapping his fingers on his leg. For a second, he seemed a little nervous under all his confidence.
Marcus nudged him. "You're complaining before we've even boarded. Impressive."
I found my place in the M's. The line inched forward like a funeral. As we shuffled, unease grew. Had the girls arrived, or were they delayed? Cassandra with her lists, Rosalia's whims, Daphne, always first—where were they?
Ethan shrugged. "Cassandra and Daphne got here early—ahead of the bathroom rush." He chuckled. "And Rosalia—well, speak of the she-devil."
I turned toward the sound of his voice, my attention shifting from the crowd to Ethan.
And froze.
Rosalia Garcia emerged from the crowd, her dark, wavy hair catching the sunlight. Denim jacket over a tank and ripped jeans, she carried herself with confidence, a backpack slung over one shoulder. Ethan whispered, "Dude, close your mouth before security thinks you're catching flies."
She spotted us and smiled, walking over. "Hey, you guys made it."
Marcus glanced up. "Packed for a dig, or just Instagram?"
Rosalia rolled her eyes. "I packed enough, trust me."
Check-in dragged, and the terminal became just a blur of students and flashing documents. By the time we reached security, my feet hurt and my patience was running out.
Marcus plopped into a row of plastic chairs near our gate, phone already out. "We've got an hour to kill."
Ethan joined him. "Alright, what's the game this time?"
Marcus grinned. "Temple Clash. It's like tower defense, but with… mythological monsters."
I sat down next to them, half-listening, half-scrolling through my own phone. A moment later, Marcus elbowed me. "You in?"
"Fine." I sighed, downloading the app. "But if I lose, I'm blaming airport Wi-Fi."
"Skill issue," he said, smirking.
A while later, as we waited near the gate, Cassandra and Daphne appeared, giggling.
They dropped their bags with a thud.
"What are you guys playing?" Cassandra asked.
"Temple Clash," Marcus said without looking up. "You wouldn't survive."
"Excuse me?" she shot back, arms crossed. "I'll have you know I've beaten several."
Ethan laughed. "Sure you did."
Across from me, Rosalia stared out at the tarmac, twisting her pendant, serene. I wondered if I could find that kind of quiet. A flicker of memory surfaced, recalling Rosalia at a coffee shop, animatedly describing her childhood trips to old ruins with her archaeologist uncle. She had always seemed fascinated by the ancient world, a fascination that perhaps mirrored my own. A small smile crept onto her lips, and I wondered about the stories behind her pendant and if she, too, brought part of her past on this journey. "That pendant," I ventured, "is there a story behind it?" Her eyes met mine, and a hint of shared curiosity sparked between us. "Oh, it's a symbol of my family's history," she said. "I've always felt it was like a piece of the ancient world I get to carry with me." I nodded, feeling the connection grow. "You nervous?" I asked. "About the trip? Maybe a little. It's a big deal, you know? Dr. Stavros is basically a legend."
"I've read his papers," I said. "The guy was adamant that the Tomb of the Gods may actually contain proof that the gods were real. I say not likely."
She grinned. "We'll see. I want souvenirs."
"Hopefully not cursed," I replied dryly.
Ethan overheard. "Speak for yourself, dude. I'm hoping for something cursed."
"Of course you are," Rosalia said.
An hour later, the boarding call echoed through the intercom.
"Now boarding: Group A, Westwood University archaeological study group."
That was us.
Bags were grabbed, phones pocketed. Suddenly, the six of us were swept up in the tide of students funneling toward the gate. The air buzzed with anticipation and a surge of caffeine. I showed my boarding pass, stepped through the tunnel, and walked into the humming belly of the plane.
Seats were cramped, air stale, but I didn't care. We were actually doing this.
Of course, our group got split up.
Ethan sat up ahead, chatting with an engineering student. Marcus, far back, probably slept already. Daphne and Cassandra whispered and laughed near the middle.
And me?
I lucked out.
Rosalia dropped into the seat beside me with a soft sigh. She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, looked over, and teased, "Guess you're stuck with me."
"Tragic," I said. "Truly terrible luck."
She smirked. "Try not to snore."
"I don't—" I started, but she'd already put her earbuds in.
The third seat was taken by a quiet guy in a Westwood hoodie who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. I didn't blame him.
Getting to Greece meant taking three flights in a row, each one blending into the next. The noise of the engines, bad coffee, and excitement made it hard to sleep.
The flight from Denver was short, two hours. The cabin buzzed with drowsy students. Ethan joked with attendants, scoring more pretzels. Marcus slept, earbuds in, mouth open. I tried reading about Bronze Age burials, but the drone lulled me into cloud-watching as the sky darkened.
The long New York–London flight tested us. Eight hours, cramped and sleepless, engines droning. Time blurred. My dreams flickered with the remnants of ancient temples and distant gods. Subconsciously, the hum of the engines transformed into deep, rumbling chants, and in the hazy fringes of sleep, I saw marble eyes slowly opening, their cold, unyielding gaze fixing on me. Daphne passed around 'Mystery Munch' to Ethan's mock horror. Waking from a nap, I saw Rosalia asleep, sketchbook open to a winged figure—maybe Nike. For a moment, the soft hum and lingering fatigue vanished.
By the time we got on the last flight from London to Athens, we were all exhausted. We moved through the small, noisy plane without thinking, just trying to stay awake. Outside, the sun was coming up. Daphne handed out gum while Cassandra made jokes about the arrival forms. As we got closer, we could see silver waves and dark islands below us.
When we finally landed in Athens, it was night again. The city lights sparkled, spreading out from the hills and ports. Before we even got off the plane, I saw distant mountains through the window, their dark shapes standing quietly over the land.
We shuffled into baggage claim, chaos greeting us. Students staggered, half-asleep, dragging suitcases that thumped and clattered across the tile floor. Someone's duffel burst open, scattering socks like confetti. By the exit, Dr. Halloway held a clipboard, counting heads like a general mustering tired troops.
"Alright, team," he called over the noise. "Welcome to Greece. Grab your luggage, find your partner, and follow the signs to the buses. Let's try not to lose anyone before we even leave the airport, please."
Ethan groaned behind me. "So this is it, huh? Home of the gods. Smells like jet fuel and bad coffee."
I smiled faintly, gripping my bag. "Yeah," I said. "Guess even Olympus has customs."
Soon, another teacher, whose name I never caught, shouted above the commotion: "We've got a three-hour drive to Litochoro! That's where your hotel is! Check in, sleep, and tomorrow morning, we'll review the schedule. Behave, don't wander off, and for the love of the gods, keep your passports safe!" The announcement barely registered among the students, who were busy adjusting their seats and finding the least uncomfortable position possible on the begrudgingly stiff fabric. The air was thick with the dubious scent of reheated instant noodles and a hint of cloying airplane perfume that clung more stubbornly than luggage labels. Ethan groaned behind me, sinking into his seat with the exaggerated despair of a man sentenced to a fate worse than missed Wi-Fi signals.
Ethan groaned behind me. "Three hours? Bro, I'm gonna die."
"You'll live," Marcus said, already scrolling through his phone again. "Barely."
Rosalia brushed past them, adjusting her backpack. "Come on, you big babies. Adventure awaits."
We got onto the buses. The air had a hint of dust and sea salt. As we left the airport, I leaned my head against the window and watched the city disappear. Soon, only the dark shapes of mountains were left against the stars.
Somewhere past those mountains was Olympus. Seeing them made something inside me feel familiar, almost like I'd seen them before in a dream. The thought stuck with me, making me even more curious about what was coming.
By the time we reached Litochoro, it was close to midnight. The town was quiet, nestled at the foot of the mountains, its narrow streets glowing faintly under yellow lamps. Our hotel, Hotel Dion, looked old but charming, with ivy crawling up its walls and the faint hum of cicadas in the air.
Keys were handed out, names checked off.
"Room 304," the clerk said, sliding me a keycard.
Marcus clapped me on the back. "Guess we're roommates, man."
"Try not to snore," I muttered.
He grinned. "No promises."
The others disappeared into their rooms down the hall. Ethan's laughter echoed faintly through the corridor. Rosalia glanced over her shoulder once before vanishing behind her door.
And just like that, it was quiet.
I dropped my bag on the bed, took off my shoes, and lay down, watching the ceiling fan turn above me. Its steady movement helped me relax, and I finally felt some relief. We were here at last. Even though I was tired, I could still feel a bit of excitement. The adventure was just starting, and tomorrow would bring new things to discover.
🙛🙚🙛🙚🙛🙚🙘🙙🙘🙙🙘🙙
Morning came too soon. I woke up with a stiff neck and a sore back, making me wonder who designed these hotel mattresses. For a while, I just stared at the ceiling fan, listening to the quiet sound of cicadas outside. My mind wandered, still tired from the trip.
A soft knock came from the bathroom door, followed by a burst of steam. Marcus stepped out, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp and curling against his neck. He looked half-alive but annoyingly cheerful, like he'd already had a gallon of coffee.
"Morning, sunshine," he said with that lazy grin of his. "Bathroom's free. You might wanna hurry before the others drain the hot water."
"Appreciate the warning," I muttered, stretching until my back popped. "Feels like I wrestled a bear in my sleep."
He chuckled, rummaging through his duffel. "You snore like one, too."
I grabbed a clean shirt, jeans, and my toiletries and headed for the shower. The water was lukewarm, but after the long flight and bus ride the night before, it felt like a luxury. By the time I got out, Marcus was dressed in yet another floral Hawaiian shirt—this time bright orange—and khaki shorts. I was beginning to suspect he didn't actually own any other kind of clothing.
"You know we're in Greece, not Maui," I said, pulling on my shirt.
He flashed a grin. "Yeah, but I like to represent the islands, man. Besides, you archaeology types wear enough beige for everyone."
He wasn't wrong.
The hotel lobby buzzed with life when we got downstairs. Students crowded around the breakfast area, plates stacked with food. The smell hit me first—fresh bread, olives, eggs cooked in olive oil, thick yogurt with honey, and slices of watermelon. I didn't realize how hungry I was until I had a plate in my hands.
Marcus and I found an open table near the window just as Ethan came barreling in, Daphne and Rosalia right behind him. Ethan looked irritatingly energized for someone who'd probably stayed up too late cracking jokes at the hotel bar. Daphne had her hair tied in a neat braid, eyes bright as she scanned the buffet line like a kid in a candy store. Rosalia was quieter, wearing a soft green blouse and jeans, her dark hair loose over one shoulder.
"Morning, scholars," Ethan announced, dropping into the seat beside me. "Hope you're ready to go play in some ancient dirt."
"I live for dirt," I said dryly, cutting into a slice of feta.
Rosalia smiled faintly. "You'd make a good archaeologist, then."
"I'm trying," I said.
"Trying is step one," she said, her accent lacing the words with warmth.
Cassandra arrived about fifteen minutes later, hair a mess, sunglasses perched on her head. "No one woke me up," she complained, setting down her plate.
Ethan shrugged. "You looked peaceful. Like someone who'd kill me if I did."
"Smart man," she said, digging into her eggs.
We ate in comfortable chaos—the kind of noisy, overlapping breakfast chatter that comes when no one's quite awake but everyone's excited. When we finally filed out into the morning air, the sun was already high and blinding, the air crisp with mountain wind.
The bus ride to Mount Olympus took an hour, winding through roads that snaked along the slopes. The scenery shifted from small towns and olive groves to rocky trails and steep cliffs. As the mountain loomed above us, its peak hidden in a veil of clouds, I felt a shiver of awe slip through me. It was as if I was but a speck beneath the shadow of the gods, an ancient power watching us ascend. Each twist and turn in the road seemed to whisper of the timeless stories hidden within these rocks, reminding me of humanity's smallness against such grandeur.
When we finally pulled into the excavation site, it felt like stepping into another world. Tents were scattered across the plateau, ropes and grids marking off sections of the dig. Archaeologists and grad students were already at work, dust masks on, tools clinking against stone. Generators hummed in the background, powering floodlights that cut through the shadows of the mountain.
I climbed out of the bus, shouldering my bag, and just stared. I'd read about digs like this, dreamed about them even, but being here—the smell of earth, the hum of machinery, the faint echo of voices in the cavern mouth—it hit different.
Ethan whistled low. "Not bad for a field trip."
"More like the field trip of a lifetime," Daphne said, snapping photos with her phone.
We were led to the largest tent, located near the center of the camp. Inside, rows of folding chairs were arranged to face a display board covered with maps, photos, and diagrams. Standing at the front was a man who looked as if he'd been carved from the same rock he studied—silver-streaked hair, olive skin weathered by sun and time, sharp eyes that seemed to see too much.
Dr. Stavros.
"Good morning, students," he said, voice gravelly but strong. "Welcome to the Tomb of the Gods."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the group. He let it die down before continuing.
"What you see around you is one of the most significant discoveries in modern archaeology. This site, uncovered by my team six months ago, may be a temple or a burial complex dedicated to the Olympian pantheon. Your job here is to assist, observe, and learn—without destroying anything." His gaze swept the room, lingering just long enough to make a few people sit up straighter.
He went on to explain safety protocols, equipment procedures, and site rules. No unsupervised digging. No flash photography inside the tomb. No pocketing "souvenirs."
Ethan raised his hand. "What about cursed souvenirs?"
That earned a chuckle from a few people. Dr. Stavros just smiled thinly. "Only if you can outrun the curse."
We laughed, but the look in his eyes was unreadable.
After the briefing, an assistant came around distributing satchels filled with tools—brushes, gloves, disposable cameras, and small notebooks. Each student also received a leather-bound journal embossed with the Westwood University emblem.
"Your personal record," Dr. Stavros said. "Treat it as both a diary and a field report. You'll be surprised by what details the mind forgets."
His gaze landed on me then. Something in his expression shifted, a flicker of recognition revealing itself. He beckoned me forward.
"Rhodes, isn't it?" he asked, his tone holding a compelling mix of formal inquiry and personal interest.
I nodded, caught slightly off guard, a familiar internal twinge of something deeper—part pride, part unease—surfacing at the mention of my surname. My fingers briefly tightened around the strap of my bag, an involuntary response that betrayed the subtle surge of emotion. "Yes, sir," I said.
"Any relation to Anthony and Maria Rhodes? The archaeologist and the linguist?"
My chest tightened. "They were my parents."
His face softened, the corners of his eyes creasing. "Ah. I'm sorry, my boy. They were… fine scholars. I worked with your father once in Crete. Brilliant man."
"Thank you," I said quietly.
For a heartbeat, his hand lingered on my shoulder. His voice lowered to a murmur. "Be careful in there, Nathaniel. The earth remembers more than it should. Some things refuse to stay buried, and whispers of ancient forces stir beneath the surface. Legends speak of a buried curse that, if awakened, could unravel more than just our understanding of this place. And we... we may already be too late to stop what's coming." A faint flicker of the lights overhead accompanied his warning, casting brief shadows that danced ominously across the walls. I blinked. "I'm sorry?"
I hesitated before turning away, unease crawling up my spine. An hour later, hard hats on, flashlights clipped to our vests, we followed Dr. Stavros through a tunnel carved into the mountainside. It was cool inside, the air damp and faintly metallic. The deeper we went, the fainter the sounds of the camp became until all that remained was the echo of footsteps and the occasional drip of water.
We reached a massive freight elevator built into the stone—steel cables, rusted railings, the kind of industrial thing you wouldn't expect in a site this ancient. We crowded in, the platform groaning as it descended.
When the doors opened, the breath went out of me. The chamber was enormous, lit by floodlights strung along scaffolds. Rows of pillars stretched into the dark, each etched with faded carvings. The walls were lined with alcoves where statues stood—heroes of myth, their names carved beneath in ancient Greek.
"Herakles," Rosalia whispered, pointing. The marble hero towered above us, club in hand, lion pelt draped over his shoulders. Time had worn away much of his face, but the craftsmanship was exquisite.
Next to him, Perseus was depicted mid-swing, sword raised, the faint outline of Medusa's head at his feet. Odysseus stood nearby, gaze stern, one hand resting on the prow of a ship carved from the same block of stone.
I moved among them, awe prickling at my skin. The detail was staggering—even the cracks and missing limbs couldn't hide the artistry. But something felt... off.
"Half of these look unfinished," I said, crouching beside a statue whose lower half still blended into raw stone.
Marcus nodded. "Like they stopped mid-carve."
"Or left in a hurry," Daphne added.
Dr. Stavros, a few meters ahead, glanced back. "That's one of the mysteries. We believe the sculptors abandoned the site abruptly. No sign of conflict. No fire damage. Just... absence."
We continued on, deeper into the main complex. The air grew cooler, and the sound of our footsteps was swallowed by the vastness. Then, at the end of a long staircase carved into the rock, we reached what could only be described as the heart of the temple.
As we descended deeper into the heart of the temple, the lanterns cast a soft glow, revealing a circle of statues sculpted from veined white marble. These statues shimmered faintly in the dim light, and each represented an Olympian god. They stood in majestic silence, a testament to their ancient power and reverence. These were not the Olympians widely portrayed in art and film, but rather older, more raw embodiments of their divine nature, each one capturing a blend of human flaws and divine elegance.
Aphrodite stood closest, her body neither delicate nor exaggerated, but carved with the subtle strength of a woman who knew her beauty was power. Her hair was pulled into intricate braids, the ends cascading like waves across her shoulders. One marble hand reached outward, offering something invisible, while her lips curved in that faint, knowing smile that artists had tried—and failed—for centuries to capture. Despite her perfection, a single chipped toenail marred her left foot, capturing my attention like an unfinished thought.
Beside her loomed Ares, his armor sculpted to look almost worn, the kind of detail that caught light in every groove. His eyes were narrow, not with rage, but focus—a warrior measuring his next strike. A long spear rested against the floor, its shaft polished smooth, and a Corinthian helmet sat at his feet, the plume chipped and scarred as though it had seen battle.
Hephaestus came next, the craftsman-god. He was hunched, muscular, with broad but uneven shoulders. One leg appeared slightly twisted, imperfectly balanced, yet the detail in his hands—thick-fingered, powerful, scarred—made him the most human of them all. He leaned on a massive hammer etched with concentric circles, a maker's sigil only another artisan might notice.
Hermes stood nearby, weight shifted onto one leg, his stance casual but ready to move. His caduceus rested against his shoulder, the twin serpents coiling with uncanny realism. Wings unfurled delicately from his sandals, feathers so finely chiseled they looked soft. His expression was almost playful—an eternal smirk of someone who knew more than he'd ever tell.
Across from them, Apollo's statue glowed faintly in the low light, the marble catching gold where dust had settled. His face was youthful, idealized yet gentle, his eyes turned slightly upward as though listening to a melody only he could hear. His lyre, clutched delicately in his left hand, had strings so thin and perfect they looked ready to vibrate at a touch.
Next was Artemis—twin to Apollo, but harder, sharper. Her bow was drawn halfway, tension frozen in marble, her gaze locked on some unseen prey. The folds of her tunic rippled as if caught by a phantom wind, and faint traces of pigment still clung to the fletching of her arrows—ancient color that refused to fade entirely.
Dionysus reclined lazily at the end of the hall, his pose careless yet deliberate, a chalice raised mid-toast. Grapevines curled along his arms and legs, carved so finely that they seemed almost alive. His smile was half-wild, half-wise—the kind that made you wonder if he'd seen the end of the world and decided to laugh anyway.
And at the center, towering above them all, stood Athena. Her spear was planted firmly by her side, and her shield bore the faint, ghostlike impression of a serpent. Her helm was pushed back just enough to reveal calm, calculating eyes. The sculptor had captured something impossible in her face—a blend of compassion and command, intellect and judgment. The marble around her seemed to breathe with quiet authority.
They were perfect—too perfect. The stone caught the lamplight like living skin, shadows pooling in the curves of their muscles, glints of brightness dancing in their eyes. For a heartbeat, I could've sworn their gazes flickered toward us.
And for the first time, I understood why ancient cultures revered marble as a symbol of beauty, divinity, wealth, and power. It was perfect to show the elegance of the gods.
"Aren't there some missing?" Ethan murmured.
Rosalia glanced at him. "You counted too?"
"Yeah, the children of that Titan dude, right?" he said. "So where are they?"
"Probably ahead," I said, trying not to sound as intrigued as I felt. "Temples like this usually place the higher deities deeper in."
We walked on, our voices fading against the vaulted stone.
The corridor stretched forward into darkness, the kind of darkness that seemed to breathe. The carvings on the walls grew rougher, less finished—as if the builders had stopped mid-construction. Scaffolds remained, tools rusted in place. Unfinished murals were traced across the ceiling, their paint still faintly visible beneath layers of dust.
I felt something tighten in my chest. Not fear, exactly. Just... recognition.
The others moved ahead, their flashlights bobbing like stars in the night sky. I lingered for a moment, fingers brushing against the cold stone of a half-carved relief.
A line of ancient Greek caught my eye—so faint it was almost gone. I squinted, tracing the letters.
"They who once ruled the heavens now rest below, their sacrifice remembered in stone."
I shivered.
Dr. Stavros's words echoed faintly in my head: The earth remembers more than it should.
I didn't know what he meant, or why it made my stomach twist the way it did. But as we stepped deeper into that buried temple, surrounded by the ghosts of forgotten gods, I couldn't shake the feeling that the entire temple was holding its breath. A shadow seemed to slip past just beyond the reach of our lights, a whisper of cold air brushing my cheek. Then, without warning, there was a sharp, bone-deep chill that stopped me mid-thought. The temperature plummeted as though the warmth had been sucked from the air, leaving us momentarily breathless. The distant rumble of thunder, out of place in the cavern's depths, sent a shiver down my spine. Everything seemed to pause, as though caught in time, waiting for the inevitable to unfold.