Only a sliver of light shined through the tiny basement window. He could hardly move. He was so exhausted and all of his muscles ached—from the stiff cords in his neck, like stretched rope—all the way down to his toes. He kept cramping up. Grabbing for the glass of water that sat on his nightstand, he tried to drink, but the glass was empty. When he stood up, instead of his muscles and bones supporting him, they seemed to turn to jelly and he crumpled to the cold, cement floor. Dazed and shaken, he sat there, trying to figure out what was wrong. And then he remembered. His trip to hell. How could it have slipped his mind, even for a moment? He rested his head against the bed, tempted to cry at the debacle of his failed mission. He’d almost had Berith. Almost. He’d been so close, and then to be ripped away… Surely, the whole underworld knew of his failure. He shouldn’t care, but he needed them to think he was unvanquishable. Unstoppable.
