Divine Retribution | Luke Castellan

3. T is for Trauma

The brunette boy fell into step behind him, his thoughts still swirling with questions and uncertainty. 

"Trust your instincts," his mentor advised, his voice steady and reassuring. "The path ahead will be fraught with danger, but if you remain focused and keep your head about you, you will prevail."

Luke nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on the ground as he absorbed Chiron's words. He knew that the journey ahead would test his mettle in ways he couldn't even begin to imagine, but he was determined to rise to the challenge. 

As they reached the bottom of the staircase leading to the attic, Chiron came to a halt, and Luke instinctively stopped beside him, his eyes scanning the structure before them. 

"There are some paths that you must walk alone, Luke. Places where no one else can tread, where you must find your way alone."

Luke knew that Chiron spoke of the staircase, leading to the Oracle who would give him the prophecy for his quest, but something in the centaur's ancient eyes spoke of other places. He had that indecipherable look in his eyes again, as if he saw things inside of Luke that he himself wasn't privy to, things that seemed to age him past his centuries. 

With a determined resolve, he began to ascend the staircase, each step echoing loudly in the cavernous space of the Big House.

Four flights up, the stairs came to an abrupt end beneath a weathered green trapdoor, its paint chipped and peeling. Luke hesitated for a moment, his hand trembling slightly as he reached out to grasp the cord dangling from the door. With a hesitant tug, the trapdoor swung down with a creak, revealing a rickety wooden ladder that clattered into place.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for what lay ahead, the warm air wafting from the attic carrying the faint scent of mildew and rotten wood, mingled with something else—an elusive scent that tugged at the edges of his memory, but couldn't quite be placed yet.

Bracing himself, Luke began to ascend the ladder, the wooden rungs groaning beneath his weight as he climbed higher and higher. With each step, the unease in the pit of his stomach grew, a sense of foreboding settling over him like a heavy shroud.

Finally, he reached the top, pushing open the trapdoor and stepping into the dimly lit attic beyond. The space was filled with a jumble of Greek hero junk—armour stands draped in cobwebs, shields marred by rust, and old leather steamer trunks adorned with stickers bearing the names of mythical lands: ITHAKA, CIRCE'S ISLE, LAND OF THE AMAZONS.

As he navigated through the maze of artifacts, Luke couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with unease. Every shadow seemed to whisper secrets of times long past, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of hopelessness. 

Was this the life of a hero? Reduced to a few storage boxes in a dusty old attic. Sure the myths of glory and gore immortalized them to some degree, but this was their reality. This was going to be his reality. 

By the window, sitting on a wooden tripod stool, was the most gruesome memento of all: a mummy. Not the wrapped-in-cloth kind, but an actual body shrivelled to a husk. She wore a tie-dyed sundress, an abundance of beaded necklaces, and a headband over long black hair. The skin of her face was thin and leathery over her skull, and her eyes were glassy white slits, as if the real eyes had been replaced by marbles. 

Looking at her sent chills up Luke's back, made worse when she sat up on her stool and her jaw cracked open. A green mist poured from the mummy's mouth, coiling over the floor in thick tendrils, hissing like a multitude of snakes. Behind him, the trapdoor slammed shut, and Luke had a feeling that it would not open until this thing was done with him.