Someone had stuck a Greek flag into a cracked column, which struck Cassian as a little optimistic given half the thing was held together by sticking charms.

The group closest to the site turned as they approached.

“Professor Rosier. Professor Babbling!” A stout man with olive skin and an impressive moustache waved them over. His white robes were smudged at the hem. “At last. We thought you might not come, Master Ji’s message only reached us this morning.”

“Same,” she said, stepping forward with a quick smile. “Good to see you again, Leontis.”

Cassian trailed behind, hands shoved in his pockets. Some of the scholars here were familiar from Norway or that dig in China last year. A few gave him small nods, others stared outright.

One younger wizard, French, judging by the lilt of his “Bonjour” murmured something to his colleague, eyes flicking toward Cassian like he wasn’t sure whether to greet him or ask for a signed copy of a disaster report.

Bathsheda was already holding a parchment someone shoved at her. “Zeus’s temple, you said? But the foundation is far too shallow for a traditional Olympian layout.”

“It is odd,” Leontis admitted. “The inscriptions suggest votive offerings… but the site dates are early. Pre-Classical.”

Cassian peered over her shoulder, eyes scanning the runic markings. “Or it is not a temple at all. Could be a waystation or shrine. The Greeks had a habit of upgrading small sacred spaces into full temples once the neighbours caught on.”

Leontis scratched his beard. “Hm. Perhaps. Still… there’s a pulse of old magic in the inner chamber. We sent out notice for experts, and weren’t expecting Master Ji to show interest. None of our wards hold for long, honestly, we are a little lost.”

Cassian sighed. “Always a pulse, isn’t there? It’s never a sensible broom cupboard.”

A woman in crimson robes shot him a sharp look. “Do you take any of this seriously?”

“Only the parts that can’t kill me.” He stepped aside to let two scholars drag a crate past. “Which, judging by your face, is none of it.”

Bathsheda’s lips twitched faintly, but she kept her eyes on the map.

Cassian’s Ancient Greek was top notch. He was quite interested in his last life. He’d treated the Olympian gods as colourful bedtime stories, yes, not actual entities who might’ve been tossing lightning bolts for fun, but still researched thoroughly.

He crouched near the outer column, fingers brushing over a cracked inscription. The marble was warm from the sun, the carved letters softened by centuries of wind and sand, but still deep.

“This isn’t temple-standard,” she muttered. “No altar pit, proportions all wrong. And this—” she tapped the glyph, “—is seafaring. Whoever built this wasn’t praising Zeus. They were binding something far older.” She knelt beside him, her eyes flicking over the markings. “Minoan?”

“Maybe. Or an even older cult that the Minoans borrowed from. The Greeks were excellent at slapping a new name on an old god and pretending they’d invented the lot.”

Leontis hovered nearby, his moustache twitching. “You seriously think it predates Zeus?”

Cassian snorted softly. “Wouldn’t be the first time he’s been upstaged. Zeus probably nicked this place from someone he threw in a pit.”

The crimson-robed woman crossed her arms. “Then why does the magic resonate like Olympian wards?”

“Because layers, my dear,” Cassian said, not looking up. “Like onion skins. You lot feel the freshest enchantment and assume it’s the original. But scratch deeper, and you will find something nastier humming underneath.”

Bathsheda traced a faint spiral etched into the stone. “I can feel it too. It’s not protective magic. More like… binding.”

Cassian’s lips twitched. “Exactly. Someone tried very hard to keep whatever is in there from wandering off.”

Leontis shifted his weight, unease flickering in his eyes. “And you think we should unseal it?”

He rubbed his chin. “Absolutely not. But you lot aren’t going to listen, are you? Too eager to pry the lid off and see what’s inside. I’ll wager whatever’s in there isn’t even breathing anymore but my expert deduction is, bury it and forget it.”

Leontis shifted uncomfortably, glancing towards the inner chamber. The crimson-robed witch kept her arms folded, sharp eyes fixed on Cassian watching him to say something stupid.

Bathsheda crouched lower, brushing dust from the glyphs. “The wards are degrading fast. If we leave it sealed, there’s no telling how long the binding will hold.”

Cassian squatted beside her, resting an elbow on her knee. “Then reinforce it. Draw a containment ring, toss in every stabilising charm in the book, and let the thing rot in peace. If someone buried it, odds are they had a bloody good reason. The Ancient Greek did the same. They slapped their seals on top of old ones.”

“That’s easy to say,” Leontis muttered. “But we were sent to investigate.”

“Ah yes, the Ministry loves a good poke, don’t they? Poke first, panic later.” Cassian dusted another glyph on the ground with his brush. “Just don’t come crying to me when your lot ends up as cautionary footnotes in some dusty tome. I am just here as a guest linguist and historian.”

Bathsheda gave him the look, the kind that said helpful comments only, please.

Cassian sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Well, I am not in charge, so here’s my helpful suggestion. Don’t rush. From what I can see, there’s a story buried in those runes. Unpack that first, unless you are eager to end up face-to-face with a Titan. Or something nastier. My task is done here, let’s go.”

Bathsheda shot him a look.

He groaned, “Fine. A little longer.”

Leontis glanced between them. The crimson-robed witch didn’t flinch. “We’ve studied the runes for days. The bindings won’t hold much longer. If something dangerous is in there, wouldn’t it be smarter to deal with it now before it breaks free on its own?”

Cassian turned to her, brows raised. “Smart? No. Binding runes don’t degrade overnight. They’ve held for centuries… likely they will manage another year or two. Maybe use that time to read before you blow the place open.”

Leontis rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to the shadowed archway ahead. “We were authorised to investigate. If we back out now, the Ministry will send someone less qualified. Someone…” He hesitated. “More reckless.”

Cassian gave a sharp laugh. “Reckless? What do you call poking at old wards with a stick?”

The French wizard near the crates murmured something under his breath, his eyes cutting toward Cassian.

“Go on,” Cassian said without turning, his voice deceptively mild. “Say it louder so I can hear if it’s worth responding to.”

The man stiffened, looked away.

Bathsheda shifted back on her heels. “Cassian’s right about one thing. We don’t know enough yet.”

Leontis gathered the others into a huddle near the crates as they started hashing out their next steps. The discussion felt like it might drag on for a while… half of them looked ready to argue, the rest too tired to care.

Cassian and Bathsheda inspected the runes and notes the others had gathered over the weeks since the ruins had been discovered. Parchments lay scattered across crates, ink smudges and hurried sketches showing what little progress had been made. Most of it was rubbish, guesses scribbled in half-familiar glyphs. He picked up one scroll, squinting at the frantic annotations.

“Someone really thought this one meant blessing of the harvest?” Cassian muttered.

“That’s not wheat, it’s a binding spiral. About as cheerful as a coffin lid.” Bathsheda leaned over his shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line.

He hummed, “Runes are your specialty.”

She gave a light shrug. Cassian knew better than to pretend otherwise. He’d been grinding through books and notes these last few years, but he wasn’t anywhere near her level. Not yet. For all his effort, he still felt like a student fresh off his OWLs, staring at glyphs and hoping they didn’t accidentally summon a basilisk.

“Don’t pout,” she said, not looking up from the parchment. “You’re catching up quicker than most would.”

“I am pouting on the inside. It is more dignified,” he muttered, crouching lower to study another line of weathered symbols.

He racked his brain, trying to pin down what it could be. Best guess? One of the punished Titans. If they were real. After Norway, he’d started digging deeper into ancient pantheons. Some believed they were just powerful witches and wizards, dressed up as gods in old tales. Others swore they were actual deities who handed magic down to humanity. And plenty argued it was all just myth. But then again, Frost Trolls were real. So who was he to rule out Thor swinging his hammer about?

“Definitely not Olympian,” he said. “This is older. Way older. Whoever put this here wasn’t praising Zeus, they were trying to keep something locked in.”

Bathsheda ran her fingers lightly over another rune. “I said that already.”

“Yes, but now I’ve said it aloud, which makes it official.”

She gave him a look but didn’t argue.

Leontis came back looking grim but resolved. They’d reached a decision… rip the runes apart, open the chamber, see what was inside. Still, he’d agreed to call in a Hit-Wizard squad. “Precautionary,” he said. Cassian called it “inviting more targets to the party.”

The group clustered near the stone arch. Wands out, muttering charms under their breath. The air felt heavier now, the kind of weight that settles in your ribs and makes breathing feel like a mistake. Cassian stayed a step back, watching the crimson-robed witch sweep her wand over a crumbling glyph. A faint crackle ran through the stone.

“Outer bindings are frayed,” she murmured.

Not a Spoiler, Just an image! ↓

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Author Rant ↓ 

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The absence is so consistent, I’m tempted to grade it.

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