Blood clings to his hands, stubborn even as the river pulls it away, swirling in faint ribbons of red. Zagreus scrubs at his fingers, watching as the clear water clouds, tinged with pink before it disappears downstream.

He could cleanse himself with a mere thought, will the blood away in an instant, but he doesn’t bother. He’s in no rush. The lake is quiet, the surface still, a rare kind of peace he isn’t used to. He rarely leaves the Underworld—maybe that’s why he lingers, letting the water do the work, letting himself just be for a moment.