The sun had barely crested the horizon when Tiresias stumbled on the temple steps, his hand pressed tightly to his chest. The air was crisp, but his breath came ragged, every exhale thick with pain. He coughed once—then again—and the sound echoed unnaturally through the sacred grove.

A splatter of blood bloomed on his palm.

He stared at it, dazed, as crimson dripped between his fingers and onto the marble. A tremble overtook his small frame.

From the sky, a sudden shimmer of light—then a gust of wind, and Hermes was there, sandals skimming the earth as he ran. The messenger god's eyes were wide with panic.

“Tiresias!” Hermes dropped to his knees beside him. “No—no, no, no—what happened? You weren’t supposed to—”

“I saw it,” Tiresias whispered, barely able to speak. “I saw… the end.”

“You don’t get to say things like that.” Hermes grabbed him, cradling the frail prophet against his chest. “You’re not allowed. You’re the one who knows. You see everything. You survive everything. You can’t just—” His voice broke. “You can’t leave me.”

Blood stained Hermes’ arms now, warm and terrifyingly real. He pressed his cheek against Tiresias’s damp forehead, eyes shut tightly, as if he could will this all away with sheer force of will.

Tiresias coughed again, weakly. “I’m sorry… I didn’t see this.”

Hermes shook his head, voice shaking. “Then I’ll find someone who can. I’ll go to Apollo, to Asclepius—I’ll threaten the Fates if I have to—just hold on, please.”

The prophet’s small fingers curled around Hermes’ wrist, barely holding on.

“You always run so fast…” Tiresias managed a faint smile. “Don’t be late.”

Hermes blinked away tears. “Never.”