Hermes adjusts his grip on the soul's wrist, feeling it thrash against him like a caught fish. The shade screams that she isn't ready, that her children still need her, that the gods have made a mistake. Each word costs him seconds. Zeus is waiting for news from the eastern front — news that should have reached Olympus three minutes ago. The woman's translucent fingers clutch a wedding ring, the gold band and diamond catching light that shouldn't exist in this gray place between worlds. She won't let go of it. Hermes has seen this before — objects that anchor souls to the living realm, making them fight the crossing. He could force her through the black marble gates ahead, crowned with their golden skulls and twisted vines, but force means more time lost. His sandals feel heavier with each passing moment. A white feather drifts down from his left sandal, settling on the cracked earth. He stares at it. The feather shouldn't fall — not unless the divine speed woven into the sandals is failing. Not unless he's been standing still too long. The shade is still crying about her children, but Hermes isn't listening anymore. He's watching that feather on the ground like it's evidence at a trial. He releases her wrist. The soul stumbles back, confused, still gripping her ring. Hermes turns toward Olympus without another word, leaving her on this side of the gates. Zeus can wait one more minute for his war update. Some delays, he's learning, teach you what speed really costs.