The Crossroads Compass – Prologue
Thalia
I’m pretty sure I’ve died and gone to Instagram heaven.
Heliosmari is exactly what the doctor ordered — if the doctor prescribed sun-drenched streets, the intoxicating aroma of fresh-baked spanakopita, and enough charm to make even the most jaded New Yorker (aka me) swoon. It’s only my second day here, and I’m already composing break-up texts to the Big Apple in my head.
Sorry, New York. It’s not you, it’s… okay, it’s definitely you.
As I stroll down the cobblestone street, I let my mind wander and think about how I ended up here. The memory of my last day at work flashes through my mind, and I cringe. Who knew that telling your boss to shove his KPIs where the sun doesn’t shine could be so cathartic? And terrifying.
And potentially career-ending.
“Real smooth, Thalia,” I mutter to myself. “Nothing says ‘hire me’ like a viral video of you flipping off the CEO.”
But as I breathe in the salty sea air and feel the warm Greek sun on my face, I can’t bring myself to regret it. It was worth it. Sure, I’m unemployed and my savings account is giving me the side-eye, but I’m in freaking Greece. Sometimes you’ve got to burn a few bridges to light your way to paradise, right?
I meander down a narrow street, letting my fingers trail along the sun-warmed stucco walls. The town is a postcard come to life. Bougainvillea spills over wrought-iron balconies, its vibrant pink blossoms a stark contrast to the whitewashed buildings. A group of old men sits outside a taverna, playing backgammon and arguing good-naturedly in rapid-fire Greek.
To my left, a tiny bakery showcases a window full of baklava and kataifi, the phyllo pastry glistening with honey. My stomach growls in appreciation, reminding me that I skipped breakfast in my eagerness to explore. To my right, a small art gallery displays paintings of the local scenery. I make a mental note to come back later and pretend I can afford them.
A chorus of clinking glasses and animated Greek chatter spills from a nearby café. For a moment, I consider stopping for an iced coffee, but the siren call of exploration tugs me onward.
That’s when I see it — a tiny antique shop wedged between a souvenir stand and a gyro place. Its windows are so clouded with age, they look like they’re sporting cataracts. A hand-painted sign above the door proclaims “Γεώργιος Αντίκες” (Georgios Antikes) in faded gold letters.
Well, hello there, mysterious portal to the past.
I push open the creaky door.
The musty scent of old books and polished wood envelops me as I step inside. Dim light filters through the grimy windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the air like tiny, geriatric fairies. Every surface is crowded with relics of bygone eras — tarnished silverware, yellowed maps, and what I’m pretty sure is a mummified cat. (Note to self: Do NOT pet the kitty.)
“Kalimera!” a voice croaks from the shadows, nearly giving me a heart attack.
“Jesus, Mary, and Cher!” I yelp, clutching my chest. My heart is ready to up and run away. Shit, I didn’t think anyone was that close.
An elderly man shuffles into view, his face a topographical map of wrinkles. He peers at me through thick glasses that magnify his eyes to owlish proportions.
“Ah, Amerikanos,” he says, switching to heavily accented English. “Welcome, welcome. I am Georgios. You like my treasures, ne?”
“They’re… something,” I manage, trying not to sneeze as I accidentally inhale a lungful of history.
Georgios beams at me, apparently taking my diplomatic response as high praise. “You have good eye,” he says, nodding sagely. “Not like other tourists. They want plastic Parthenons and ‘This is Sparta!’ t-shirts.” He shakes his head disapprovingly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, eyeing a particularly garish Medusa snow globe. “I think I could rock a ‘Gyro Hero’ tank top.”
Georgios looks at me blankly for a moment before breaking into a wheezy laugh. “Ah, American humor! Very good, very good. Come, let me show you real treasures.”
He leads me deeper into the shop, pointing out various items along the way. There’s a set of worry beads that supposedly belonged to a famous Greek politician (“He worry a lot, this one. Many scandals.”), a collection of ancient coins (“Not for sale. Unless you have very, very big wallet.”), and a dusty old vase that Georgios claims is from the Minoan period.
“Wow,” I say, peering at the intricate designs. “That’s incredible. It must be worth a fortune.”
Georgios winks at me. “Or very good replica. Who knows? Mystery is half the fun, ne?”
I laugh, warming up to this mischievous old man. As I turn to look at a shelf of old books, my elbow knocks against something. Something metallic clatters, and I freeze, terrified I’ve just destroyed some priceless artifact.
I look down to figure out what I’ve broken, and my gaze slips to a small brass compass nestled on a faded velvet cushion.
“Ooooh. What’s that?” I’m drawn to it like a moth to a really old, potentially tetanus-inducing flame.
“Oh, that old thing,” Georgios says, noticing my interest. “Beautiful, but useless. Never points north, no matter what I do.”
I pick up the compass, surprised by its weight. The edge is covered in intricate engravings — mountains, seas, forests, and cities in miniature. But it’s the face that really catches my eye. Instead of cardinal directions, there are strange symbols. I don’t recognize any of them.
“How much?” I ask, already mentally calculating how many souvlaki dinners I’ll have to skip to afford it.
Georgios waves a gnarled hand. “For you? A special price. This compass, it has caused me nothing but frustration. Take it off my hands, and I will be happy.”
“Frustration?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a compass. How frustrating can it be?”
Georgios launches into a dramatic tale of how he acquired the compass from a mysterious sailor who claimed it had guided him to untold wonders. “But for me?” he says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “It only guides me to headaches. I try to fix, but nothing works. North, south, east, west — all Greek to this compass!”
I can’t help but chuckle at his unintentional pun. “Well,” I say, turning the compass over in my hands, “maybe it’s not meant to point to cardinal directions. Maybe it points to something else.”
Georgios eyes me curiously. “Like what?”
I shrug, feeling a bit silly. “I don’t know. Adventure? Destiny? The best souvlaki in town?”
He barks out a laugh. “You have imagination, I give you that. Okay, okay. Let’s make a deal.”
We haggle for a few minutes, more out of tradition than necessity. Georgios starts with a price that would make a New York real estate agent blush, and I counter with an offer that wouldn’t cover the cost of the velvet cushion it’s sitting on. We go back and forth, each of us playing our roles with gusto.
“You drive hard bargain,” Georgios says finally, shaking his head in mock despair. “My wife will kill me. My children will starve. But for you, I make this sacrifice.”
In the end, I walk out with the compass for a price that would barely buy a latte back home. As I step back into the sunlight, I feel like I’ve just done something momentous. I haggled! In Greece! It’s ridiculous, of course. It’s just a broken antique, not a magic talisman or a portal to another world.
I tuck the compass into my bag and decide that now’s the perfect time to backtrack to that café. More shopping can wait for later.
I have relaxing to do.
You have been reading The Crossroads Compass...
When I flipped off my CEO and went viral, a trip to Greece was supposed to help me find myself. I never expected to find a god instead.
I’m Thalia Moretti, and my life was perfectly mundane until I met Asher—a mysterious stranger with killer looks and an encyclopedic knowledge of ancient Greek history. Our whirlwind romance across the islands feels too good to be true.
Turns out, it is.
Asher isn’t just devastatingly charming—he’s Hermes, the immortal messenger god moonlighting as a world-famous rock star. And that antique compass I bought on impulse? It’s a divine artifact that every power-hungry minor god wants to get their hands on.
Now I’m caught between jealous ex-goddesses, mythological conspiracies, and my own awakening powers as we race to rally the scattered gods of Olympus. Because when divine politics threaten both worlds, apparently a sarcastic social media manager from Brooklyn is exactly what the universe ordered.
Sometimes the best way to find yourself is to lose yourself completely—preferably with a god who looks incredible in tight jeans.
The Crossroads Compass is “Mamma Mia!” meets Greek mythology with a rock star god romance.
