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Chapter - 3: Blood of Change
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[Great Hall]
The River Styx flows slow and relentless until it merges into the great pool that occupies the center of the atrium of my family's House. For this very reason, reaching it by swimming was not difficult for me. The icy water wrapped around me like a shroud, but the path was familiar, etched into my memory by countless returns.
Every time my body is destroyed, it is there that I return. A cycle that repeats with disarming regularity. I open my eyes in the same place, enveloped in the motionless silence that only my House can offer.
It has become a ritual. A deeply rooted habit: letting myself sink into the dark current of the Pool. A rare privilege. Only a few among the staff, a handful of exceptional guests and, of course, I — the firstborn — have the right to use the Pool in that way.
But in the end, I am always the only one who returns in that way. The only one who crosses those black waters to come back to the House, while the Reapers on duty watch in silence, never interfering.
Always. Again and again.
It doesn't matter how I die. Pierced, incinerated, torn to pieces… The dark water welcomes me every time, reassembles what remains of me and restores me to life. As if I were an integral part of this place, as if my being were intertwined with the very essence of the Underworld.
After all, this House is a sacred place. It doesn't appear on any map, and it lies in the deepest recesses of the Underworld. A place carved in stone and time. The personal domain of my father: Hades, the Lord of the Dead.
It was designed by Daedalus. Yes, that Daedalus — the architect of the Labyrinth, the one who was imprisoned by Minos together with his son Icarus, the boy who flew too close to the sun.
In exchange for a dark pact whose details I ignore (and honestly prefer not to know), he agreed to build the House of Hades. Another deal among the many sealed in the depths of the Underworld.
Better not to pry for the sake of my sanity.
The House hosts our bloodline — the "family," as it is called with fearful deference — the servants, the Shades, and a host of spirits my father personally chose to take care of the work.
Some were great heroes in life. Others, mere obedient souls, fished out of the waters of the Styx.
Walking through its intricate corridors, it is impossible not to feel the wailing of the Shades. They twist, they sigh, they despair over the life lost and the death that claimed them. Sometimes they gather in long silent lines, part of the funeral procession my father oversees with his usual, impenetrable expression.
"Fortunately, I am not a dead man," I often murmur with a wry smile as I cross the Great Hall. The mid-ranked Reapers stop and bow respectfully as I pass.
Their rank was easy to distinguish since it only took a glance at the color of their robes: the darker they are, the higher the rank.
Not only does each of them wield a Death Scythe: a weapon imbued with curses, capable of cutting not only life, but also the soul, severing all ties to the cycle of reincarnation.
But even with such a weapon in hand, it was evident in their eyes — that mixture of deference and fear that accompanied their every movement. Not all that surprising, really. Even if many consider me "the rebellious son," I am still a god.
The designated heir to the throne of the Underworld.
My father has had many children: demigod half-brothers, younger sisters, fruits of various unions. Most were born during the long periods when my mother, Persephone, stayed with her mother, Demeter.
But the firstborn — that's me.
And even though I've never truly sought the throne, the truth is that — whether I want it or not — I am the most suited to rule. So said Achilles, my mentor and weapons master. And, to my surprise, my mother seems to agree.
Especially when you consider the personalities of my lovely little sisters.
Lovely, sure. But they were little brats...
But I could understand them, in the end. They too didn't have permission to go to the surface very often. Our father was inflexible on that point: no one leaves the Underworld without valid justification, something he himself recognizes as a sufficient reason.
And yet, while my sisters were allowed those rare and precious visits to the surface, I remained here, trapped by a deeper, invisible bond.
I didn't feel envy or jealousy toward them; on the contrary, I was genuinely happy they could see what the outside world had to offer. But inside me grew a restless longing, the desire for change, for something to break that immutable cycle.
It was that very need for transformation that had led me there, in front of my father's office door. Before me, two Reapers stood guard in silence, as still as statues carved in marble, their gaze relentless and devoid of emotion.
Their presence was so imposing that, had I not been the prince of the Underworld, I would never have had the courage to cross that threshold.
And those two… oh, I knew them all too well. In fact, who didn't know them in this hell?
They were guards, judges, and executioners — all in one.
"Lord Zagreus."
"Prince… Zagreus."
Pluto and Orcus. Supreme-ranked Reapers. Direct servants of my father. Their presence was synonymous with absolute authority beneath my family, to be clear no one dared disobey their orders.
No one survived after facing them.
Pluto wore a robe that seemed to absorb all light and warmth around him. It was adorned with decorations that gave him the sinister appearance of a dark clown. A disturbing mask covered his entire face, hiding all emotion.
His scythe was an abomination — a living weapon, made of twisted blades and black tentacles that looked ripped from the body of a dying creature.
Looking at it for too long caused nausea.
Orcus, on the other hand, appeared human. Too human, and precisely for that reason, more unsettling. Short gray hair, dull gold eyes, an impassive face.
He wore a black-violet armor, medieval in appearance, yet intact as if freshly forged. Words weren't needed: his mere presence was enough to make even the most seasoned Reapers tremble.
"You're looking well," I said with a casual smile, trying to ignore Pluto's skeletal body and that scythe that seemed to be staring at me.
"I appreciate your interest, Prince Zagreus," Pluto replied with his usual cold, emotionless voice. And yet, distant as it was, I could detect a hint of respect and recognition in his tone.
Talking with Pluto was always a challenge. Not that I minded trying, but having a conversation with him without a concrete subject was nearly impossible.
So I turned to Orcus, seizing a rare opportunity for normalcy. "How are your wife and Bennia?" I asked, genuinely curious.
For a moment, just a moment, the stone mask on Orcus's face cracked. His lips hinted at a smile, before closing again as if nothing had happened.
"They are well. Thank you for asking. Bennia speaks of you often. If it's not too much trouble, my wife and I would be honored to host you for dinner, when you have time."
"It would be a pleasure. After all, Bennia is a dear friend of mine," I replied with a sincere smile, remembering the little Reaper — a loli with a lively spirit, in stark contrast to the dark world surrounding me.
For a moment, Orcus truly smiled. It wasn't a gesture of courtesy, nor one due to his rank. It was genuine. Perhaps the first I'd seen from him in a long time.
"It comforts me to know my daughter is in your hands, my prince," he said in a calm voice filled with gratitude, the kind only a father can express.
"You can rest assured. With me, she is safe." I assured him with a firm voice, more for him than for myself.
His gaze turned serious again, but without hostility. He looked tired. "I hope so. She's stubborn, impulsive, and talks too much when she's nervous. But she's all I have."
"I know her," I replied with a half-smile. "And she's also much stronger than people think."
Orcus nodded slowly, almost reluctantly, as if deep down he knew it was true but wasn't ready to admit it out loud.
"She takes after her mother," he murmured, barely audible.
"I guess that's either a good or a bad thing, depending on the day." I couldn't help but joke, more to lighten the mood than out of any real irony.
For the first time, he chuckled. Brief, dry, but genuine. "Perhaps both."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but heavy. Laden with things left unsaid and a past we both carried on our shoulders. But my smile slowly faded, like a candle snuffed out by a gust of wind.
I stared at the great door before me. The entrance to Hades' Sancta Sanctorum. Beyond those thresholds, my father ruled the Underworld. It was the heart of his domain, where time seemed to bend, and every soul — living or dead — felt the weight of his authority.
"We can continue this conversation later. I have to go ask something important to that skull-headed bastard," I joked, but this time, there wasn't a trace of a smile on my lips.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I noticed the expressions of the two Reapers stiffen. A shadow of fear passed through their eyes. They knew well that only two people in the entire Underworld could afford to speak to Lord Hades like that: my mother and I.
After a moment of hesitation, they bowed respectfully and stepped aside. One of them, without saying a word, pushed both hands against the heavy doors, which creaked open with a deep groan, revealing the long corridor that led to the throne room.
I took a step forward, then another, the sound of my sandals echoing on the dark marble floor. I could have made a snide remark, as was my habit.
A sarcastic quip, maybe. But I held back.
Because, despite being known as the "rebellious prince," I was still a prince. That title wasn't just a label — it was a burden, a responsibility.
It was everything I represented.
I pushed those thoughts aside with a deep breath and crossed the threshold. Behind me, the Reapers shut the doors with a dull thud.The corridor stretching out before me was long, silent, and cold.
The walls were carved from black stone, smooth as obsidian. On the floor, a crimson carpet stretched like a river of blood, decorated with golden embroidery and embedded gems that sparkled in the flickering torchlight.
At the end of the corridor, seated on a throne carved from darkness itself, was him.
My father.
A colossal figure, almost supernatural, with shoulders broad as pillars and arms that looked chiseled from marble. His pale skin had ashen undertones, and his face was hard, sharp as a blade.
His crimson eyes burned with the intensity of an eternal furnace. The long black beard and the neatly kept hair that framed his forehead gave him a regal and untouchable air.
It was him. Hades, Lord of the Dead. One of the ancient Olympian gods, undisputed ruler of the Underworld.
My father.
He didn't even look up. He was absorbed in reading a stack of documents: reports on disturbances among the souls, territorial disputes, requests for new chambers in the deeper sectors.
At least those seated at his sides showed a minimum of courtesy at my presence.
To his left was the House Contractor, that enigmatic creature responsible for every reconstruction in the Underworld. Silent as ever, he watched me with hollow eyes carved from stone.
To the right of the throne sat Orpheus, the court musician.
Once a legend among mortals, Orpheus was the man who defied the gods for love, descending into these depths to reclaim the soul of his beloved Eurydice.
He failed in his quest, but his music moved Hades enough to earn a place here, in his court.
Now he is a melancholy shadow of the man he once was. His eyes held a sadness that couldn't be put into words, and yet… every time he played, even the stones seemed to listen.
I had always felt empathy for him. In him, I saw a reflection of my own struggle: the will to change a fate that seemed already written.
It was for that reason I once helped him reunite with his muse, spending every favor and ounce of power at my disposal. That day, their music filled every hall of the House with aching beauty.
For a moment, even the Underworld stopped its groaning.
It was one of the rare moments in which this place — built on silence and suffering — seemed almost… alive.
Returning to my father, his indifference didn't surprise me. He didn't look up, didn't so much as acknowledge my presence. He was always like that—consumed by his duties as a sovereign, buried in ledgers, reports, and the endless complaints of tormented souls.
All that administration seemed to matter more to him than his own family.
Except, of course, for my mother.
For her, he would have set down his pen. He would have stopped time, if he could. She was the only person in the world for whom he showed anything resembling love.
For everyone else, there was only duty, control, distance.
As always, I chose to ignore his coldness. It was pointless to seek something he wasn't willing to give. So I waited for him to address me, as he always did: calling me by name only when he deemed it necessary, never before.
In the meantime, my eyes settled on a much warmer figure beside the throne.
Cerberus.
The legendary three-headed dog, guardian of the Underworld. An imposing creature, born from the union of Typhon and Echidna, brother of the Hydra and the Chimera. A beast that had terrified mortals for centuries and sent even the most stubborn spirits fleeing.
But not with me.
Cerberus wasn't just the gatekeeper of Hades. He was also, in a way, my friend. A silent ally who had watched me grow, a giant furball with three heads and a weakness for ear scratches and his favorite snack, dried Sartylus.
"Hey, beautiful, how are you today?" I said with a smile as I approached, reaching out a hand toward his central head.
One of the heads—the most affectionate of the three—tilted its snout and licked my cheek with a warm, rough tongue. The other two wagged excitedly, whining like puppies—one snorting, the other wagging its tail energetically.
I laughed softly, dropping to my knees beside him. "Now that's a welcome—way better than the one over there, huh?" I murmured, casting a glance toward the throne where my father still pretended not to notice me.
Cerberus answered with a low whine, and one of his heads rested on my shoulder, heavy and warm, as if to comfort me. The other two sniffed at my chest and side, searching for the Sartylus pouch hidden beneath my belt.
"You greedy fluffballs," I said, pulling out the pouch with a conspiratorial grin. "But fine—only because I need a little comfort myself today."
I broke off a piece of the food and tossed it to them. The three heads shared it with deadly efficiency, each one taking a fragment in a way that was utterly adorable—without a single quarrel.
Then I leaned into the beast's side, burying my face into his warm, dark fur. Cerberus was massive, but he knew how to adjust his strength. A paw gently rested across my legs, pulling me into a monstrously tender embrace.
Finally, disturbed by the sounds, Hades slowly lifted his gaze from his documents. Without even looking directly at me, he spoke in a tone that tried to feign empathy but clearly betrayed his weariness.
"For what reason must I have your presence before me, Zagreus? If you've come to help, you can take the papers to my right—they are damned souls awaiting judgment."
I sighed, struggling to suppress a hint of frustration, but maintained a calm, resolute smile. "As usual, you're buried in work, Father. But I'm not here for that."
Hades finally looked away from the documents and studied me with intense eyes, full of judgment and hidden thoughts. His voice, laced with authority and subtle sarcasm, broke the silence: "Then why are you here, if not to assist me?"
There was no point in wasting time with unnecessary wordplay. I got straight to the point. "I need your help, Father. I want you to put me in contact with a blacksmith."
His eyes widened for a moment, caught off guard. But he said nothing at first. He merely narrowed his eyes, examining me with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. Then he spoke slowly, with measured tone: "A blacksmith? And what do you want from a blacksmith, my son?"
I drew a deep breath, keeping my gaze fixed on his. This wasn't a moment for hesitation. "A divine weapon—or rather, a divine symbol," I said firmly, without a shred of doubt. "I believe it's time for me to learn more about the gifts I carry within. And I think this could help guide me along my path."
A moment of silence followed.
My father's gaze grew deeper, more serious. He slowly set aside his documents, as if he intended to read the truth in my words, trying to understand just how committed I truly was.
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