Chapter Text
He woke up in his room at Westover Hall.
The first thing Nico noticed was the rough, uneven texture of the ceiling above him, painted an unremarkable shade of off-white. He blinked once, then twice, his vision swimming as reality settled in. The sound of his own breathing filled his ears, shallow and steady.
This wasn’t what he’d expected.
The cold embrace of death, a journey to the Underworld, his father awaiting him in the throne room—those, he’d been ready for. Those made sense as he’d lain there, crumpled and broken in a puddle of his own blood. But this? A scratchy blanket on a stiff mattress? The faint smell of mildew and the distant hum of the radiator in the corner?
Nico turned his head slightly, wincing at the phantom ache in his side, half-expecting to see the wound still bleeding. Instead, there was nothing. No blood-soaked shirt, no gaping injury, just smooth, unblemished skin.
For a moment, he let himself believe it had all been a dream—the monster, the ambush, the way his body had felt so terribly small and fragile as it failed him. But the taste of blood still lingered in his mouth, sharp and metallic, and his fingers curled instinctively at the memory of the cold, wet ground.
Sitting up was harder than it should’ve been. His muscles felt weak, trembling under the strain, as if he hadn’t used them in years. Every movement felt sluggish and unfamiliar, like his body wasn’t entirely his own.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet dangled above the floorboards.
He blinked.
What.
His legs were too short, his feet impossibly small. Panic surged, sharp and unrelenting, as he stared at the unfamiliar, childlike limbs that were somehow his own.
Nico’s breath hitched, catching like a jagged stone in his throat, as he scrambled off the bed. His knees wobbled, buckling beneath him, and he stumbled forward. Desperation drove his trembling hands to the cold, unyielding wall, steadying himself before he crumpled completely.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t him.
His mind raced, thoughts tangling in a chaotic loop. A mirror. He needed a mirror.
Nico turned, his heart pounding in his ears, his legs wobbling beneath him. He caught a glimpse of himself in the narrow, cracked mirror on the far side of the room.
The breath fled his lungs.
The boy staring back at him wasn’t twenty-four. His face was rounder, softer, his dark hair messy and too long, curling awkwardly at the edges. The dark shadows beneath his eyes were still there, but they weren’t the deep, haunted hollows of someone who’d spent years battling monsters and other nightmares.
He reached up to touch his face, his hand trembling. The reflection mirrored him perfectly—small, fragile, and young. So impossibly young.
“No,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, cracking in the middle. “Fuck. Oh fuck.”
If he weren’t a child of Hades, he might have wondered if this was some twisted version of the afterlife. Maybe punishment for every mistake he’d made, every life he couldn’t save. But no—he knew how the Underworld worked. This wasn’t it. This wasn’t death.
This was something else.
The room seemed to close in on him, the air thick and heavy, pressing against his chest. His breath came in shallow bursts as the enormity of it all slammed into him. His trembling hands curled into fists, desperate for something solid to anchor him.
“Nico, what are you doing on the floor?”
The voice froze him in place.
Familiar. Comforting. Impossible.
If he’d been panicking before, then this—this—was worse. A wave of dread and disbelief crashed over him, leaving him gasping as the sound echoed in his ears.
He turned, ever so slowly, his body stiff and his stomach churning with a mixture of fear and desperate hope.
Bianca stood in the doorway, her brow furrowed, her arms crossed in that way she always did when she was confused or annoyed. She looked exactly as he remembered her: tall and poised, with her long dark hair pulled back, her face both stern and kind in the way only an older sibling’s could be.
“Are you okay?” she asked, concern flickering across her face as she took a step closer.
Nico’s breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled where they rested on the floor, and for a moment, all he could do was stare.
“Bianca?” he whispered, the name barely escaping his lips. It tasted foreign, unfamiliar, like a prayer he hadn’t dared speak aloud in years.
Her expression softened, the corners of her mouth twitching upward into the faintest of smiles. “Yeah? Who else would it be?”
The room spun, the edges of his vision blurring as Nico’s grip on the floor tightened, desperate for any sense of stability. The world tilted beneath him, cold and unforgiving, like the ground might swallow him whole.
This couldn’t be happening.
This shouldn’t be happening.
Yet there she was, solid and real, standing in the doorway as though she hadn’t been lost to him long ago. As though the years of grief, guilt, and longing had been nothing more than a cruel illusion.
Nico’s breath hitched, his chest tight with disbelief and something sharper, something dangerously close to hope.
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Time travel.
It was the only explanation.
The only thing that made sense of the impossibility surrounding him—his too-small body, the echo of his sister’s voice, the familiar-yet-distant air of Westover Hall. Pieces of a puzzle that didn’t belong in the same picture.
It was no explanation at all.
Time travel didn’t explain the why. It didn’t explain the how.
It didn’t explain why the universe had plucked him out of his life—out of his death—and thrown him back into this version of reality, younger and weaker, surrounded by ghosts he had spent years trying to let go of.
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He went to class.
The teacher droned on about something or other, but the words barely registered. Maps hung on the walls, their edges curling, and the faint scratch of pencils filled the air. Nico stared at the blackboard, his fingers tapping restlessly against the wood of his desk.
Internally, he was unraveling.
The hysteria was creeping up on him, slow and relentless, like shadows clawing at the edges of his mind. He could feel it bubbling beneath the surface—panic, confusion, anger, all tangled together in a chaotic knot. His breathing quickened, but he kept his face blank, his gaze fixed straight ahead as though focusing on the lesson would keep the storm at bay.
He gripped the edges of the desk, his knuckles white, trying to keep himself grounded. He focused on the feel of the wood beneath his fingers, on the cold air brushing his face, on the scribbled notes of the student in front of him. Anything to keep the panic from breaking through the surface.
The teacher’s voice rose, and he caught the tail end of a question, something about ancient Greece. He wanted to laugh at the irony, but he feared that once he started, he would not be able to stop.
He could feel it, the hysteria, the madness clawing at his throat and chest, wild and uncontrollable.
But for now, he stayed silent.
For now, he just sat and waited for the lesson to end.
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He joined Bianca for dinner in the cafeteria, sliding onto the bench across from her without a word. The faint hum of conversation and the clatter of trays filled the air, but to Nico, it all felt muted, distant, like he was hearing it from underwater.
He stared.
He couldn’t quite help himself.
There had been no time that morning to process any of this. Bianca had picked him up like it was any other day, her voice brisk and familiar as she ushered him out the door and toward their classrooms. He had followed, too stunned to do anything but obey, his mind spinning too fast to take her in.
Now, in the fluorescent-lit cafeteria, there was nothing else to distract him. His eyes scanned her face, trying to reconcile the girl sitting in front of him with the sister he’d known.
She was… so young.
She picked at her food, her brow furrowed in concentration as she carefully cut her chicken into tiny pieces. Her hair, pulled into a low ponytail, was messier than he remembered. Her hands—always so steady, so sure—looked smaller, softer. The Bianca he had lost had always seemed larger than life, an unshakable presence who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders with ease.
But this Bianca? She was just a twelve-year-old girl. A child.
His chest tightened. He couldn’t stop staring at the freckles on her nose, the way her lips pursed in thought as she silently mulled over something. She looked fragile in a way he hadn’t let himself remember.
“What?”
Her voice snapped him out of his daze. She was looking at him now, one eyebrow raised, her fork paused mid-air.
Nico blinked, scrambling for an excuse. “Nothing,” he mumbled, quickly looking down at his untouched plate.
“You’ve been acting weird all day,” she said, her tone curious rather than accusatory. “Is something wrong?”
His throat felt tight, the words he wanted to say sticking in his chest. I missed you. I failed you. You’re not supposed to be here.
Instead, he just shook his head, forcing a weak smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
She frowned, studying him for a moment longer before shrugging and turning back to her meal.
Nico picked up his fork with trembling hands, his appetite long gone.
She was here. She was alive. And she was just a child.
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It took him a few days to get a hold of himself.
The first few days were the worst. Every morning, he woke up with a sick, nauseating feeling in his stomach. The same feeling you get when you’ve had a nightmare so vivid that it bleeds into reality, warping everything around you. The world didn’t make sense, and neither did he.
He tried to focus on his classes, on the daily routine, but everything felt foreign, like walking through someone else’s life. He could hear the voices of the other students, see their faces, but it was as if the world was happening in slow motion, far away from him. He sat in his seat, stared at his textbooks, and nodded along with the teachers, but his thoughts were constantly elsewhere.
Every time his gaze flickered to Bianca, the noose would tighten around his throat again.
She was alive. And he was… not supposed to be here. Not in this time. Not in this place. He wasn’t supposed to be young again, wasn’t supposed to have this body, these memories. He was supposed to be dead, far beyond the reach of time, not sitting in the same cafeteria with his twelve-year-old sister like some twisted version of their past.
He spent those first days choking on the panic, the questions, the desperate need to understand how and why this was happening. His hands trembled whenever he wasn’t careful, and the weight of it all pressed down on him, suffocating him with every breath.
But slowly, something inside him shifted. The tight knot in his chest started to loosen, just a little at first. It wasn’t gone, but it was manageable. He began forcing himself to go through the motions, to sit in class, to answer questions, to breathe in and out like everything was fine. He stopped clenching his fists so tightly. He stopped staring at Bianca for too long.
It didn’t make the world any less surreal. It didn’t make this any less of a nightmare. But it gave him a little space, a little room to think.
By the time the fifth day rolled around, the noose wasn’t as tight.
He could breathe again—just a little bit.
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What was he supposed to do now?
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It was a warm day, the kind where the sun made everything feel heavy and slow. Nico and Bianca sat outside on the swings, the creaking chains the only sound in the quiet. The air smelled of fresh grass, and there was a light breeze that stirred the leaves in the trees above them.
Bianca, always the practical one, shrugged off her sweater and draped it over the back of her swing. Nico’s gaze flickered to her exposed forearms, and then, almost involuntarily, his eyes were drawn to a scar there—a long, faint line running across the pale skin. His throat tightened at the sight, something tugging at his memory that he couldn’t quite place.
He frowned, his brows knitting together.
“What is that?” he asked, his voice low.
Bianca glanced at him, then down at her arm, her expression shifting from curiosity to something Nico couldn’t quite read.
“What?” she asked, her tone guarded.
“That scar on your arm,” Nico repeated, pointing slightly. “What’s it from?”
Bianca froze, her body going stiff. Her eyes widened, and her lips pursed as if she was suddenly bracing herself for something. The change in her was instant—her posture, the subtle shift in her gaze. All of it hardened.
Nico blinked, startled by the sudden shift in her demeanor.
“Why would you even ask that?” Bianca snapped, her voice accusing, but there was an undertone of something deeper, something more painful. The words hung in the air between them, raw and unspoken.
Nico stared at her, bewildered. “What do you mean?” he asked, his confusion creeping in. “I’ve just never seen that scar before. I don’t know what it is.”
Her face softened for the briefest moment, and then her expression turned confused—almost... surprised?
“You’ve never seen my soul scar before?” Bianca asked, her voice thick with disbelief. “What are you talking about?”
Nico blinked, completely lost. “Soul scar? What the hell is a soul scar?” He shook his head, his chest tightening as he searched her face for any clue. This was the last thing he’d expected her to say.
Bianca’s eyes widened again, this time with frustration, as if he were missing something so obvious that she couldn’t believe it.
“A soul scar,” she repeated slowly, her voice quieter now. “It’s... a scar left behind by a soul mark once one of the soulmates dies.”
Nico’s breath caught in his throat, the words crashing into him like a cold wave. “What?” he asked again, this time the confusion too strong to hide. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”
Bianca turned her eyes down, her voice growing even softer, as though she were saying something far too personal for anyone else to hear. “When your soulmate dies, you’re left with a scar. It’s the mark you carry to remember them. A sign that they were real, that you had someone you were meant for.”
Nico stared at her, his expression caught between disbelief and utter confusion, as though she had suddenly sprouted a second head. “Since when are soulmates a thing?”
Bianca frowned, concern flickering across her face. “Nico, are you feeling alright?” she asked, reaching out to place a hand on his forehead, as if checking for a fever.
His gaze drifted down to her arm, to the scar he now recognized as the unmistakable shape of a name etched into her skin.
Alright? No. He was definitely not feeling alright.
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So, soulmates.
Apparently, they were a thing here.
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In the end, he decided it didn’t matter.
After some careful research—and far more mental energy than he wanted to admit—Nico concluded that the existence of soulmates changed nothing. Only about forty percent of the world’s population ever met their soulmate, and even then, it wasn’t some magical guarantee of happiness. People still fought, still hurt each other, still broke apart.
And even if he did have a soulmate out there somewhere, what difference would it make?
He had bigger things to worry about, more pressing matters that demanded his focus. Soulmates were an abstract concept, a distraction he couldn’t afford in a world that already felt like it was teetering on the edge of chaos.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
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A month later, Percy Jackson arrived at Westover Hall in a whirlwind of chaos.
Nico watched it all unfold with a strange sense of detachment, a part of him marveling at how certain moments seemed predestined to repeat themselves. There was something almost surreal about it, as if he were a spectator in a play he already knew by heart.
For once, things went well.
He managed to stop Annabeth’s fall—a subtle change in the tapestry of fate that filled him with cautious hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could make a difference.
Then came the Hunters, led by Zoe Nightshade, their presence commanding. They made their offer to Bianca, as Nico had expected, and though his stomach churned with unease, he knew this moment was inevitable. Some things, he knew, couldn’t be stopped.
And then, Apollo arrived.
The flashy car. The blinding grin. The terrible haikus. It all went exactly as Nico remembered—right down to the way Apollo basked in his own self-importance while everyone else cringed.
Except for one thing.
A pair of golden eyes met his, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
The moment stretched impossibly long, fragile and electric, until a sharp, searing pain erupted across Nico’s ribs. It was as if his very essence had been branded, the agony so sudden and absolute that it stole the air from his lungs.
Apollo’s form flickered before him, light spilling from the god like cracks in a gilded statue. The edges of his body blurred, shifting between something solid and something entirely other. Golden radiance bled into the air around him, distorting the space, the inhumanity of it both beautiful and terrifying.
Nico stumbled, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Everything blurred as he clutched at his side. His heartbeat roared in his ears as he forced himself to breathe, to move, to think.
Through the haze of pain, Apollo’s gaze lingered on him, unblinking, unreadable. There was something ancient in the way he looked at Nico—detached, knowing, yet impossibly intimate.
When the agony finally ebbed, Nico lifted the hem of his shirt with trembling hands. His breath hitched as his eyes fell on the mark now etched into his flesh.
In ancient, glowing script, two words stared back at him: Phoebus Apollon.
Chapter Text
He should have known the Fates would fuck him over even in this.
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Blood roared in Nico’s ears, drowning out every other sound. His ribs throbbed, a dull, relentless ache, as an unnatural chill seemed to seep deep into his bones. He barely registered the stares fixed on him, the disbelief carved into the faces of those around him. None of it mattered.
Nico’s entire focus was locked on Apollo.
The god stood apart, radiant yet utterly alien. His form flickered, shifting away from his earlier appearance. The golden sheen of his skin darkened to a sun-kissed tan, his hair shimmering as though spun from pure light. But it was his eyes—those impossibly glowing, golden eyes—that rooted Nico in place.
They were luminous, burning with an intensity that went beyond mortal comprehension, and utterly devoid of humanity. No warmth, no empathy, no softness—just an ancient, unyielding power that seemed to pierce through Nico’s very soul.
Apollo tilted his head, his lips curving ever so slightly. The expression wasn’t a smile—it was too sharp, too cruel, a sneer that sent a shiver racing down Nico’s spine.
“A mortal?” Apollo’s voice sliced through the air, cold and sharp, laden with disbelief and disdain.
Nico’s breath hitched, his body momentarily frozen under the crushing weight of the god’s gaze. He opened his mouth, the beginnings of a retort forming on his lips, but no words came. He didn’t know what to say. Before he could gather his thoughts, Apollo turned away, the gesture casual, dismissive, as if Nico were nothing more than an afterthought.
For a moment, Nico stood there, silent, his ribs still aching and his mind swirling. He had lived an entire other life without ever having to worry about soulmates. He hadn’t needed one then, and he certainly didn’t need one now. Honestly, he’d assumed he would never meet his soulmate—if he even had one at all.
And yet…
A small, buried part of him had liked the idea. The notion of someone out there who was made for him, someone for whom he had been made in return—it was foolishly romantic, perhaps, but there was comfort in the thought. The promise of belonging, of being seen and wanted for who he was, appealed far more than Nico cared to admit.
So, as much as he wanted to brush it off, Apollo’s clear disdain stung. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.
That hurt twisted into something sharper, something stronger. It coiled inside him like a spring wound too tight, stirring a fire he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He had fought for every inch of survival, clawed his way out of the deepest pits of Tartarus twice. He had faced monsters, endured the weight of unbearable loss, and learned to live in a world that didn’t seem to want him in it. He hadn’t done all that just to be looked down upon by some god with a superiority complex.
“There’s no need for you to look so disgusted,” he said, his voice steady and cutting despite the storm of emotions swirling beneath the surface. Every word was sharp, dripping with disdain. “You’re not exactly a catch either.”
A snort of laughter echoed somewhere behind him, sharp and unmistakable—Thalia, no doubt. He didn’t turn to confirm it. His focus remained locked on Apollo.
The god paused mid-turn, his golden eyes narrowing as they snapped back to Nico. The air grew heavier, charged with tension, as if the sunlight itself was holding its breath. Apollo’s glow brightened, the faint shimmer of his form intensifying like the break of dawn. Indignation flickered in his eyes, a dangerous emotion when it came to the gods.
Nico could see the insult forming on Apollo’s lips, could feel the weight of the retort about to be unleashed. Perhaps it would be a threat, a curse, or perhaps he would simply smite him for the insult.
But Nico didn’t care.
He was tired. The last few weeks had been a relentless grind, his every moment spent navigating the minefield of his unexpected second chance. He’d had enough—enough of surprises, enough of divine egos, enough of Apollo.
“I’m not dealing with this,” he said, his voice flat, final.
Apollo glared, his eyes blazing, but Nico didn’t give him a chance to speak.
Although it spoke poorly of her survival instincts, Bianca had edged closer during the exchange, her face a mixture of confusion and concern. That proximity worked to Nico’s advantage.
Without waiting another second, he reached for her hand, gripping it firmly. The startled gasp she let out barely registered as Nico focused on the shadows pooling around their feet.
And with a flicker of darkness, they were gone
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He had had a plan.
A proper plan. One that made sense. It involved getting to Camp Half-Blood, ensuring Bianca’s safety, and taking a moment to regroup before tackling the monumental tasks ahead.
That plan, however, was clearly no longer viable.
Nico glanced around at the dark expanse of the Underworld. Jagged peaks rose in the distance, casting long, eerie shadows across the cracked ground. The River Styx shimmered faintly far off, a ghostly ribbon threading through the gloom. This was his home—familiar, even comforting in a twisted way. But it was not where they were supposed to be.
Well, no matter. He’d planned on coming here once Bianca was safe anyway. This just expedited things.
Nico wasn’t arrogant or foolish enough to believe he could rewrite fate by himself. He needed allies, resources, and information. And while his father might not be the most reliable ally at the moment, there weren’t many alternatives.
Besides, this detour solved one glaring problem. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about Bianca taking that accursed quest anymore.
In fact, when he thought about it, things were looking up.
Or so he told himself until he caught Bianca’s expression.
She stood beside him, her hand still locked in his grasp, her wide eyes scanning their surroundings with a mixture of fear and disbelief. The faint tremor in her grip betrayed her composure, and when she finally turned to face him, the accusation in her gaze hit like a physical blow.
“What the hell, Nico?”
He cringed. The words alone were startling enough—he couldn’t remember ever hearing Bianca curse before—but it was the sharp edge in her tone that made him wince.
“I—” Nico faltered, releasing Bianca’s hand. He took a half-step back, his gaze darting between her and the ominous expanse around them. The oppressive silence of the Underworld only made his words stumble more awkwardly. “I panicked.”
“You panicked?” Bianca repeated, her voice rising an octave, the pitch bordering on hysteria. She threw her hands into the air in exasperation, her wide eyes scanning the shadowed, lifeless terrain. “What did you do? And where the hell are we even?”
Nico winced at her choice of words. How to explain this? “I think…well, I think we might technically be in the Underworld.”
Her head snapped toward him so fast he worried she might have hurt her neck. “The Underworld?” she echoed, disbelief laced heavily in her voice. “You mean... as in the Underworld? The place people go when they die?”
“Yes,” Nico muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, the weight of her incredulity pressing down on him. “That Underworld.”
Bianca’s arms dropped to her sides, her hands clenching into fists. “Nico,” she said, her tone sharp and strained, “why in the world would you bring us here?”
“I didn’t exactly have time to map out an escape route, Bianca!” he snapped, frustration bubbling to the surface. “We were in the middle of a situation, and I—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply as he tried to regain control of his spiraling emotions. “I just... acted.”
Bianca stared at him, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. “You acted,” she said, her voice trembling. “And now we’re in the land of the dead?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Nico mumbled, though the oppressive darkness and chilling silence surrounding them told a very different story.
“Not as bad as it looks?” Bianca repeated his words once again, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Nico, there’s literally nothing here but rocks, shadows, and—oh, I don’t know—the looming presence of death?”
Nico winced but tried to play it off, gesturing ahead. “Well, there is a palace up front,” he offered, nodding toward the distant silhouette of Hades’ towering fortress. Its dark spires glinted faintly, an imposing beacon against the oppressive landscape. “Perhaps we should just go there for now.”
Bianca spun to face him, her eyes wide with incredulity. “To the palace of the King of the Dead?” she demanded, her voice rising with every word. “Are you out of your mind!?” She shook her head quickly, cutting him off before he could reply. “No, don’t answer that. How the hell did you even get us here?”
Nico hesitated, his mouth opening and closing uselessly before he managed a stammered response. “I… I don’t know.” He scratched the back of his neck, glancing away. “I just… I wanted to get away.”
Bianca stared at him, her expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “That’s it? You ‘wanted to get away,’ so you dragged us into the literal Underworld?”
“I panicked!” Nico snapped, his frustration bubbling over before quickly deflating into a mumbled, “I panicked, okay?”
He let out a small, frustrated sigh, rubbing his temples. This conversation was going nowhere.
Bianca’s stance relaxed slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing, but her gaze remained steady. “Alright, fine,” she said, her voice losing its earlier sharp edge, though her concern still lingered. “What do we do now? Can you get us back?”
Nico winced, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He hesitated, glancing at the rocky terrain as though it might provide answers. “I did just insult a god.”
Bianca’s eyes widened in alarm, as if for a moment she had forgotten all about that, but the sharp retort she seemed ready to deliver died on her lips. Instead, her expression softened, and a flicker of sympathy appeared in her gaze. “Oh, Nico…” she said, her voice quieter now, almost gentle.
Nico tried to shrug it off, but the reminder of Apollo’s disdain twisted uncomfortably in his chest. “It wasn’t my finest moment,” he muttered, glancing away. “But he was being an ass.”
Bianca’s lips twitched, as though she was trying to suppress a smile. She stepped closer, her tone turning supportive. “He was being very rude to you,” she agreed firmly, as if reassuring him of something vital.
Nico blinked at her, surprised by the immediate solidarity. Ever since his strange return to the past, he’d noticed how deeply the concept of soulmates seemed to resonate with Bianca. She treated the subject with utmost reverence and care. And now, even faced with Nico’s impulsive actions, she was ready to defend him.
“Thanks,” he said softly, his voice carrying more gratitude than he’d intended.
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In the end, even Bianca had to admit that they didn’t have much of a choice. The Underworld offered no clear alternatives, and supposedly with no immediate way back to the mortal world, the ominous silhouette of Hades’ palace loomed as their only viable destination.
“Fine,” she said, sighing in resignation. Her voice was quieter now, the sharp edges dulled by fatigue. “Let’s go. But for the record, I still think this is insane.”
Nico didn’t respond, but a small, relieved breath escaped him. He’d expected more resistance.
They walked in silence, Bianca’s wide eyes darting around as she took in their surroundings. Her fingers brushed against his sleeve occasionally, a subconscious gesture of reassurance—or perhaps seeking it. Nico kept his gaze ahead, his shoulders beginning to relax despite himself. This was familiar ground for him. Home.
The dim glow of ghostly light illuminated their path, casting eerie shadows that danced and shifted with every step. Bianca’s breaths were shallow, her gaze lingering on the skeletal trees and the faint, whispering echoes carried by the wind.
When they reached Cerberus, his sister froze mid-step, her hand tightening on Nico’s arm.
The massive three-headed dog loomed before them, its black fur shimmering faintly in the dim light, like shadows brought to life. Each of Cerberus’s heads regarded them with unblinking red eyes. The middle head sniffed the air curiously, its nostrils flaring as it studied the newcomers. A low rumble, somewhere between a growl and a purr, vibrated through the ground beneath their feet.
Bianca’s voice came out as a hushed, shaky whisper. “What the…?”
“That’s Cerberus,” Nico said, tilting his head slightly as he gazed up at the hulking beast. There was an odd mixture of fondness and nostalgia in his tone. “I don’t think he’s going to hurt us.”
Bianca’s grip on his arm tightened until her nails dug into his skin, but Nico didn’t pull away. “You think?” she hissed, her wide eyes fixed on the monstrous guardian before them.
Nico allowed himself a faint, almost mischievous smile. “If he wanted to, he would’ve already tried to bite our heads off.”
As if on cue, Cerberus’s left head tilted, its massive jaws parting slightly in what might have been a yawn—or a display of sharp, glinting teeth. Bianca let out a squeak and stepped back, pulling Nico with her.
“It’s fine,” Nico reassured her, his voice steady. “He’s just… curious. Probably doesn’t get a lot of visitors.” He hesitated for a moment, then added softly, “I’ll have to get him some new toys later.”
Cerberus huffed, a sound that sent a gust of warm, slightly sulfuric air washing over them, before stepping aside. His massive form retreated into the shadows, the soft padding of his enormous paws the only sound in the crushing silence.
The gates of Hades’ palace loomed ahead, their dark, intricate carvings seeming to shift and writhe under the faint, eerie light. Images of despair and judgment twisted across the surface, their forms fluid and almost alive. Bianca hesitated as they approached, her steps faltering for just a moment.
Nico reached out, giving her a reassuring nod. “It’ll be fine.”
She didn’t respond, but after a moment’s pause, she fell into step beside him once more.
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Hades awaited them in the throne room, seated upon his imposing throne as if he himself were carved from stone. Beside him, Persephone lounged with a casual elegance, her beauty sharp and dangerous. The way she held herself—radiant and aloof—made it clear that she was just as much a ruler here as her husband.
His father was not a figure of warmth, but over the years Nico had grown accustomed to a certain familiarity, a subtle undercurrent of care hidden beneath his father’s austere exterior. Yet today, there was none of that. His dark gaze swept over Nico and Bianca as if they were no more significant than the countless souls wandering his realm.
After the events of the day, that cold dismissal stung more than Nico cared to admit. A sharp ache settled in his chest, but he buried it quickly, letting the pain morph into something sharper—something pettier. Fine. If Hades wanted to look at them like strangers, then Nico would treat him like one, too.
Straightening his posture, Nico tilted his head, dark eyes flicking deliberately between Hades and Persephone before settling on the latter. He let a faux innocence slip into his voice, lacing each word with exaggerated curiosity. “Are you our mother?”
The effect was immediate. Beside him, Bianca made a strangled, choking sound, her hand flying to her mouth as if to physically stop herself from reacting. Her wide-eyed stare screamed, What are you doing?
Persephone’s eyes narrowed, a sneer curling her lips. “Do I look like your mother?”
Nico hesitated, as though giving her question serious thought, before his lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Well,” he said slowly, tilting his head in mock contemplation, “you are really pretty.”
Bianca visibly flinched, her mortification practically radiating off her in waves. But Nico wasn’t done. His gaze shifted deliberately to Hades, and in a loud, staged whisper, he added, “And, well, he looks homeless. Why would our mamma choose to be with someone like that?”
The silence that followed was as heavy as the shadows around them. Persephone blinked, her sharp features softening with what Nico could only describe as amused disbelief. Slowly, a smirk curled her lips, and then—much to Nico’s satisfaction—she snorted. Turning fully to her husband, she let her gaze travel over him, scrutinizing him as if seeing him for the first time.
“I do keep telling you that cloak is dreadful,” she said, her voice more than a little mean.
Hades didn’t respond immediately, his expression remaining a perfect mask of stoic indifference. But there was a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth—whether it was annoyance or a begrudging hint of amusement was anyone’s guess. When his dark eyes finally shifted to Nico, they were as inscrutable as the depths of the Underworld itself. “You have quite the tongue for one so young,” he rumbled, his voice low.
Nico dropped his gaze, wringing his hands together with all the wide-eyed innocence he could muster—a look he’d perfected over the past month at Westover Hall. “I… was I being rude?” he asked, his tone meek, almost trembling. His dark eyes slid back to Persephone, wide and apologetic. “I’m really sorry, mother. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Persephone blinked, clearly startled, her mouth opening as if to respond, but before she could utter a word, Hades’s deep voice cut through the air, sharp and incensed. “I am your father.”
Nico shifted his gaze back to Hades, his brows furrowing as though he were genuinely perplexed. He squinted at the god, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t believe you,” he said, his voice soft but filled with skepticism.
Hades’s eyes narrowed, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. “You don’t believe me?” he repeated, his tone sharp and disbelieving. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“Of course not,” Nico replied quickly, shaking his head with exaggerated politeness. “I just think you might be a little… confused.”
The throne room went utterly silent. Persephone, for her part, pressed a delicate hand to her mouth, her green eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter. The corner of her lips twitched as though she were fighting back a smile, though she made no effort to hide the amusement in her gaze when she glanced at her husband.
Hades, however, did not look amused. His jaw tightened, and a shadow seemed to ripple across his face, making him appear even more imposing. “Confused?” he echoed, his voice dangerously low. “You think the King of the Dead—your father—is confused?”
Nico’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smirk before he smothered it, forcing his expression back into one of wide-eyed innocence. “Well,” he began hesitantly, “you do live down here all the time. That can’t be good for your memory. All the darkness and… gloom. It might’ve, you know…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely to his head.
Persephone’s soft laugh finally broke free, light and melodic, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You know,” she said, her tone conversational as she leaned back in her chair, “he does have a point, my lord. I’ve told you before that all this brooding can’t be good for you.”
Hades shot her a sharp look, but she only smiled sweetly in return, clearly enjoying herself far too much.
Nico’s lips quirked into a faint, mischievous smile, ready to push the charade further, uncaring of the danger it might put him in. But before he could speak, Bianca’s elbow jabbed into his side, forcing the air out of his lungs. His moment of satisfaction evaporated as Bianca’s voice cut through the tense atmosphere, tinged with nervousness. “I’m really sorry about him,” she said, her eyes flicking between the gods, uncertain but trying her best to hold her ground.
There was a brief pause as she seemed to gather her thoughts, determination hardening her expression. What she said next managed to be both an act of betrayal and an extraordinary show of support, all wrapped into one bold declaration: “He didn’t mean any insult. We… we came here because we really need your help, mother. Nico is in danger.”
The words hung in the air, and Nico blinked, stunned. She was playing along with him. While a small part of him was utterly bewildered as to why, a much larger part felt entirely too amused by her choice to lean into the absurdity of the situation.
“In danger?” Persephone raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, her expression skeptical but intrigued.
Bianca hesitated, her gaze dropping to the ground as she seemed to weigh her next words carefully. “Well…” She glanced up briefly, then back down. “Nico just met his soulmate. He’s not a nice man.”
Persephone’s eyes narrowed slightly, her lips curling into a faint sneer. “His soulmate?” she repeated, her tone dismissive, almost bored. “We do not concern ourselves with mortals.”
“My brother’s soulmate,” Bianca said, her voice steady despite the nervous energy rolling off her, “is not a mortal.”
That statement hit the room like a thunderclap. Persephone’s eyes sharpened with sudden interest, her gaze snapping to Nico. Hades, too, leaned forward ever so slightly, his dark presence growing heavier as if the weight of his attention had intensified.
Persephone tilted her head, her green eyes gleaming with curiosity now. “Not a mortal, you say?” she murmured, her voice soft but laced with an edge that promised this conversation had just become much more interesting.
Nico resisted the urge to groan aloud, his fingers twitching at his sides. Of course, Bianca wouldn’t let this go. Of course, she’d double down. He cast her a sidelong glance, but she was determined, her expression resolute.
Bianca, completely undeterred, lifted her chin and said with a calmness that belied the tension in the room, “The others called him Apollo. That’s the Sun God, right?”
The silence that followed was palpable, heavy and suffocating. Persephone didn’t move for several heartbeats, her gaze locked on Bianca with an intensity that could have cut through steel. She didn’t blink, didn’t so much as breathe. It was a stillness that felt unnatural, inhuman—one that reminded Nico of just how dangerous gods could be.
Then, finally, with a sharp exhale, Persephone broke the silence. Her lips curled into a faint sneer, though whether it was directed at the name or the situation was unclear. “You’re actually being serious,” she said, her tone tinged with disbelief.
Bianca, to her credit, didn’t falter under Persephone’s piercing gaze. “I wouldn’t lie to you, mother,” she murmured, her voice soft and deliberate, almost reverent.
Persephone tilted her head back slightly, as if studying Bianca from a new angle, her lips pressing into a thin line. Her gaze then shifted to Nico, narrowing as if trying to read the truth directly from his face. Nico, caught off guard, managed to hold her stare for only a moment before glancing away, muttering under his breath, “It’s not like I had a choice in the matter.”
The throne room was silent for a beat, the tension hanging thick in the air. It was Hades who finally broke it, his voice deep and stripped of the irritation he’d shown earlier. There was no room for nonsense now. “Tell me everything that happened. Leave nothing out.”
Nico took a breath, trying to organize his thoughts. “Alright,” he said, his tone reluctant but resigned. He started from the beginning, recounting every detail of the day. He told them about Dr. Thorn and the ambush, the arrival of Percy Jackson and the Hunters, and how everything spiraled from there. He hesitated slightly when he got to Apollo, but after a glance at Hades’ unyielding expression, he pushed forward, explaining the god’s unexpected appearance, the argument that followed, and the golden mark now etched into his ribs like a cruel joke.
By the time Nico finished, Persephone was laughing again, her voice rich and amused, echoing throughout the throne room. “And you actually told Apollo that he wasn’t much of a catch?” she said, her green eyes glinting with delight.
Nico shifted uncomfortably but managed to meet her gaze. “He was being rude,” he said flatly, as if that justified insulting a god.
Persephone laughed even harder, while Hades sighed heavily, rubbing his temples as though he were fighting off a particularly persistent headache.
The truth was, Nico knew how reckless he was being, even here in the Underworld. He should have knelt before them, begged for their guidance, and avoided any unnecessary provocations. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was too tired, too worn down by the sheer weight of everything to care about walking on eggshells around gods.
And really, if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of them, not of death, not even of Apollo. The fear that had once ruled his life had been stripped away, layer by layer, in the darkest depths of Tartarus. If a god decided to smite him for his cheek, so be it. A swift death would feel like mercy compared to what he’d already endured and would be forced to endure once again.
In fact, Nico had thought about giving up plenty of times, especially when he first woke up in the past, disoriented and alone. But something—something utterly mad—kept pushing him forward. Some desperate, furious hope that he could actually make a difference. That this time, things could be changed.
And so, here he stood, stubborn and uncaring of any consequences, daring to challenge gods in their own domain because, at the end of the day, he had nothing left to lose.
Chapter Text
He waited for Bianca to fall asleep before he left the room.
Her breaths grew slow and even, but Nico didn’t move right away. He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting—counting each breath until he was sure she wouldn’t wake easily. Only then did he rise, careful not to disturb her, and step into the closest shadow.
The world shifted around him, folding into darkness before he emerged in the hallway outside.
Things were simple after that. He walked through the familiar corridors, his hand trailing along the cool obsidian walls. The silence of the Underworld was as heavy and absolute as he remembered. Occasionally, he stopped at the towering windows, gazing out at the endless expanse of gray, lifeless beauty. This place was his home, and yet... it wasn’t. Not anymore.
Before long, he reached his father’s study. The massive door loomed before him, dark and imposing, as if daring him to turn back. Nico didn’t allow himself to hesitate. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Hades and Persephone were there, just as he had expected.
“What is it, boy?” Hades asked, his voice low and cold.
Nico met his father’s gaze, holding it. He said nothing, instead letting the silence stretch until it felt taut, brittle. Then, without a word, he stepped farther into the room. Each step was deliberate, the faint sound of his boots against the stone floor grounding him.
To the side of the room, a pitcher of ambrosia rested on a pedestal, its golden sheen catching the dim, flickering light. Nico walked toward it, aware of the gods’ eyes tracking his every move. He could feel their impatience radiating like a palpable force, but he refused to be hurried.
Reaching the pitcher, he poured himself a glass, the liquid glowing faintly as it filled the cup. He took a slow sip, savoring the way the warmth coursed through him, steadying him.
Finally, he turned to face them, resolve hardening in his chest. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.
Hades leaned back in his chair, his expression carved from stone. “I believe I told you and your sister to go to sleep,” he said, his tone sharp with dismissal, as if the conversation were already over.
Ignoring his father’s words, Nico crossed the room and dropped into a chair opposite him. He slouched back, feigning a casualness he didn’t feel, and then blurted out, “I’m from the future.”
Hades blinked, his composure momentarily cracking as he stared at Nico with a look that bordered on disbelief—if not outright disdain. “You seem to think yourself a jester,” he said coolly, recovering his stoic mask. “But I have neither the time nor the patience for this nonsense.”
The reaction didn’t surprise Nico. If someone had told him such a thing, he doubted he would have believed it either. But even so, he couldn’t shake the certainty that the Hades of the future—the father he had come to know—would never have dismissed his words so easily. The realization struck him like a cold wind, a stark reminder that this god was not the father he remembered. Not yet.
Nico leaned forward, his dark eyes fixed on his father. “How can I prove the truth to you, Father?” he began, his tone almost conversational, but there was a bite of bitterness underneath. His gaze lingered on Hades, who remained as impassive as ever, though there was something colder, sharper, in the tilt of his head.
Perhaps he should stop before he got too far ahead of himself. Trusting his parents as they were now might not be the smartest idea. But what choice did he have? Try to save everyone on his own? The thought was as daunting as it was absurd, yet the alternative felt equally impossible.
Still, Nico pressed on. “I suppose I could tell you about the Great Prophecy,” he said casually, as though he were speaking of the weather. “How in two years’ time, your father will rise again. And how it will be up to Luke Castellan for ‘Olympus to preserve or raze.’”
He let the words hang in the air like a guillotine, his tone laced with mockery. “Though, that might be just a tad too hard to believe, huh?” His lips curled into a sardonic smile.
The room seemed to grow colder, the ever-present gloom deepening. Hades didn’t move, his dark eyes burning like coals. Persephone’s hands tightened into fists, her expression carefully composed, though her lips pressed into a thin line.
Nico continued, undeterred. “So, how about I tell you about Camp Jupiter instead?”
At that, Hades blinked, and for the briefest moment, something close to shock flickered across his face. Beside him, Persephone’s serene mask cracked, her green eyes widening before she schooled her expression.
Nico noted their reactions with a hollow sense of satisfaction. He forged ahead. “I could tell you about the temple of Pluto,” he said, his voice soft but cutting. “And the demigods in New Rome.” His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Though I suppose that’s not of much interest to you, is it?”
He tilted his head, his tone suddenly mocking as he feigned contemplation. “Maybe you’d rather hear about the next Great Prophecy?” He paused for effect, his voice dropping to a murmur, thick with venom. “Believe it or not, but it’ll be Mother Earth herself who will rise next.”
The words landed like stones dropped into a still pond, rippling through the room. Hades’ face darkened, his gaze sharp and unreadable. Persephone’s knuckles were white, her expression a mix of disbelief and unease.
“And if you still don’t believe me,” Nico said, his voice dropping into something quieter, colder, “let me tell you about Tartarus.”
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Nico’s expression shifted, the bitterness giving way to something rawer, something haunted. Shadows danced across his pale skin, and for a moment, he looked older than his years, worn down by the weight of things no one should have to bear.
“About the horrors barely concealed by the Mist,” he whispered, his dark eyes distant, unfocused. “They don’t teach you the truth, because it’s too terrible to bear, but Tartarus is not just a place, is it?”
He let the question linger, his gaze drifting to the floor as if he could see past the stone, through the layers of earth and into the depths of the abyss. “The earth you walk upon a primordial’s body” he said softly, his voice tinged with a strange mix of awe and dread. “The rivers his veins. And monsters…” He trailed off, his voice faltering, his expression twisting into something pained. “Well, the monsters… best not to think too much about that.”
For a moment, silence reigned, heavy and suffocating. Nico sat there, his shoulders hunched, his hands trembling ever so slightly at his sides. Hades and Persephone exchanged a glance, their reactions inscrutable.
Nico looked back up at them, his haunted expression hardening into defiance. “So, tell me, Father,” he said, his voice steady now, though it carried the weight of a storm. “Do you believe me yet?”
Hades studied him, eyes narrowing, his expression inscrutable. At last, he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the desk, fingers steepled under his chin. “Let’s assume I do,” he said slowly, his tone measured. “That still does not explain how you got here. How did you travel into the past?”
Nico’s lips twitched in what might have been a grimace or a bitter smile. “I died,” he said simply. For a moment, he considered leaving it at that, letting the words linger in their stark simplicity. But sooner or later, his father would demand details, and perhaps it was better to get it over with now.
“I was killed,” Nico continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “By a daughter of Jupiter.” His hand drifted to his side, tracing a wound that wasn’t there anymore, a phantom ache that would never fully leave him. “We were out on patrol, and she stabbed me in the back while I was busy fighting a cyclops.”
The room was silent. Hades’ expression darkened, but it was Persephone who leaned forward, her brows furrowed. Nico turned away from their stares, his gaze falling on the window that overlooked the endless, desolate expanse of the Underworld.
“I suspect,” he said quietly, “she might have done it on her father’s orders.” His voice was calm, almost detached, but there was an underlying bitterness to it. “I had been a thorn in my dear uncle’s side for a while by then, you see. And well, I suppose he refused to risk…”
He trailed off, his words hanging in the air like an unfinished melody.
Persephone’s voice broke the silence. “Risk what?” she asked, her tone firm, her green eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made Nico pause.
For a long moment, Nico said nothing, his gaze distant. Then, as if making a decision, he turned back toward them. His movements were deliberate as he reached for the letter opener on Hades’ desk. It was ornate, forged of black iron and set with onyx, a tool more ceremonial than practical.
Nico hesitated for only a heartbeat before dragging the blade across his palm in a single, clean stroke. The pain was fleeting, inconsequential. A thin line of blood welled up, and as it began to seep from the wound, it became clear that it was not red, as mortal blood should be. Instead, it shimmered with a coppery hue, almost bronze in appearance.
Hades straightened in his seat, his eyes narrowing further as he took in the sight. Persephone’s lips parted slightly in surprise, her gaze fixed on the blood.
“In the future,” Nico said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper, “the hue was much more distinct. Golden.” He stared down at the blood in his palm, watching as it shimmered in the dim light of the room.
Ichor used to flow through his veins, making his ongoing Ascension all too obvious. And even now, tainted by mortality as it still was, his blood hinted at what might await him.
There were only three known ways for a god to come into existence. First, one could be born as a god, the offspring of divine parents. Second, godhood could be granted by the King of the Gods himself. And third—rare and perilous—a mortal could become so powerful that they burned away their own mortality, ascending to godhood through sheer will and strength.
The last method had only come to fruition once in the history of their pantheon. And when Dionysus ascended all those millennia ago, he was powerful enough to become an Olympian.
Nico met Hades’ gaze directly, his expression as blank and unyielding as stone. “Zeus refused to risk letting one of your children ascend,” he said, his voice sharp and cold.
The room seemed to hold its breath. Hades’ face was a storm of emotions—anger, suspicion, calculation, and perhaps a flicker of something that might have been pride, buried deep beneath the surface. Persephone’s hand went to her mouth, her green eyes wide with a mixture of shock and disbelief.
Nico let the letter opener clatter back onto the desk, its sound echoing through the cavernous space. He flexed his hand, watching as the wound on his palm began to close, the blood drying into a faint, coppery stain on his pale skin.
.
.
.
Night blanketed the camp, the air cool and still. Shadows stretched long and thin across the sand, cast by the flickering embers of the dying campfire.
This was not part of his plan. Saving Bianca should have been enough—that one victory, a change that meant the world to him. It should have satisfied him. He knew better than to tempt the Fates further, to meddle too much, too soon. He could not save everyone. He had told himself that a hundred times.
And yet, here he was, pulled to Camp Half-Blood by the relentless, nagging pull of his conscience.
Truthfully, he didn’t even know what he was doing. There was no plan, no strategy, only a deep sense of unease that refused to let him rest. He knew better than to interfere with the quest. Quests followed rules—ancient, unspoken ones—and tampering with them would only lead to ruin. There was a reason why they were always undertaken by three, a balance that even the gods dared not disturb.
All he could do, Nico thought bitterly, was offer a warning. A feeble gesture in the face of inevitability.
His feet carried him down to the beach, drawn there as if by instinct. The moon hung low over the horizon, its silver light dancing across the lake. And there, sitting alone beneath the vast expanse of stars, was Zoë Nightshade. Her silver circlet caught the moonlight, glinting faintly as she gazed out over the water, her posture stiff but contemplative.
Nico hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward. “One shall perish at a parent’s hand,” he said, the words leaving his mouth before he could second-guess them. As soon as they hung in the air, he winced at how overly dramatic he sounded.
Zoë whirled around, startled. Her sharp eyes narrowed as they found him, but she did not reprimand him for sneaking up on her. Instead, she studied him in silence, her gaze cool and calculating, as if trying to divine his purpose.
Nico met her eyes, his expression steady but grim. “If you go on this quest,” he said, his voice low and certain, “that will be you.”
Zoë was silent for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, at last, she exhaled and turned back toward the lake. “I know,” she said simply.
Her words struck him harder than he expected. He hadn’t realized until now that he’d been hoping for something else—denial, resistance, anything but this quiet acceptance.
Nico’s brows furrowed. “Then why?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Zoë tilted her head slightly, her eyes tracing the horizon. “The prophecy hath been spoken,” she said, her tone quiet but firm. “If it be not me, it shall be another. Such is the way of the Fates.”
Nico inclined his head, bitter and resigned. “Yes.”
The silence stretched between them. The moment felt suspended, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Then, finally, Nico murmured, “I’m sorry.”
Zoë glanced at him from the corner of her eye, and for the briefest moment, her expression softened. A ghost of a smile touched her lips—not one of joy, but of understanding.
“Be not.” Her voice was steady, resolute, as though the weight of the words no longer burdened her. “My suffering shall soon be at an end.” She paused, her gaze drifting momentarily toward the horizon before returning to him. When she looked at him again, her expression had softened, something unspoken settling in her eyes. It was something heavy, something Nico didn’t want to see.
He stiffened as the realization struck.
“I don’t need your pity,” he said, his voice sharp, cutting through the stillness.
Zoë regarded him silently, her gaze unwavering. After a long moment, she inclined her head slightly, a gesture so subtle it almost went unnoticed. “And yet, thou hast it all the same,” she said quietly.
She turned her gaze back to the water, her expression once again inscrutable, as though chiseled from marble. “You are cursed,” she said softly. “For there is naught more terrible in all the world than the love of a god.”
Her words carried a quiet finality, each syllable landing with the weight of inevitability. They settled in Nico’s chest like a stone sinking into deep, uncharted waters.
This time, he did not argue. There was no point.
.
.
.
The Underworld was not known for its beauty, but Persephone’s garden was an exception. In the heart of a land devoid of life, it thrived—a quiet oasis of deep green vines, ghostly white blossoms, and fruit-heavy branches swaying under an unseen breeze. The air was thick with the scent of pomegranates, rich and bittersweet.
Nico approached carefully, his steps barely making a sound against the dark soil. Persephone sat among the plants, her fingers grazing the petals of a pale flower, as if lost in thought. He hesitated at the edge of the garden before stepping closer.
“May I join you, Mother?”
Persephone stilled, her fingers hovering over the petals of a pale blossom. Slowly, she turned to face him, her green eyes unreadable. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
Nico held her gaze for a moment before lowering himself onto the ground beside her. The garden was quiet, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves in the dim underworld breeze. “What do you mean?”
She studied him, her expression as sharp as ever. “You keep calling me ‘Mother,’ even though you know very well that I’m not.”
Nico hesitated, glancing down as though the answer could be found somewhere in the soil. He searched for the right words, feeling the weight of unspoken memories pressing against his chest. Then, he looked up, meeting her gaze.
“When I was fourteen,” he began, his voice steady but laden with emotion, “you gave me eight pomegranate seeds. Without them, I wouldn’t have survived.”
The words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken gratitude. Persephone’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes shifted.
He hesitated, the memory pulling at him, raw and vivid. “You… you didn’t have to do that,” he added quietly. “But you did.”
Turning slightly, Nico let his gaze wander over the garden, his fingers brushing against the leaves of a nearby plant. The faint scent of pomegranates hung in the air, rich and bittersweet, as if the memory itself were manifesting around them.
“I won’t pretend our relationship wasn’t rocky, especially in the beginning,” he admitted, his tone softening. “I know I was angry. I know I didn’t make it easy for you. Though neither did you, I suppose.” He paused, struggling to find the right way to say it. “But the truth is… you’re the only mother I’ve ever known.”
A silence stretched between them, heavy but not unkind, as she regarded him—really regarded him.
After a while, Persephone finally turned her attention back to the blossom she had been tending, her fingers brushing its petals with a delicate touch. Still, she said nothing, and Nico didn’t push her to.
There was nothing else to say. But somehow, it was enough.
Notes:
I've published two new stories, one of them also has Nico/Apollo as the main pairing and the other one is a Harry Potter Crossover with Draco as a demigod. If you're interested, check them out.
Chapter Text
Breakfast in the Underworld was a strange thing. Technically, it was nothing new to Nico—meals with Hades and Persephone were a common occurrence in the future, sometimes even joined by Demeter. But having Bianca here with him still felt surreal.
They had never shared this in the other timeline.
Nico couldn’t remember enough of their childhood to recall a true family breakfast—one with both of them sitting at the same table, eating together like this, without the shadow of loss looming over them. The memory of their mother was too distant, and after her, there had only been the Lotus Hotel, and after that, Bianca was dead.
Now, here they were. Together. And sometimes, Nico wondered if he would ever stop feeling like her presence was a miracle.
Like she was a miracle.
Across the table, Bianca seemed completely at ease, eating as if this were any ordinary meal.
But for Nico, it wasn’t.
He doubted his sister would ever quite understand how inconceivable it was to sit across from her, an amalgamation of bittersweet emotions pressing against his ribs, making it hard to breathe. The moment felt fragile, as if speaking too soon might shatter it entirely.
Finally, as their meal slowly came to an end, Nico set down his fork, the soft clink of metal against porcelain breaking the quiet rhythm of the meal. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before lifting his gaze to meet Bianca’s.
“Father and I have been talking,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended.
Bianca glanced up at him, tilting her head in quiet curiosity. She had always been perceptive—always able to sense when something was weighing on his mind. And now, with the way her dark eyes studied him, he knew she could tell whatever he was about to say wasn’t something she would like.
He pressed forward anyway. “We’re leaving soon.”
She blinked, setting her spoon down with a soft scrape against the plate. “Leaving?”
Nico nodded, the weight of the decision settling heavier in his chest now that he had spoken the words aloud. “We’re going to Camp Half-Blood.”
For a moment, Bianca said nothing, just furrowing her brows as she processed his words. Then, slowly, she turned her gaze toward their father, as if looking for confirmation—or maybe an alternative answer.
“Why?” she asked, a frown creasing her forehead. There was something guarded in her tone, cautious yet searching, as if she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or concerned.
Hades, who had been mostly silent throughout breakfast, finally spoke. His deep, rumbling voice carried the weight of inevitability, like the slow shifting of the earth itself.
“Because you cannot stay here forever,” he said simply. “You are still young. You must live among the living, not the dead.”
His words settled over the room like an unspoken decree, undeniable and absolute.
Bianca’s fingers tightened slightly around her spoon. She looked around the table, her expression unreadable. The Underworld had become something of a strange sanctuary for them. She glanced at Persephone, as if looking for support. When their mother said nothing, Bianca returned to her breakfast.
Breakfast continued in near silence after that. Nico had thought Bianca would protest more, that she would argue they belonged with their father, that Camp Half-Blood wasn’t home. But she said nothing, simply eating in quiet contemplation.
Then, just as Nico was about to relax, she set her fork down and spoke.
“I want to join the Hunters of Artemis.”
The words hit Nico like a physical blow. He froze, his mind scrambling to process what she had just said. “What?”
Bianca turned to him, her expression calm, but there was a certain finality in her voice. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I want to join the Hunters.”
“No.” The word came out harsher than he intended, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You can’t.”
Bianca’s brows furrowed. “It’s not your decision, Nico.”
“Yes, it is!” He slammed his fist on the table, silverware rattling from the force. “You can’t just leave me!”
Bianca’s expression softened, but she shook her head. “I’m not leaving you, Nico. This is something I want. The Hunters—they’re a family, a place where I can belong.”
“We already have a family!” he snapped. “We have each other!”
She exhaled, looking at him like she wished he would understand. “That’s not the same, and you know it.”
Nico’s hands clenched into fists. “So that’s it? You’d rather be with them than with me?”
“It’s not about choosing between you and them!” she shot back. “This is about me, Nico. For once, I want to make my own decision.”
“You’re making the wrong decision,” he spat, standing abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. His heart pounded, his breath shallow. “You’re my sister, Bianca! We’re supposed to stick together!”
Bianca’s eyes were sad, but determined. “I am your sister. And I always will be. But this… this is what I want.”
Nico stared at her, his chest tight with something he couldn’t quite name—anger, betrayal, fear. He wanted to argue, to make her see that this was a mistake, that they needed each other. But the look in her eyes told him she had already made up her mind.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the dining hall, his footsteps echoing through the vast, empty corridors of the Underworld.
.
.
.
Nico gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white. The argument echoed in his mind, looping endlessly, each word cutting deeper. Bianca had chosen to leave him—again. She had chosen the Hunters over him.
A part of him knew that wasn’t fair. He knew this was her choice, her right. But fairness didn’t make it hurt any less. And despite the years he had lived—despite the twenty-four years of loss, survival, and battle—right now, he felt ten all over again. Small. Abandoned.
He barely registered the approaching footsteps. Nico didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. His hands tightened on the railing some more. “Go away.”
Hades sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of ages. “She made her choice, Nico.”
The words cut like a blade. Nico swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of the Underworld. “She shouldn’t have.”
Hades stepped closer, his presence cold but not unkind. “Perhaps not. But it’s better this way.”
Nico turned sharply, frustration burning in his dark eyes. “Better?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “How is this better? She’ll get herself killed!”
Hades’ expression remained unreadable, his crimson gaze steady. “Bianca becoming a Hunter means she is no longer in the running to be the child of prophecy.”
A shiver ran down Nico’s spine. He stared at his father. “You think it could’ve been her?”
Hades inclined his head slightly. “It was always a possibility. The Fates are not kind, and we have already defied them by saving Bianca.”
His voice softened then, though it remained edged with finality. “Besides, we cannot risk changing too much too soon. You, of all people, should understand the dangers of that.”
Nico looked down at his hands, still curled into around the railing. He did understand. Too much was at stake.
But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
Hades turned, his cloak billowing slightly in the cold, still air. “You may not see it now, but this is for the best. One day, you will understand.”
Nico didn’t respond as his father walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the palace. He remained where he was, staring out over the Underworld, his heart aching with something he wasn’t sure had a name.
Maybe Hades was right. Maybe this was better.
But it still felt like he had lost her.
.
.
.
Nico found Bianca in Persephone’s garden. The pomegranate trees cast long shadows in the dim, ever-present twilight, their crimson fruit hanging heavy on the branches. Bianca stood beneath one, her fingers brushing against the smooth surface of a ripened pomegranate, though she made no move to pick it.
“I figured you’d come looking for me,” she said without turning.
Nico exhaled sharply, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. He had spent the last few hours trying to wrap his head around it—trying to understand why she would willingly leave him, why she would choose the Hunters over staying together. He still didn’t have an answer.
“You owe me an explanation,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but his hands were trembling. “You just dropped this on me. You didn’t even talk to me about it.”
Bianca turned to face him, her dark eyes solemn. “Would it have changed anything if I had?”
“Yes!” Nico snapped. “Or—I don’t know! Maybe! But you didn’t even give me the chance!”
She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Nico… I have to do this.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
Nico clenched his jaw. “Why?”
Bianca hesitated. He could see the way she tensed, the way her fingers dug into the fabric of her sleeve like she was trying to ground herself. It wasn’t just about adventure or wanting a place to belong. It was something deeper.
Finally, she spoke. “Because my soulmate is dead.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut. Nico stared at her, the breath stolen from his lungs. “What?”
Bianca gave him a small, sad smile. “There was someone out there who was meant for me,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Before we ended up here. Before we even knew what we were. And they… they died.” Her hands tightened at her sides. “I don’t even remember them, Nico.”
His mind reeled. He searched for something—anything—to say. “Soulmates aren’t everything,” he managed, his voice hoarse. “You’re still so young, Bianca. You still have time to meet someone else.”
Her expression didn’t change. “And that’s why I didn’t tell you,” she said softly. “Because I knew you’d say that. That I still had time. That we still had each other. That it would get better.” She shook her head. “But it won’t, Nico. Not in the way you think. I feel… hollow without them. Like I lost something I can never get back.”
Nico swallowed, his throat tight. He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she wasn’t alone, that she still had him. But looking at her now, really seeing her, he realized she had already made peace with it.
Bianca smiled, but it was laced with sorrow. “The Hunters… they don’t just offer immortality. They offer a home. A place to belong.”
Nico shook his head. “Bianca, you don’t have to give up everything for this.”
She reached out, gently taking his hand in hers. “I’m not giving up everything,” she said softly. “I’m just choosing a different path.”
His fingers tightened around hers, desperate, as if holding on could somehow keep her here. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” she promised. “I’ll always be your sister.”
But they both knew it wouldn’t be the same.
Nico’s grip loosened. He pulled his hand away, staring at the ground because looking at her hurt too much. “I can’t watch you walk away from me,” he whispered.
Bianca’s gaze softened, but there was no hesitation in it. “This is my choice, Nico.”
He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t trust himself to.
Instead, he turned and walked away, the weight in his chest heavier than ever.
For the second time in his life, he was losing Bianca.
And just like before, there was nothing he could do to stop it.
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.
.
Hades walked in silence, his imposing presence a shadow against the dim morning light. Bianca and Nico flanked him, their steps nearly in sync as they approached the borders of Camp Half-Blood.
Nico could see the barrier shimmering before them, a nearly invisible veil of divine energy that separated the camp from the outside world. It pulsed faintly, reacting to their presence. Gods were not supposed to cross without reason.
The sky above rumbled. A crack of thunder split the air, jagged lightning flashing across the clouds—Zeus’s warning, his displeasure made clear.
Hades remained unfazed. If anything, he seemed almost bored by his brother’s theatrics. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, pushing Bianca and Nico ahead with him as he passed effortlessly through the barrier. The magic trembled around them, shifting, twisting, uncertain whether to allow or repel the presence of the god of the dead.
At first, Nico had argued against their father accompanying them. It wasn’t necessary. It would draw too much attention. But Hades had already made up his mind, and there was no changing it.
And in the end… maybe this was better.
His father’s presence would serve as a warning—a declaration of protection. Given that Nico had insulted Apollo quite publicly, it was probably a precaution he needed more than he wanted to admit.
As they crossed the threshold, the air inside camp felt different, charged, as if the land itself was holding its breath.
The reaction was immediate. Conversations died mid-sentence. Training weapons clattered to the ground. One by one, demigods turned toward them, eyes widening in shock, in reverence, in fear.
And then, as if compelled by some deep, instinctive force, some of them fell to their knees.
They knelt before the God of the Dead.
Nico swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the straps of his bag. He had expected stares and whispers. But this? This was something else entirely.
Beside him, Bianca stiffened, clearly just as unsettled by the display. Hades, however, barely seemed to notice. If he was pleased or irritated by their reverence, he gave no sign. He simply walked forward, his expression impassive, his dark robes billowing slightly with each step.
And so, with his father leading the way, Nico forced himself to keep walking, even as the weight of every gaze pressed down on him.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until the familiar sound of hooves against the earth broke through it.
Chiron met them halfway, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes flickered with something wary—respectful, but cautious. He bowed his head slightly. “Lord Hades.”
Hades regarded him with an unreadable gaze. “Chiron.”
There was no hostility, but neither was there warmth.
Without another word, Chiron turned and motioned for them to follow. The demigods still watched in stunned silence as the four of them made their way toward the Big House. The tension lingered, an unspoken understanding that something important was shifting.
Inside, Dionysus was already waiting.
He lounged in a chair by the fireplace, looking thoroughly unimpressed, his leopard-print Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned just enough to make him look even more disheveled than usual. He barely spared them a glance before sighing. “Oh, wonderful. And here I thought today might be boring.”
Nico resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This was going to be fun.
It was then that Nico’s gaze fell to Dionysus’s throat.
For a moment, he didn’t notice it. But then—
A golden glow, faint but unmistakable.
Etched into the god’s skin, shining softly against his tanned throat, was a name.
Ariadne.
Nico’s breath caught.
The mark looked just like the one burned into his own ribs—a soulmate’s name, glowing with the divine light of fate itself.
“Uncle,” Dionysus drawled, his tone edged with something between boredom and mild irritation. His gaze flicked over to Nico next, and something in his expression shifted. “And you must be Nico di Angelo.”
Nico startled.
Dionysus had never called him by his real name before. It was always Nicole, a lazy jab wrapped in indifference. But now, there was no mockery in his tone, no amusement lurking beneath the surface. Just quiet acknowledgment.
Nico narrowed his eyes. “You know my name?”
Dionysus regarded him with an expression that was unreadable, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his goblet. Then, with a sigh that felt heavier than it should have, he said, “Everyone knows your name, boy.”
Chapter Text
He must have looked confused, because Dionysus raised a single eyebrow in that infuriatingly smug way of his and gave Nico a look of barely concealed amusement—like a cat toying with a particularly slow mouse.
“Hasn’t your father told you?” the god asked, swirling his Diet Coke like it was a glass of fine wine, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Nico frowned, already preparing himself for whatever fresh nonsense was about to be dumped on his lap. “Told me what?”
Dionysus let out a loud, exaggerated sigh, throwing his head back in theatrical exasperation. “Honestly, communication these days.”
Nico crossed his arms, his patience running thin. “Told me what?”
The god’s grin widened. “Your soulbond, of course.”
Oh no. Nico could feel the gears in his brain grinding to a halt. “What about it?”
Dionysus leaned in like he was sharing a juicy secret. “It’s the hottest piece of gossip we’ve had in a millennium. You, my dear gloomy child, are the talk of Olympus.”
Nico blinked. “I…what?”
“Oh, don’t act surprised,” Dionysus said, grinning now, the glint in his eyes absolutely wicked. “It’s been trending for days. Hephaestus TV has reruns, Hermes is running betting pools, and Aphrodite has been organizing watch parties.”
Nico stared at him, at a complete loss. There was something surreal about imagining Olympus buzzing with conversations about him, of all people. Him and his… soulbond.
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
“Even Hera’s weighed in.” Dionysus continued cheerfully, clearly having the time of his immortal life. “Honestly, you’ve brought us all together. It’s very touching.”
“This can’t be real,” Nico muttered, his voice faint. He turned to Hades, who stood stonily to the side, expression unreadable in that very specific way that only meant: I know something and I’m not telling you unless you ask directly.
Nico narrowed his eyes. “You knew?”
Hades remained perfectly silent.
“Congratulations,” Dionysus said brightly, raising his can in a mock toast. “You’ve officially made divine prime time. You’re a household name, boy.”
Nico stood frozen in place, caught between indignation, horror, and an all-consuming need to evaporate on the spot. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to scream, vanish into shadow, or hurl Dionysus into Tartarus.
Probably all three.
With a groan of pure existential suffering, he dragged both hands down his face, smearing invisible stress across his cheeks. Every decision that had brought him here—to this body, this Camp, this moment—flashed before his eyes like a cosmic blooper reel. Sometimes—just sometimes—he really, truly, violently hated his life.
And this?
This was one of those times.
“We need to discuss in which cabin your son will be staying, Lord Hades,” Chiron interrupted, trying valiantly to steer the conversation back on track. His tone was careful, diplomatic. Hopeful, even.
Hades turned to the centaur with the flat, frostbitten stare of someone moments away from unleashing an eldritch catastrophe. If looks could kill, Chiron would’ve been reduced to dust.
“Considering that I have not been granted a cabin of my own,” Hades said, his voice glacial, “my son will be placed in Cabin Eleven, as tradition dictates.”
Across from them, Dionysus, of course, delighted in stirring the pot. “Apollo’s cabin could be good for the boy,” he had drawled, sipping his Diet Coke.
Nico’s stomach dropped. He didn’t have to look at his father to know what came next.
Hades went still. Not just still—statue still. The temperature plummeted. Frost laced its way across the floor like creeping veins of glass. Shadows twisted unnaturally along the walls, bending the light as if recoiling in fear. And in the depths of Nico’s mind, a distant, inhuman shriek echoed, raw and cold as the grave.
“Apollo has no claim on my son,” Hades declared, each word clipped and lethal.
Dionysus sipped his soda with exaggerated calm. “He has every claim on him,” he replied, almost lazily—knowing exactly how the comment would land.
For one terrible second, Hades looked one breath away from letting the earth open and swallow the entire Big House. Nico could practically hear the brittle silence crackling with restrained divine rage.
He took a single step backward—then another—reaching out to pull Bianca with him, just in case.
This was spiraling, and fast. If someone didn’t intervene, the next headline on Hephaestus TV would be “Camp Half-Blood Leveled in Godly Custody Dispute.”
Gods, Nico thought. He was ten years old right now. Ten. And somehow already the epicenter of a celestial custody battle, a soulbond scandal, and enough divine drama to fuel Olympus for the next decade.
He needed a nap. Or a sword. Or maybe a black hole to swallow him whole.
.
.
.
By the time they stepped out of the Big House and into the fading afternoon light, Nico was ready to walk straight into the River Lethe just for a moment of peace. His legs ached from standing too long, his head pounded from the sheer volume of divine bickering, and the campers who had gathered on the porch were still whispering among themselves, wide-eyed, as if they were watching the drama of the century unfold.
And of course, that was when Persephone chose to make it official.
A shimmer of light bloomed above Bianca’s and Nico’s heads. When he looked up, he saw it take shape—a deep red flower slowly unfurling its petals, morphing and darkening until it resembled a pomegranate, rich and glistening with impossible color.
A stunned silence followed, so profound it made Nico’s teeth itch.
Someone gasped, and the whispers resumed, louder now, edged with disbelief and fascination. Nico closed his eyes for a moment, long enough to steel himself. He didn’t need to turn around to know how many people were staring. He could feel it, the weight of their attention burning into his skin.
He was fed up. Completely, utterly done.
The claiming might’ve meant something under different circumstances, but now? After spending over an hour locked in an utterly pointless debate about where he was supposed to sleep tonight, it felt like a final joke at his expense.
Now, none of it mattered. Persephone had claimed them. And as Camp rules went—old, unspoken rules, ones steeped in tradition—children of Persephone were expected to stay in the Demeter Cabin.
Even if said child was actually a son of Hades.
Nico glanced at his father. Hades’ lips were pressed into a thin, pale line. His jaw was clenched, his expression unreadable—but Nico knew the look. It was the same one he wore in council meetings, right before threatening his brothers with war.
Nico didn't blame him.
He sighed and muttered under his breath, “Next time I die, I better stay dead.”
.
.
.
It was clear no one truly believed Persephone’s claiming.
The titles “Son and Daughter of Hades” clung to them like a shadow, trailing behind as they made their way to the Demeter Cabin and lingered still at dinner. Their stepmother’s gesture seemed to confuse more than reassure.
Bianca didn’t help matters.
With an earnestness only she could manage, she doubled down on the story, explaining to anyone who would listen that Persephone had simply wanted to make sure they were looked after properly. That, of course, was why she had sent her husband with them. A gesture of concern. A family arrangement.
Katie Gardner, for one, stared at her as though she’d sprouted a second head, or worse, dared to suggest putting plastic flowers in the cabin.
At least the Demeter Cabin wasn’t overcrowded. Nico had been given the corner bunk, farthest from the windows. It wasn’t terrible. The air always smelled faintly of soil and flowers, and vines curled lazily along the ceiling beams. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place. These weren’t his siblings. This wasn’t his home. And Bianca wouldn’t be here much longer.
She’d already said as much: the moment Artemis returned, she’d be leaving with the Hunters. Permanently.
As it turned out, that didn’t take long.
By the next morning, Percy returned to camp—with Annabeth beside him, battered but alive. Word spread quickly: the quest was over, Artemis was safe, and the sun god himself had escorted them back.
The Hunters gathered near the Big House, heads bowed. Some looked relieved. Others scanned the campgrounds, clearly searching for Zoe—and clearly realizing she wasn’t there.
Nico stood just outside the Demeter Cabin, half-hidden by ivy trailing from the roof. His eyes tracked the returning group, watching the Hunters' formation, the stiffness in their shoulders.
Then he saw him—Apollo, radiant and terrible, sunlight bleeding off his skin like a divine contagion. He stood with the ease of a god who had never known doubt, golden light warping subtly around him, bending toward him like the world itself refused to let go.
Their gazes met.
It lasted only a second. A flicker. A heartbeat.
But in that instant, it felt as though time held its breath. The sun faltered in the sky. Nico’s senses twisted, unmoored, as if something inside him had been struck like a gong, echoing down the long, hollow corridors of his soul.
A quiet heat bloomed beneath his ribs where the mark lay, faint but undeniable.
Would it always feel this way?
He looked away first. The weight of it—the unbearable truth of it—pressed against his ribs like a vice. His chest ached with something too vast to name, ancient and sharp and cruel.
Without a word, he turned on his heel and slipped back into the cabin, shadows curling around his ankles like loyal hounds.
.
.
.
That night, Nico stepped outside and tilted his face to the sky.
The stars glittered cold and distant above him. Among them, Zoë Nightshade watched from her place in the heavens, bright and forever silent.
.
.
.
Bianca left the next day.
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.
.
“Are you alright?” Percy asked, stepping up beside him as the last of the Hunters moved through the clearing, their silver cloaks catching the early morning light like shards of moonlight.
Nico didn’t respond right away. His eyes were on the tree line, where Bianca’s silhouette had just disappeared. He glanced sideways at Percy, his voice quiet but sharp. “Are you?”
Percy blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What? Of course. It’s your sister who’s leaving.”
“Yes,” Nico said simply, gaze fixed ahead. “And your one chance at escaping the prophecy.”
That silenced Percy. The words hung between them like fog—dense, heavy, impossible to wave away. His expression didn’t shift much, but Nico saw the flicker of understanding behind his eyes.
Neither of them spoke for a while. The sounds of camp murmured distantly behind them—clinking dishes, the flap of a banner in the wind—but out here at the edge of the woods, it felt like the world had gone still.
Nico looked down at the grass beneath their feet, blades silvered with frost. It reminded him of another conversation, another moment that felt eerily similar—Percy standing in front of him, telling him that Bianca was gone. Nico hadn’t understood then—not the words, not the loss, and certainly not the boy who delivered it. Percy had felt like a giant, a myth come to life, invincible and untouchable.
But now? Now Nico stood at his side and saw him clearly.
Gods, Percy was still just a child.
Just a boy.
“I thought you were children of Persephone,” Percy said after a moment, his voice quieter now.
Nico huffed a dry, humorless breath. “We both know that’s not true.”
The other looked at him, eyebrows drawn together. “She claimed you.”
“She did it to help,” Nico explained, his voice tight around the edges. “To give us a place. That’s all. Not because we’re hers.”
Percy nodded slowly, then looked back toward the trees where the last of the Hunters were vanishing into the shadows.
“She’ll be alright,” he murmured after a while, not quite looking at Nico. “Bianca, I mean. With Artemis.”
“I know,” Nico whispered. And he did.
But knowing didn’t make it any easier.
.
.
.
The next morning, Nico found himself on the sparring fields, a wooden sword clutched awkwardly in both hands. Across from him, Percy stood with the easy confidence of someone who’d fought for years and survived it. He rolled his shoulders lazily, already limbering up, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The grass was still damp with morning dew, the sunlight glinting off the rows of practice weapons and armor racks lined up under the pavilion. Campers milled about at the edges of the field, some watching, some pretending not to. Nico could feel their eyes, even if they didn’t say a word.
He shifted uncomfortably and glanced down at his arms—thin, pale things that looked more like twigs than limbs capable of holding a blade. At twenty-four, they’d been wiry and fast, honed by a lifetime of battle and survival. But now, at ten, he was all awkward elbows and misjudged steps.
“You ready?” Percy asked, offering a lopsided grin as he twirled his own practice sword. “We’ll go slow.”
Nico nodded, jaw set. His stomach churned with something between dread and determination.
They began with the basics—Percy demonstrating a block or a swing, Nico mimicking it. At first, it felt manageable, even familiar. He remembered some of these forms. His body didn’t. Where his older self had been fluid and precise, his ten-year-old limbs now overextended, misjudged distance, or simply didn’t move fast enough. He missed a parry entirely and stumbled backward, nearly dropping his weapon.
“Hey, it’s alright,” Percy said quickly, holding up his hands. “You’re doing fine.”
“I’m not,” Nico muttered, frustration tightening his voice. His face was already flushed, and not just from the exertion.
“You’re just new at this,” Percy offered more gently now. “Give it time.”
“It’s not just that,” Nico snapped before he could stop himself. “My arms are like sticks, my sword feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and everything is just—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. With a frustrated grunt, he let the wooden sword fall to the ground. It landed with a dull thud, and Nico stared at it as if it had betrayed him.
There were no words for what he really wanted to say—no easy way to explain the feeling clawing under his skin. How could he tell anyone that his body felt wrong, like he was wearing someone else’s limbs? That his movements didn’t line up with his instincts, that nothing fit the way it used to?
Percy didn’t say anything right away. He just moved quietly, stepping over and crouching beside him.
Nico clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to shake the ache in his forearms. The muscles there throbbed with strain from barely half an hour of practice. He could still remember how his Stygian Iron blade used to feel in his grip—weighty, balanced, alive. It had moved with him like a thought. Now, the idea of holding it seemed laughable. He doubted he could even lift it properly, let alone wield it in a fight.
As if that humiliation weren’t enough, the stares had started again.
A small cluster of Apollo campers had gathered just beyond the edge of the sparring ring. They weren’t laughing or whispering—just standing there, watching. Their expressions hovered somewhere between curiosity and discomfort, like they weren’t sure what to make of what they were seeing.
Not that Nico blamed them. It had to be strange—seeing the ten-year-old soulmate of their father. He was just as mortal as they were, younger than most of them. None of them had ever met him, yet somehow, inexplicably, he was important.
Nico caught one of them staring too long. Their eyes met for a split second, and the boy immediately looked away, suddenly very invested in the pattern of gravel at his feet.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t scowl. Didn’t react at all.
Not even when his gaze snagged on the familiar silhouette standing silently at the back of the group.
Will.
The sight hit harder than it should have. Nico’s breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t ready.
He loved Will—his Will. The one from the future. The one who held his hand in silence, who stayed through grief and Tartarus and everything in between. But that future was gone now.
And this?
This was a child. Soft-edged and wide-eyed, all promise and none of the memory. A stranger wearing a face Nico had once memorized.
It was wrong. All of it.
The boy standing there was a child of Apollo. And Nico—somehow—was Apollo’s soulmate.
Gods, wasn’t that just completely, irreversibly fucked up?
Nico looked away quickly, jaw tightening.
No one said anything, but the weight of it hung in the air all the same. Heavy. Awkward. He could feel it pressing between his shoulder blades, an invisible tension that made it impossible to breathe quite right.
Percy followed his gaze for a moment, then looked back at him. “You know,” he murmured, voice soft and matter-of-fact, “you don’t have to prove anything to them. Or to me.”
Nico didn’t answer. The knot in his throat made it hard to speak. His hands curled into fists on his knees.
“I remember what it felt like,” Percy went on, glancing toward the distant lake. “Being new here. Everyone staring at you, judging you.” He paused. “It sucks.”
They sat there for a while in the damp grass, surrounded by the clatter of swords and the buzz of training drills. No one approached them. The Apollo kids eventually drifted away, their curiosity giving way to boredom or discomfort.
Nico exhaled slowly. The knot in his chest loosened by a fraction.
Percy stood and offered a hand. “Come on. Let’s try again.”
He hesitated, then reached up and let Percy pull him to his feet.
The wooden sword still lay on the ground. Nico picked it up again, testing the grip. It was heavy. Awkward. Wrong.
But it was a start.
.
.
.
The truth was, there wasn’t much Nico could do right now.
He lingered at Camp for a few more days—trained a little, exchanged a few words with the other campers, even tolerated some of the curious glances sent his way. But the restlessness grew like ivy beneath his skin, winding tighter with each passing hour.
Here, at Camp Half-Blood, he was stuck in place. Waiting. Watching. And Nico had never been good at staying still.
The Labyrinth was the next big event. He remembered every twist, every echoing scream, every turn that had led to disaster and survival alike. But even now, with all the knowledge he carried, he couldn’t do much to change it.
Some things, he knew, had to happen. Some events had weight—momentum. If he interfered too early or too recklessly, he risked losing the future he was trying to protect.
So, he made his choice.
He returned to the Underworld, to prepare not just himself, but an entire army for the upcoming war.
Notes:
So… it’s become painfully clear that I have absolutely no self-control when it comes to writing Nico content (or just diving headfirst into new stories in general). Since the last update, I may or may not have published a few new things.
There’s a Nico/Poseidon fic out there now (don’t look at me like that), and a Female!Nico/Artemis pairing I’ve been having a lot of fun with. Oh! And if you're enjoying this story, I also started a new series that’s kind of like this one, but it focuses on Luke Castellan instead.
If any of that sounds like your thing, feel free to check them out! As always, thanks for reading, and for putting up with the chaos that is my update schedule.