Chapter Text
The Isle of the Lost reeked of rust and broken dreams. Magic was a memory, the skies always dull, as if the sun itself refused to shine over the cursed rock. But deep beneath the ruins of an abandoned temple, carved into black stone and soot, the fires of the Underworld still burned.
Mal stood on the edge of a molten pit, arms crossed, boots planted firmly on the cracked floor. Her hair—thick, wild, and waist-length—was a striking mix of deep black and burning ginger. The black came from her father, Hades, ancient king of the Underworld. The ginger glowed like autumn fire, unmistakably her mother’s: Persephone, goddess of spring.
Behind her, Hades stirred. His towering figure emerged from the shadows, a long coat sweeping behind him. His hair was black as night, but magic pulsed beneath his skin—when his power rose, blue flames crackled from his scalp and danced along his shoulders.
Right now, those flames were flickering low and sharp.
“Something’s coming,” he said, voice gravel-edged and wary.
Mal raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, something’s always coming. Usually debt collectors or feral goblins.”
Then the door banged open upstairs. Dizzy, the tinker girl who ran messages and odd jobs, burst into the room. “There’s a broadcast! From Auradon! Every screen’s got it!”
Mal and Hades exchanged a glance before hurrying up the winding stairs to the surface.
In a crumbling old room above the tunnels, a battered TV flickered weakly in the corner. Isle kids crowded around it, muttering and squinting. On the screen stood Prince Ben—Auradon’s golden heir—looking every bit the polished prince in tailored blue, a beacon of smug optimism.
“…I believe it’s time for change,” Ben was saying. “For second chances. So I’m announcing a new program. We are choosing four teens from the Isle of the Lost to attend Auradon Prep.”
The room fell into stunned silence.
Ben continued, “The first students will be: Mal, daughter of Hades—”
Gasps.
“—Jay, son of Jafar; Evie, daughter of the Evil Queen; and Carlos, son of Cruella de Vil.”
The TV fizzled into static. Silence reigned—until someone laughed nervously. “Guess the royals want to feel good about themselves.”
Mal didn’t laugh.
She turned to her father slowly. “They want me.”
Hades’ jaw tightened. His flames flickered higher, ghostly blue curling from his shoulders. “They want a symbol. A spectacle.”
“I’m not a symbol,” Mal said flatly. “I’m me.”
Hades placed a hand on her shoulder. Warm. Grounding. Not cold like the stories claimed. His voice softened. “They didn’t say her name.”
Mal’s throat tightened. Persephone.
Her mother, the goddess of spring, of flowers pushing through frost, had been forced to let her go. The Council of Auradon had allowed Hades to remain just long enough to witness Mal’s birth—then ripped him and the infant away and dumped them behind magical barriers. Persephone had begged. Cried. Threatened. But even spring couldn’t bloom in a kingdom that feared bloodlines.
Mal blinked the memory away.
“Fine,” she said, lifting her chin. “Let’s see what the golden prince really wants.”
And deep within her, something ancient stirred—fire and bloom, death and rebirth, twining in her chest.
Mal, daughter of Hades and Persephone, was going to Auradon.
She turned toward the stairs, ready to leave the crumbling temple behind for the first time in her life. But Hades reached out, his hand curling gently around her wrist.
“Wait,” he said, his voice low—quieter than she’d ever heard it. The blue flames on his shoulders softened to a flicker.
She turned back, startled by the look in his eyes.
“If you see her…” he paused. “If you see Persephone… tell her I still love her.”
Mal stared at him. Her father, god of the dead, feared by mortals and monsters alike, was looking at her not as the feared Lord of the Underworld, but as a man who had lost everything—his freedom, his family, his wife.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “I will.”
Hades nodded, jaw tight. “And tell her… tell her our daughter turned out pretty damn amazing.”
Mal smirked, her usual fire returning. “She’ll figure that out on her own.”
She turned and strode toward her future, ginger-black hair swaying behind her like a living flame.
Mal, daughter of spring and death, was going to Auradon.
And no one—not even the golden prince—was ready.