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The first time Brandon saw the God of the Underworld, he was surrounded by light.
The divine summit was held in the gardens of Eos, drenched in gold and laughter, where immortals and heirs waltzed between fountains and blossoms that bloomed just for them. The air was heavy with rose water and privilege. Every godling shimmered in silk and spoke too loudly. Brandon had never felt more alone.
Until he arrived.
The laughter stopped. The air turned cold.
And Brandon forgot how to breathe.
Nikolai Sokolov didn’t shimmer—he swallowed the light.
He wore black. Not the coward’s black of those who wanted to blend in. No—he wore obsidian tailored to perfection, embroidered in thread darker than sin, silver cufflinks that gleamed like the edges of blades. Shadows curled around his boots like dogs on leashes. When he stepped forward, the grass browned.
Brandon's heart kicked against his ribs.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. The underworld king never came to these things. He sent proxies, servants carved from bone and ash. But this time, he came. He stood beneath the sun and didn’t flinch, and every other godling in the garden suddenly looked like a child in a costume.
He wasn’t beautiful in the way the celestial gods were. He was something else.
Beautiful like a grave covered in roses. Beautiful like a knife. Like a kiss with teeth.
Brandon's hands trembled.
He didn’t even notice Nikolai had stopped until he felt the weight of a gaze—his gaze—settle on him. It was slow. Heavy. Consuming. Like being chosen. Like being marked.
Their eyes locked.
Brandon, born of spring and silk, felt winter crawl up his spine.
And then—Nikolai smiled.
It was barely there. A cruel thing. A knowing thing. Brandon’s breath hitched.
Then the god of death turned and disappeared into the shadows behind the marble steps.
Later that night, Brandon dreamed of standing in a garden he’d never seen—one that didn’t belong to the upper world.
The sky above him was colorless. The trees were skeletal but blooming, blossoms dark as blood, petals drifting down like ash. The earth was soft beneath his bare feet, and the only sound was wind...or breath...or something in between.
And then he felt it.
The weight of a gaze. Heavy and ancient.
He turned, heart thudding, and saw him.
Nikolai stood across the garden, cloaked in black, pale hands clasped before him like a statue carved from winter. He made no move. He just watched. Unblinking. Like Brandon was the center of his world. Like he was already his.
Brandon tried to move toward him—but his body stayed still.
Then the shadows around Nikolai stirred.
They slithered forward—slow and curling, like smoke laced with desire.
One sprout rose and glided across the garden. It stopped before Brandon and hovered. Waiting.
Brandon swallowed. He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch.
And the shadow touched him.
Softly at first. Like a breath over his collarbone. Then firmer, deliberate. The shadow slid beneath the collar of his tunic and down the line of his chest. It was warm. Hungry.
He gasped, head tilting back, lips parting.
The shadow coiled around his wrists, dragging them above his head as more wrapped around his ankles. It held him gently—but possessively.
He moaned as the fabric of his clothes began to unravel—thread by thread—disappearing into the dark like it was being devoured.
He should’ve been afraid.
But all he felt was want.
Brandon stood bared in the dreamlight, flushed and aching, breath unsteady as the shadow moved across his chest, circling his nipples, tracing his ribs like piano keys. One coiled around his thigh and up, sliding—teasing—before brushing between his legs in a whisper of silk.
“Please...” he murmured, not sure if he begged for it to stop or to never stop.
The shadows slowed...and parted.
And he was there.
Nikolai—closer now. Still silent. Still staring like Brandon was something sacred.
When he finally moved, it was devastating.
The god of death walked to him like a storm behind a silk curtain. His hand lifted. His thumb brushed along Brandon’s lower lip.
“You allowed me inside your dream,” Nikolai said, voice like velvet over a blade.
Brandon whimpered. “I would do it every night.”
“You shouldn’t,” he said.
And then Nikolai leaned forward, gaze never leaving his, and pressed the softest kiss to Brandon’s sternum—right above his pounding heart.
A second kiss followed, lower. Then another. His mouth trailed heat down Brandon’s stomach, tongue flicking just above his navel.
The shadows held Brandon still, shivering, as the god of death kissed him like a prayer. Worshipfully.
And just before his mouth reached the place Brandon ached the most—he paused.
His breath warmed the sensitive skin there.
Then he looked up.
“Soon,” Nikolai whispered, lips inches from sin, “I'll make you mine.”
Brandon jolted awake—gasping, sweating, legs trembling beneath the sheets.
His clothes were untouched.
But his mouth still tingled. His thighs were wet with release.
And he swore he could still feel the kiss pressed over his heart.
He never spoke of the dream—nor the ones that followed.
They came every night now, as constant as breath. Ever since the first time he wandered through the pomegranate garden—and saw him waiting in the mist—Brandon had not been the same.
The world no longer felt like his.
The garden that his parents built for him had begun to wither. The blossoms drooped like mourners. Vines curled in on themselves. The scent of life had been replaced by something richer, darker—decay dressed in sweetness. Still, he went there daily. Tending to dying petals, whispering to things no one else could see.
People started to notice.
He spoke to shadows.
Lingered in corners.
Flinched from sunlight like it stung.
He stopped answering when people called his name, but sometimes he would turn—slowly—as if someone else had whispered it just behind his ear.
He barely touched anyone anymore. And when someone touched him, he pulled away too quickly. Like he would get in trouble if they did.
When he closed his eyes, sleep didn’t come. He did.
A throne room awaited him—cold marble streaked with veins of gold, bone-white pillars, velvet shadows. And him. Always him. With eyes that glowed like dying stars and a voice that said Brandon like it was a tether. A claim.
Even when Brandon touched himself in the dark, it was no longer his own hands he imagined. It was his. Rough and reverent. Like he wanted to be worshiped and ruined all at once.
He never saw Nikolai again—not in daylight.
But in the dark?
He was everywhere.
In the garden soil beneath Brandon’s nails.
In the mirror, just behind his shoulder.
In the ache between breaths.
In the silence after someone left the room.
In the voice that said mine.
And worst of all—
In the part of him that didn’t want to be saved.
It happened on the night of his twenty-first birthday.
There was a celebration. The King family invited the world. Gods, sirens, demi-gods, etc. It was all gold and lace, too bright and far too loud. Brandon stood on the edge of it, like a ghost in his own life, aching for something he couldn’t name.
And then the lights flickered.
Once. Twice.
A single petal from the ceiling drifted down into his open hand—black. Not painted, not dyed. It had rotted in midair.
He looked up.
And saw a man standing at the edge of the ballroom. Cloaked in shadow. Watching only him.
Brandon didn’t hesitate.
He stepped off the dais.
He walked through the party.
And when he reached the man in black, the world fell silent.
Nikolai didn’t speak.
He held out a hand.
Brandon took it.
And the moment their fingers touched, the ground cracked beneath them—and the world vanished.
The descent into the underworld was silent.
No screaming. No falling. No fire.
Just stillness.
One blink he was in the ballroom. The next—he stood on black marble, beneath a sky with no stars, in a palace that looked like it had been carved from night itself.
He wasn’t afraid.
He turned to the god beside him.
“You really came for me.” Brandon whispered.
Nikolai’s voice was low and dry. “Did you believe in my word?.Remember what have I been saying to every night I visited?"
Brandon nodded. "That I belong to you."
That smile again—sharp and ancient. “You’re mine, little spring prince.”
Brandon looked at the silver tray beside the throne.
On it lay a single pomegranate, split open, glistening like rubies.
He met the god’s gaze. Reached out.
And took a bite.