‘I hear there’s trouble brewing,’ Hades drawled, though his tone carried more amusement than true concern.
Thanatos inclined his head in a silent confirmation.
‘And do we know who is stirring it?’ Hades pressed, his eyes glinting like a cat in low light.
Thanatos’ gaze slid briefly towards Mal before returning to the ruler of the Underworld, a silent exchange passing between them, one that required no words yet spoke volumes.
Mal’s jaw tightened. ‘Keep your secrets,’ she snarled, every syllable sharp with suspicion. Her eyes shifted to Allegra. ‘Stay here. I will return.’
Allegra nodded once before retreating into the shadowed depths of the castle.
Mal turned back to Hades, her fingers flexing around the hilt of her sword. ‘What, have you come to see me off?’
He gave a careless shrug. ‘To wish you luck.’
‘For what?’ she asked, eyes narrowing.
Hades only smiled, that cruel, knowing curl of lips that had undone empires, before striding away, his hand brushing Thanatos’ shoulder in an almost fatherly gesture as he passed.
Mal’s grip on her blade tightened until her knuckles whitened.
‘Ignore him,’ Thanatos said.
‘Oh, I always do,’ she replied dryly. ‘But no matter how hard I try, he never seems to take the hint.’
Thanatos stepped closer, positioning himself directly in front of her, blocking her path with deliberate ease.
‘I cannot go with you,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ Her voice was sharp, wounded.
‘Because I cannot intervene,’ he explained, each word deliberate, weighted. ‘I can only collect.’
Her lips parted with protest but then snapped shut. She nodded stiffly, swallowing her frustration like bitter wine.
‘But…’ Thanatos’ tone softened, and for the briefest moment, a smile ghosted across his face. Soft, almost dangerous in its rarity. Mal’s hands itched to strike it from his lips. ‘I can still help you.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘How?’
‘With an army, as promised.’ He gestured over her shoulder.
Mal turned, and froze.
Across the open field, shades began to manifest, one by one, pale outlines thickening into solid forms, until dozens, then hundreds, stood before her. They were clad in spectral armour, blades and spears gripped firmly in ghostly hands, their faces lit with grim purpose and undying fury. They advanced not as wraiths but as soldiers reborn, and when they finally halted, they bowed low, pressing two fingers to their foreheads in solemn oath.
‘May the shadows guide your way,’ the dead intoned, their voices an eerie, unified chorus that sent a chill through her soul.
Mal dipped her head in return, bowing with equal reverence.
‘May the shadows guide me,’ she answered, her voice carrying like a vow through the still air.
They say nothing in this world burns as fiercely, nor endures as endlessly, as love.
But they are mistaken.
There exists a force far more potent, far more consuming.
Hatred.
