Zagreus always looked to Mal as though he carried sorrow like a second skin, not a sadness that begged for pity, but one born of too many lifetimes spent watching suffering he could not prevent.
He smiled now, his lips curling back to reveal sharp fangs, though the gesture was not without warmth. He wore no shirt, only fitted black leather trousers and heavy boots. His chest was sculpted, like marble brought to life, as though some forgotten god had carved him from shadow and flame.
‘Welcome,’ he said, voice low and resonant. ‘To Tartarus. The prison of the Underworld.’
…
Tartarus was a realm of anguish and endless lamentation, a place carved from the belly of the mountain itself. The ground was fractured, jagged, and scorched, with great veins of molten lava glowing beneath the stone like the exposed lifeblood of the earth. The walls, slick and seething, wept streams of fire, as though the mountain were in a constant state of eruption.
The cells of the damned were carved from black stone, two sheer walls flanking either side. The front was sealed by a gate of shadow-forged iron, but the rear was far more terrible. A shimmering curtain of lava, pulsing like a wound torn into the world.
Zagreus came to a halt before one of the countless cells, a long parchment unfurled in his hands. The soul within shrieked at the sight of him, stumbling backwards only to freeze, remembering what lay behind.
‘I have your sentence,’ Zagreus said, his voice as steady andmerciless as time. ‘Unfortunately, you have been found guilty.’
Mal watched the condemned soul. A drakonian, judging by the elegant curl of the horns and the golden fall of hair. The man collapsed to his knees, hands clasped in pleading despair.
She stepped forward, jaw clenched, her body rigid with intent, but Thanatos caught her wrist before she could move. His grip was firm, his expression unreadable, and the look he gave her was not one she appreciated.
Before she could speak, the lava flared.
Chains erupted from the molten curtain with a hiss, slithering through the air like vipers. A collar of black iron snapped around the drakonian’s neck, and with one final scream, he was dragged backward, consumed by the fire. The lava rippled once, then stilled.
‘What...’ Mal breathed.
Zagreus turned to her, his expression impassive.
‘If they are found guilty,’ he said, gesturing to the still-quivering lava, ‘they are cast into one of the rings of Hell, through the fire.’ He then nodded towards the barred gate. ‘If innocent, they are released to Asphodel, or whichever place has been deemed worthy of their soul.’
Mal followed Zagreus through the seemingly endless corridor, a bleak procession of cells and suffering. The air itself quivered with the screams of the damned. Hoarse cries for mercy, for justice, for oblivion, but none were granted. Only the volcanic stone and the molten shadows bore witness.
‘Will that list of yours tell me whether Allegra is here or not?’ she asked, her voice taut with fatigue.
‘She isn’t here,’ Zagreus replied simply, leading them ever deeper into the underbelly of Tartarus. With every step, the air grew heavier, the shrieks more frenzied, as though the very stone absorbed the agony and sang it back in echo.
‘Which means what, exactly?’ Mal asked, irritation flaring in her chest.
‘If she’s not on the list, and not in the Underworld...’ Zagreus leaned close, his lips curling as his face hovered far too near hers. ‘There’s only one place left she could be.’
Before Mal could speak, Thanatos stepped smoothly between them, his shoulders drawn tight, every line of him radiating restrained tension.
‘We’re aware, Zagreus. Nonetheless, thank you for your enlightenment.’
Zagreus offered a languid smile. ‘You’re very welcome.’
‘We’ll take it from here,’ Thanatos added. He reached for Mal’s hand, but at the last moment hesitated, letting it fall.
‘I’d come along,’ Zagreus said with a shrug, clearly unbothered, ‘but...’
‘You can’t!’ Makaria gasped. ‘Father will be furious if you go against his will. He said we must stay with Melinoe.’
Zagreus snarled. ‘I am not Hades’ hound, Makaria. He may keepyouon a leash, but...’ He stretched his arms with lazy defiance, like a cat fresh from slumber. ‘Enjoy yourselves. I’ll escort you to the gates of Hell, at least.’
Makaria looked as though she might argue, but Mal grasped her arm gently and gave Zagreus a glare as sharp as obsidian. She couldn’t care less whether he came or stayed, but she knew it had meant something to Makaria, having them all together.
When Zagreus moved ahead of them, Makaria slipped from Mal’s grip and hurried after him, her expression unreadable.
‘Let it be,’ Thanatos said quietly beside Mal. ‘They’ve spent a thousand years together.’
