“Rise!” I roared.
A dark wind tore out of me. Within it, hellfire spun—black flames, cold as the void and hot as the sun’s heart. They burned without consuming me, whipping sand and blood into the air.
The final lock turned in my mind.
The ground trembled. Cracks spiderwebbed from where I stood, glowing with gold and black light. Life and death intertwined.
The earth split open with the sound of reality breaking.
And then the dead rose.
Hades could no longer summon them. Not when he’d been cut off from his source, from the Underworld that fed his power. The gods had made sure of that when they designed their curse.
But his Queen of Death had awakened. And I knew no such limits.
They rose from the rift. From the cracks I had torn between worlds. From the silence where spirits and phantoms wait.
First a few—skeletal hands grasping the edges, hauling themselves through. Then dozens. Hundreds.
Skeletal warriors in ancient armor, bronze and iron stained with time. Fallen soldiers from forgotten wars, still clutching the weapons that had killed them. Roman legionaries with shield andgladius. Greek hoplites with spear and crest. Warriors from empires turned to dust millennia ago.
Spirits given form and purpose by my will. Not mindless husks, but warriors—their skill, their memory, their loyalty intact.
They took up arms and turned toward the living tide. For their queen. For the goddess who had called them back from beyond.
The gods watched in horror, their perfect faces no longer amused. Minor gods scrambled back from the audience seats.
Necromancy on this scale shouldn’t be possible. No one—not even Hades—had thought of commanding an army of the dead.
My mate, the King of the Underworld, roared with laughter. The sound carried across the arena, cutting through screams and steel. Rich. Full. Edged with madness.
He was drunk on revenge and pride and joy. His queen had finally awoken
I led the army of the dead toward the centaurs who had fired the arrow that had killed Sindy. Who had tried to slay me and my hellhound.
They’d shot down fleeing students and laughed as bodies fell.
Now it was their turn.
The dead swarmed them, climbed their backs, dragged at their legs, and pulled at their arms. The centaurs kicked and screamed, trying to shake off attackers who felt no pain, knew no fear, could not die again.
Their equine bodies reared and bucked. Hooves crushed skulls. But for every dead destroyed, two more took its place.
I walked toward them through the battle chaos. Spirits parted, clearing a path. My sword was back in my hand.
The male centaur saw me coming. His eyes widened with recognition, then terror.
My blade rose and fell. I beheaded him with one strike, power sheathing the steel so it cut through muscle and bone like air. His head hit the ground, and I kicked it high toward Zeus’s balcony. It didn’t go through the barrier though.
I drove my sword through the female centaur’s chest next. She gasped, blood bubbling from her lips. Her eyes held mine.
I leaned close. “That was for my friend, bitch. You don’t cross Persephone.”
I yanked back the blade. She gave a final shudder and crashed to the ground.
Nearby, the students from Stardust House huddled in a corner, white-faced and clutching one another. They had thrown up wards with all their might—glowing purple barriers—for protection. I could tear them down with a snap of my fingers.
They had not fought against us or Kingsley House. They had stayed neutral, true to their headmistress’s ways. The dead flowed around their glowing barrier like a river around a stone, leaving them untouched.
