Chapter Seven
It is said that when Hades first shaped the Underworld, there was no Hell.
But the god who created Elysium wished to punish some of his messengers.
These beings, not quite gods but something other, what some have come to call angels, had no place to be cast. No prison suited to hold them.
So Hades, in a gesture both grim and generous, forged Hell as a gift for that god, a place to banish the angels who had turned against him.
It is said there were seven of them, these wayward angels, and each was cast into Hell as retribution for their betrayal.
For each one, Hades created a ring, a realm uniquely crafted to contain them, from which they could never escape.
And in time, these fallen messengers became the kings of Hell.
But here lies the curious thing: there are nine rings in total.
Two remain without kings.
Some whisper, in the hushed corners of the Underworld, that Hades forged those two extra rings in anticipation—that perhaps more angels might fall and require a prison of their own.
But others believe the truth is far more deliberate.
That those two rings were not made for just anyone. They were made for someone.
Someone Hades intends to entrap there.
Tabitha Wysteria
Mal glanced up at the towering gates that marked the very edge of the village.
They loomed high above, wrought from what appeared to be bone, bleached spines entwined with skulls whose hollow sockets stared down at them, grim sentinels frozen in warning.
From beyond, the faint wails of the damned curled through the air like smoke.
She heard the screams, but chose not to ask.
‘Are you certain you wish to go on?’ Thanatos asked, his voice unusually soft.
Mal lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. ‘I don’t have a choice.’
‘We could seek out another witch. One here, perhaps, in the village.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I’m bound to Allegra. She killed my wyvern. That’s a blood debt, and she knows it. No other witch would help me. But she will.’ She glanced up at him, steady and sure. ‘There’s a reason Ash put me on this path.’
‘Is there?’ His tone was light, teasing, laced with something she didn’t care to name.
Mal didn’t like the way it unsettled her.
She turned away, eyes fixed once more on the great gates, waiting for them to creak open. But then something stirred behind her, a prickle at the back of her neck, as if the wind itself had teeth. She turned slowly. And there, at the far end of the road, sat the white wolf, watching them.
Silent. Still.
Its eyes gleamed with something ancient, something knowing.
Mal’s heart stuttered in her chest.
It had followed them.
‘Why is it following us?’ Mal asked, her voice low, almost reverent.
Thanatos turned to study the white wolf, his expression unreadable, carved from stillness.
‘Very curious,’ he murmured.
‘What is?’
‘Well...’ He folded his arms. ‘When a wolverian dies, their spirit is said to be reborn in the body of a wolf. The giant wolves never truly pass on. They carry within them the souls of ancient wolverian warriors.’
‘Then how is there one watching us now?’ Mal asked, her brow furrowing.
‘I don’t believe that’s a true giant wolf,’ he replied softly.
Her frown deepened. ‘Then what is it?’
‘A soul,’ Thanatos said, glancing down at her. Something in his expression softened, almost tender. ‘The soul of a wolverian whose body still breathes in the mortal realm, but whose spirit is no longer bound to it.’
‘How is that even possible?’
‘I’ve seen it before,’ he said, turning back towards the gates.
Makaria stepped closer, her mismatched eyes wide as they locked on the ghostly creature.
‘It happens to wolverians who become valkyrians,’ she said gently. ‘Their bodies remain behind, but not all of them crosses over. A part of their soul stays tethered to the flesh, but the rest...’ Her voice faltered. ‘The rest is drawn here. Lost forever.’
Mal said nothing. She took a step forward, then another, her boots crunching softly against the earth until she was standing before the wolf.
It didn’t move. It simply watched her.
Slowly, she dropped to her knees, not from fear, never that, but from something deeper. A grief that lived in the marrow of her bones. A mourning she had never allowed to surface.
With a hesitant hand, she reached out and rested her palm against the wolf’s side. Its fur was cold and impossibly soft beneath her fingers. When those pale blue eyes met hers, she felt her breath leave her.
She knew.
‘Wren,’ she breathed, her voice breaking like glass.
The wolf let out a soft, almost sorrowful whimper and lowered its head, pressing close as Mal wrapped her arms around it. She buried her face in the thick fur, her body trembling as her heart splintered all over again.
There was no denying it.
This was Wren or some part of her, fractured and wandering, caught between life and death, between memory and myth.
‘Will you come with me?’ Mal whispered, her cheek still pressed to the wolf’s side. ‘Will you help me find Allegra?’
The wolf pulled away, slow and graceful, and padded forward, heading towards the gate. It paused only once, to look back at her, then sat before the entrance, waiting.
Mal rose and followed, a small, aching smile tugging at her lips.
‘If wolverians inhabit wolves when they die,’ Mal said quietly, ‘does that mean they never come to the Underworld?’
‘They do,’ Thanatos replied, just as the great gates groaned open on rusted hinges, revealing the figure standing beyond. ‘Once the wolf that carries their soul dies, the spirit is released and it finds its way here.’
Mal said nothing, though her purple eyes drifted to the figure framed in the threshold. Each time she looked upon Zagreus, she was struck anew by the uncanny resemblance he bore to Hades.
He was tall and lithe, his strength coiled beneath alabaster skin. His dark hair was cut close, and powerful black horns curved from his temples, giving him the imposing silhouette of a wyverian god, and yet there was something unmistakably otherworldly about him. Something far more ancient.
It was the eyes, perhaps. One black as the void between stars, the other a vivid red that burnt like coals.
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 and merciless 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.’