Nico stood just beyond the tree line, half-shadowed by the skeletal branches overhead. His presence was easy to miss—quiet, still, like something that belonged more to the Underworld than the world of the living. His messy black hair hung over his eyes, which were a deep, unreadable brown, almost hollow in the dim light. His skin was pale as moonlight, a ghost among the green.

He wore a black shirt emblazoned with a faded skeletal ribcage, half-hidden beneath a worn aviator jacket that looked like it had seen decades of battles—and maybe it had. His black jeans were scuffed at the knees, dusted with the grave-dirt he always seemed to carry with him. A silver skull ring glinted on his finger, catching the faintest flicker of light. The last thing Bianca had given him. He never took it off.

He didn’t speak. Not yet. He just stood there with his arms crossed tightly, like he was trying to hold something in—or maybe hold something out.

The air around him was colder now. You could feel it. Like a warning.

He muttered something in the air, barely above a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a knife.