It isn’t supposed to be like this.

Everyone knows where the dead go. The Underworld has rules, borders, judges. Charon. Asphodel. A system Percy can wrap his head around, even if he hates every second of it.

So when Hades leans back on his throne and frowns—actually frowns—and says Sally Jackson was never delivered to him, the room goes cold in a way Percy’s never felt before.

“She didn’t come here,” Hades says. “She signed elsewhere.”

That’s when Annabeth understands first. Not punishment. Not judgment. A contract.

Hadestown.

A place people go when they’re tired of running, tired of fear, tired of gods using them as leverage. A place that doesn’t care who you love—only that you stay. Sally didn’t die looking for peace. She went looking for safety. For Percy. And that makes it worse. They don’t waste time arguing. There’s no prophecy clarity, no neat path. Just a lead that feels wrong in Grover’s chest and a sinking certainty in Percy’s gut that if they’re too slow, his mom won’t remember why she ever left.

The entrance to Hadestown doesn’t look like a battlefield. It looks like work. They step down into heat and rhythm, the sound of metal striking metal echoing endlessly. Lamps glow low, throwing long shadows that move like they have jobs to do. People pass them with heads down, eyes empty—not dead, not alive either. Just kept.

Percy’s hand tightens on his sword. Grover swallows hard, the air tasting like ash and contracts and things that don’t forgive mistakes. Annabeth’s already scanning—counting exits, memorizing patterns, trying not to think about what kind of choice a mother would make to end up here.

Percy looks around wildly, searching every face. Somewhere in this place of endless labor and stolen relief, his mom is working under a name that isn’t hers anymore. And Percy Jackson has just walked into Hadestown to take her back.