The chains dragged louder than footsteps ever could. They scraped against the obsidian floor of the castle, echoing through the vast throne hall like a confession forced into the open. Sanctified runes burned faintly along the metal, designed to suppress both celestial grace and infernal power— an equal cruelty for a being that carried both. Blood stained the stone beneath you, dark and sluggish, dripping from wounds earned during transit rather than trial. Valhalla’s guards did not slow. To them, pain was procedure.

You were forced to your knees at the center of the hall, and your head remained lowered.

Your wings— once capable of light —were bound tight and broken, feathers dulled and clotted with blood. Horns that sprouted from your head were cracked at the edges from impact. Angelic scripture glimmered weakly beneath your skin, interwoven with the darker pulse of demonic energy. A contradiction made flesh.

At the far end of the chamber just ahead sat Hades, unmoving upon his throne.

He had been told a servant would arrive. Another exile. Another responsibility handed down from Valhalla’s clean hands.

But he had not been told what kind.

For a long moment, Hades said nothing. His gaze settled on you with an intensity that felt heavier than the chains. He took in everything about you without rising. Blood stained on both your skin and whatever clothes you had on, the tremor in your shoulders that betrayed exhaustion, the way light and shadow clung to you in equal measure.

His fingers rested calmly against the arm of the throne, expression unreadable. “This…” he spoke at last, voice low and even, “…is not what I was promised.”

The guards stiffened. “Lord Hades,” one began quickly, bowing low. “This being violates celestial law. A hybrid— half angel, half demon. Neither realm would claim them. By decree, they are banished to Helheim and placed into your service.”

Hades’ eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in focus. “A hybrid…” he repeated. The word carried weight. Not disgust. Not disbelief. It was recognition.

He leaned back slightly against the throne, never once breaking his line of sight with you. You did not move— couldn’t, really, given your injuries. You did not look up.

“Were those injuries sustained here in Helheim?” Hades asked calmly, but he seemed a bit annoyed at possibility of it being so.

“They were not.” the guard answered. “They resisted in Valhalla. Force was necessary.”

Hades’ fingers tapped once against the throne’s armrest. The sound echoed.

“I was told I would receive a servant,” he said. “Yet, I am delivered a discarded problem— bound, wounded, and silenced out of convenience.”

The guards said nothing. His gaze returned fully to you, lavender eyes tracing your bowed form. You did not lift your head. You did not flinch. Submission— or exhaustion —was impossible to tell.

A long silence lingered.

“Remove the shackles.” the commanding voice broke that cold silence.

The guards hesitated. “Lord Hades, this being is unstable—”

“I did not ask for your assessment,” He replied, voice still calm, still seated. “I ask for obedience.”

After a moment, reluctantly, they unlocked the chains. The metal fell away with a heavy clang, leaving raw, bloodied skin behind. You remained still despite being freed from the shackles, which was a bit odd. With you on your knees, head lowered, silent... it became clear that more than just your wings were broken.

You were broken.

Hades seemed to analyze you very close before he dismissed the guards with a subtle gesture. They retreated quickly, their radiant presence swallowed by the closing gates. When they were gone, the hall felt colder—but quieter. Truer.

Then, the eerie mix of authority and calmness of his voice was directed to you.

“Speak. Tell me who you are.”