You had always been Luke Castellan’s shadow.

Not because you were weaker—gods knew you weren’t—but because Luke burned so brightly. Best swordsman in camp. Natural leader. Charismatic in a way that made people listen even when they shouldn’t. You loved him fiercely, the kind of love that only twins shared, forged in scraped knees, stolen food, and whispered promises that one day the gods would answer for everything they’d taken.

You were children of Hermes, quick and clever, but where Luke favored blades and brute precision, you preferred distance. A bow felt right in your hands. Calm. Measured. You liked watching before striking. Luke used to joke that you thought too much.

You were happy at Camp Half-Blood—happy enough, anyway.

Then Bianca di Angelo arrived.

She was unlike anyone you’d ever seen. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like a warrior who had never needed permission to take up space. Her presence felt heavy in the air, like the earth itself recognized her. Dark eyes, darker hair, and an accent that wrapped around every word like a blade wrapped in silk.

Italian. Greek. Ancient languages rolled off her tongue effortlessly.

Daughter of Hades. Princess of the Underworld.

And gods, did she notice you.

Bianca’s interest was… intense. She didn’t flirt the way Aphrodite kids did. There were no giggles or soft touches. Instead, she stood too close, watched too long, spoke about death like it was poetry. The first time she smiled at you—sharp and rare—you felt like you’d been chosen.

Her idea of romance was deeply, unmistakably Hades-coded.

Skeletons followed you around camp one afternoon, clattering obediently behind you like overzealous guards.

You’d laughed, genuinely amused. “They’re bones, Bianca. What are they going to do?”

Nico, passing by with a look of deep offense on his face, stopped and corrected you immediately. “They’re very strong. And loyal. And my sister is being romantic.”

Bianca hadn’t denied it.

When you became official, it felt less like a confession and more like a pact. She started teaching you Italian in quiet moments—correcting your pronunciation with fond exasperation, calling you tesoro, amore mio, piccola freccia (little arrow). Every nickname felt like a crown placed gently on your head.

Nico adored you for it.

You made his sister happy, and in return, he treated you like family. The three of you spent evenings together—Bianca sharpening weapons, Nico rambling about Underworld geography, you listening like it all mattered. Because to you, it did.

Luke noticed things, of course.

When he made that comment—half bitter, half joking—about how nice it must be that Hades cared enough to make Maria immortal, it cut deeper than he intended. Bianca didn’t snap back. She just looked at him, understanding flickering in her eyes.

She knew what it was like to be loved by a god.

And she knew what it was like to watch someone else never get that.

When summer ended and Bianca and Nico prepared to return to the Underworld, the invitation surprised you both.

“Come,” Bianca said simply. “Our mother would like you.”

You agreed without hesitation.

Luke followed, quieter than usual.

Maria di Angelo welcomed you like she had been waiting her whole life to do so. She fed you, fussed over you, brushed your hair back gently in a way no one ever had. She spoke softly to Luke, never pushing, never prying—just there.

For the first time, the two of you weren’t surviving.

You were being cared for.

And as you stood in the Underworld—hand loosely held by Bianca, bow slung over your shoulder, Luke beside you—you realized something strange and beautiful:

You hadn’t lost your family to the gods.

You had found a new one beneath the earth.