Nico di Angelo had never liked the dark.

At six years old, darkness meant the space under the bed where shadows gathered, or the hallway at night when Mama forgot to leave the lamp on. It meant cold floors on bare feet and dreams that made his chest hurt when he woke up.

So when the world around him suddenly dimmed — not night, not storm, but something deeper — Nico tightened his grip on Bianca’s hand.

“Bia?” he whispered, his small fingers trembling in hers. “Why is it cold?”

Bianca, thirteen and trying very hard to be brave, squeezed back. “It’s okay,” she said, even though her voice shook. “Stay close to me.”

The ground beneath them seemed to sink, stone replacing grass, air growing heavy and still. Nico’s ears rang with faint whispers he couldn’t understand. He buried his face in Bianca’s jacket, heart pounding.

Then the shadows moved.

They parted like curtains, and a tall man stepped forward. His cloak billowed like smoke, and his eyes were dark and endless, filled with something old and aching. The temperature dropped another degree.

Bianca stepped in front of Nico immediately. “Who are you?” she demanded.

The man’s gaze softened when it fell on them — especially on Nico, peeking out from behind his sister with wide, frightened eyes.

“My name is Hades,” the man said quietly. “And I am your father.”

Nico didn’t understand the words. He only knew the man’s voice sounded like underground echoes and lullabies he couldn’t remember.

“My papa?” Nico asked, confusion overtaking fear.

Hades knelt then — the god of the dead lowering himself to a child’s height. “Yes, Nicholas,” he said gently. “I am sorry it took so long.”

Nico stared at him. This didn’t feel scary anymore. It felt heavy. Familiar.

Bianca’s breath hitched. “You’re… a god.”

“Yes.”