You were gone.

They said maybe you’d run. Maybe you’d fallen. Maybe you’d been taken.

Nico knew.

He felt it the way only a sibling could—like a shadow torn from his side. A silence that screamed louder than any Underworld wail.

He searched everywhere. Through tombs and temples and dreams. Through pain.

And then—he found the jar.

It pulsed with magic older than either of you, cold and cruel. The kind of spell meant to break a soul apart slowly. Quietly. So that no one would even hear it shatter.

He saw the pomegranate seeds first. Just a few left.

Then he saw you.

Folded in on yourself. Eyes closed. Barely breathing.

He didn’t speak at first. He just pressed his forehead to the glass and whispered your name like it was the last thing holding him together.

And maybe it was.

When the jar cracked, it didn’t explode. It sighed. As if the darkness itself was giving up.

You collapsed, weak and shaking, and Nico was already there—catching you, holding you, grounding you.

You looked at him like you didn’t believe it. Like maybe he was just another illusion. Another piece of pain dressed as hope.

But then you whispered, “You came.”

His voice broke. “You’re my little sibling. Of course I did.”