Page 5 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows
“Indeed.” I rise to my feet, straightening my jacket. “Oregon’s a bit bleak this time of year, though I can’t complain with the conditions.”
We shake hands without pointless platitudes.
Minutes later, I head for the door, bracing against the chill that promises what awaits me in Oregon. I hate the cold. I hate the rain. I hate the snow.
A mental note: no more winters chasing storms. Next time, somewhere hot as hell!
I steady myself, sensing their eyes on me. Watching. Wondering. Weighing.
Who cares? They can play it tough, but I know the truth they don’t say out loud: They need me more than I need them.
Guess I’m heading to Oregon to meet some otherworldly princes and get my hands on a beauty then.
Game on.
Chapter Two
FATHER & SON
Zagreus
The palace looms before me, its jagged spires piercing the heavy, ash-colored sky. Even though I’ve seen it countless times, the sheer enormity of it never fails to strike me.
“Come on, Zag. It must be important,” I mumble to myself as I push the front door open. Yet, a nagging thought keeps ricocheting inside my head: What can be so pressing that requires my presence at the snap of his bony fingers instead of letting me enjoy Hecate’s company?
Sighing, I brace myself for what’s to come.
The walls, dark as a starless void, seem to drink in what little light our world—the Underworld—offers. It shimmers with arcs of silver that pulse like distant lightning.
With each step approaching the entrance, the air thickens around me. It’s as if the weight of eternity itself clings to this place. Well, in truth, it kind of does.
The gates, enormous monoliths of polished obsidian, display scenes of agony and triumph, the carvings so exquisite that whenever I observe them up close, I half expect the carved figures to move under my gaze.
“Father?” No matter how assertively I call out, there’s no reply—just the echo of my voice fading into the open space. “Mom?” I try next, holding onto the slim hope that this is a family reunion and not another work summons. But I’m not naïve enough to believe it's the former.
Celebrations only come to life when my mother, Persephone, returns to the Underworld after her half-year exile on Mount Olympus with her own mother, Demeter. The arrangement wasn’t exactly born of compromise. Hades saw her, wanted her—and took her to his kingdom, with Zeus’s quiet blessing. When she ate the pomegranate seeds down here—by accident or design—it sealed the deal: part of her would always belong to this realm. But her tale? It’s too shrouded in secrecy and power to unravel. Another mess for another day. Still, it says a lot about how “gracious” my father can be.
If Mother were here, she would’ve found me already. I think she mentioned meeting with Nyx the other day… but it doesn’t matter. She’s not here—and this kind of summons only comes from one place. From him.
Like everyone else in this realm, I serve Hades. The difference is, I have no choice but to comply. When he calls, I come.
He’s not just my father. He’s the king. And he never lets you forget it.
Inside, the air changes—denser, colder, alive with whispers that tickle the edge of hearing. The vaulted ceiling stretches endlesslyabove, disappearing into shadows so deep they might as well be the sky. The faint glow of embedded gemstones in the walls casts spectral patterns on the marble floors, each step resonating in the cavernous space.
I make a point of avoiding the throne room at the far end, although I’m supposed to pay my respects to Hades’s seat that rises like a dark monolith, stark and severe. I prefer my mother’s throne beside it. The delicate etchings of pomegranates and flowers that almost—almost—look alive soften the gloom.
But no life stirs here.
Each time I walk these walls, it feels as though the palace is watching me, sizing me up, daring me to forget my place in this world. I am the heir to a throne that my immortal parents will never vacate. I am a son who fulfills his duty the best he can. I am nothing more than a guest in this palace where I no longer live, immortal yet surrounded by the unyielding permanence of death.
The hall beside my father’s study is empty, but it’s not the kind of calm that lets you breathe, rather the heavy kind. I look around in hopes I’ll find him before he finds me. Whenever he calls for me, his mask of patience slips. Right now, my surroundings bother me, pressing down on everything. The subdued atmosphere swallows sound before it can echo, and I grind my molars with uneasiness.
My knuckles rap on the thick wooden door. Ever since stepping foot on Earth, I realized how much my father tried to recreate a somewhat human setting in our quarters. Not that I mind, I just find it funny that humans worship gods, who end up mimicking them to feel more connected to them. The only exception to therule is our eternal preference for thermal sources over bathtubs. These days, I have the perk of choosing from both.
Our proximity to the pit of the planet allows us the luxury of having many, which is rather convenient. But other than that, our accommodations have evolved with those of humans, similar to our overall style when we decide to appear in our human form. After all, the Underworld is the place where most human souls end their journey. Their behavior in life determines their eternal destination.
The Underworld is a complex realm with several distinct regions, each serving a different purpose—from reward to punishment. In short, after judging a soul, the three judges who sit in the Judgment Halls determine the soul’s fate. The mortal world retains the cursed or unburied souls as shades or restless spirits; they never reach the Underworld. I wouldn’t recommend Asphodel Meadows either; those who led an unremarkable life remain in this gray location, filled with ghostly spirits. There’s no hint of joy or fun—only souls endlessly wandering in a shadowy existence. The righteous are sent to Elysium or the Isles of the Blessed, the only realms where reincarnation is a possibility—a trivial option for heroes or demigods elevated to immortality. The wicked, by contrast, descend to Tartarus, a pit deeper than where we reside, and endure eternal torment.
