The dead were restless in Greece.
The shadows of forgotten heroes whispered in the ruins, and the rivers of the Underworld hissed with unease. Far below the mortal realm, where the sun's light dared not reach, Hades, Lord of the Dead, walked through the fissures of time and stone.
He carried no torch. He did not need one. The dark itself parted before him.
The ancient passages he followed were older than Olympus, older even than the Titans. Here, the air shimmered faintly with a dull violet light—the remnant of a weapon that had once carved open the sky itself.
The Scythe of Dusk.
Forged from the remnants of Kronos's first sickle, reforged by Hephaestus's flame, it had once been the instrument of both creation and destruction. In the wrong hands, it could cleave the veil between life and death itself.
And now it had awakened.
Hades's cloak billowed around him as he descended through the ruins of Delphi's forgotten catacombs, where the first Oracle had spoken prophecies to gods. The deeper he went, the louder the whispers became.
"Lord Hades…"
"Master of shadows…"
"It calls to you…"
He ignored them. His eyes—black as volcanic glass—narrowed when he saw the faint glow of a purple flame far ahead.
The scythe's aura.
He stepped into the chamber, and his breath slowed.
There, at the center of a crumbling hall, stood Milos, one of the Judges of the Dead. His hood was drawn back, revealing a weathered but calm face. His hands rested on the haft of the Scythe of Dusk, which pulsed with shadowed light, the air around it thick with energy.
Milos looked up immediately. "My lord."
Hades's voice was low, echoing like thunder through the deep. "You have it."
"Yes," Milos said quietly. "When it appeared before me, I knew what it was. It called to me from the Pit itself. I came here to secure it until you arrived."
Hades's eyes flicked to the weapon. The scythe thrummed in Milos's grip—not with hostility, but with something else. Recognition.
"You've bonded with it," Hades said. It was not a question.
Milos bowed his head slightly. "It chose me. But I have no intention of keeping what is yours, my lord. I am loyal to you and to the balance of death. The weapon belongs to its maker, not to the hand that merely touched it."
The Lord of the Dead stepped closer, his presence making the stone around them weep black mist. "And yet," he murmured, "I cannot simply take it. You know the laws of the Forge."
Milos's grip on the scythe tightened. "Yes, my lord. I understand."
"The weapon acknowledges a single master," Hades continued. "Until that master dies, it will not yield. If I take it from you, it will reject me… and I will never command it again."
Milos met his gaze. "Then you must kill me."
Hades said nothing. The shadows around him rippled like living things.
"You are loyal," Hades said at last. "Faithful. You judged souls for centuries with fairness and dignity. I would rather not destroy you."
Milos smiled faintly. "My lord, you are the god of death. To die by your hand is not punishment. It is honor."
Hades studied him in silence. The scythe's purple glow cast long, broken shadows across the ancient walls.
"I will make it swift," he said finally.
Milos nodded once and raised the Scythe of Dusk in salute. "Then let me face you properly, as your servant, not as your victim."
Hades drew his Stygian blade, its edge glowing with cold fire. Milos's scythe shimmered, lengthening into a weapon of pure twilight. When the two clashed, the air itself screamed—the impact tore cracks through the floor, spilling ghostly light into the cavern.
The dead rose from the cracks, their voices howling in awe and sorrow.
Milos struck first, the Scythe of Dusk moving with terrifying grace. Hades parried, but each blow sent shocks through his arms. Milos was no warrior, but the weapon amplified him—each strike was guided by the scythe's ancient memory, by the hunger of a tool that had tasted the blood of Titans.
"You see, my lord?" Milos said between strikes. "It wants to fight. It was made for it."
"Then let it remember who forged its destiny!" Hades roared, slamming his blade into the ground.
The darkness around him surged, wrapping around Milos's legs like chains. The Judge tried to resist, spinning the scythe to cut through them, but Hades was faster. He vanished into shadow and reappeared behind him, plunging his sword through Milos's chest.
The Judge gasped, bloodless and cold.
"My lord…" he whispered.
Hades caught him as he fell. The Scythe of Dusk slipped from Milos's grip, clattering against the stone. For a heartbeat, its glow dimmed in grief.
"I release you," Hades said softly. "Your service is done."
Milos's body dissolved into mist, returning to the river Styx. Only his robe remained.
The Scythe trembled on the ground, its runes pulsing faintly. Hades reached for it, his expression unreadable. The moment his hand touched the weapon, a surge of power coursed through him—a storm of life and death, creation and oblivion.
For a moment, he saw visions: the Titans burning, Olympus crumbling, the stars themselves flickering like dying embers.
He tightened his grip, forcing the visions down. "I am your master," he whispered.
The Scythe flared, resisting, then slowly bent to his will. When the glow subsided, the weapon rested in his hand, docile, obedient, alive.
When Hades returned to Olympus, he did not announce his triumph. He simply entered the throne hall in silence. The Scythe of Dusk floated at his side, wreathed in shadow.
Zeus turned from his throne, noting the absence of wounds on his brother. "You found it."
"I did," Hades said quietly.
Athena studied him, eyes narrowing. "And the one it chose before you?"
Hades looked down at the weapon. "He served well. He died well."
No one asked further. But Hera, watching him from her place beside Zeus, saw the faint flicker of sorrow in his black eyes.
Now, with the Scythe of Dusk reclaimed, four of the Seven Weapons of Twilight had been brought home.
Three still remained.
And one—hidden somewhere near New Jersey—was beginning to wake.
Rain fell hard over Rio de Janeiro, blurring the neon lights into smears of gold and red across the wet streets. The air shimmered faintly with residual magic—Hermes could feel it in every gust of wind that whipped against his jacket. Something divine had passed this way.
He crouched on the edge of a tall rooftop, his caduceus leaning against his shoulder as he watched the flashing lights below. Dozens of mortal police cars surrounded a broken bank entrance, but no one had seen the thief. Not a camera, not a witness, not even a shadow.
The perfect crime.
And Hermes knew exactly why.
"The Veil of Moirai," he muttered to himself. "Of all the relics to fall into mortal hands, it had to be that one."
Hephaestus had told him what the relic could do. The Veil wasn't simply a cloak of invisibility—it bent the laws of reality itself. It could let its wearer walk through solid stone, erase them from memory, even blind the Fates for a time. It was made to protect gods during the Titan Wars, allowing them to move unseen through enemy lines.
In the wrong hands, it was unstoppable.
Hermes's sharp eyes tracked the faint shimmer of footprints in the rain, the kind only a god could detect. They led away from the chaos and into the narrow alleys of the city. He smiled grimly.
"Got you."
The trail led him to an old warehouse near the docks. The scent of salt and magic hung thick in the air. Inside, the lights were dead, but Hermes didn't need light. He could hear the heartbeat—steady, human, but cloaked in divine energy.
"Come out," Hermes said softly. "No tricks. You're good, but you're not that good."
The air shimmered, and the Veil peeled away like mist. A young man appeared, no older than twenty, with sharp brown eyes and hair the same shade as Hermes's own. His clothes were torn, but his grip on the shimmering fabric was firm.
"Father," the demigod said quietly.
Hermes's expression didn't change, though his fingers tightened on his staff. "So it's true."
The boy smiled faintly, half defiant, half sorrowful. "You didn't even know my name, did you?"
Hermes sighed. "I know all my children, boy. I just don't get to keep track of all of them."
"That's not an excuse." The young man's eyes darkened. "You abandoned us. All of us."
"I had duties," Hermes replied evenly. "I serve Olympus. You knew what that meant."
"Then Olympus can have your duties back!" the demigod shouted. "This Veil chose me. It needed me. And for once, I matter more than your errands."
Hermes's expression softened for a moment. He could see the truth of it—the loneliness, the desperation for recognition. He'd seen it in dozens of his children, mortals who inherited a spark of divinity but none of the attention.
But he also saw the way the Veil pulsed around the boy, the faint distortion in the air. It wasn't just protecting him anymore—it was feeding on him, binding him to its will.
"Listen to me," Hermes said quietly, stepping closer. "That relic isn't a gift. It's a curse. It's using you."
The boy laughed bitterly. "Maybe. But at least it's the first thing that ever believed I was worth something."
Then he vanished.
The strike came from behind. Hermes twisted just in time, blocking with his staff as a wave of invisible force passed through him, cracking the concrete wall behind.
He spun the caduceus, calling upon divine wind. "You really want to do this, son?"
A flicker of motion answered him. The boy reappeared for an instant, slashing forward with the Veil's energy like a blade. Hermes ducked, countered, and his staff struck the boy's ribs—but the blow passed through him.
The Veil shimmered.
Hermes clenched his teeth. "You learned fast."
"Guess that's one thing I got from you," the boy said.
They fought through the rain-slicked warehouse, sparks of divine light flashing between them. The boy's movements were unpredictable, blinking in and out of sight, striking from impossible angles. Hermes moved faster still, predicting each step, each breath, matching him like a reflection.
But the difference between a god and a demigod wasn't skill. It was eternity.
Hermes's patience never wavered. The boy's didn't last.
The Veil began to falter. The strain of keeping himself hidden was too much. When he stumbled, even for a second, Hermes saw the opening.
He appeared behind his son in a blur and pressed his caduceus against the boy's chest. A surge of divine energy burst forth—swift, clean, merciful.
The boy gasped, the Veil falling limp in his hands. Rain pattered through a hole in the roof, striking the floor beside them.
Hermes caught him before he fell.
"I'm sorry," Hermes whispered.
The boy's breath shuddered. "You… didn't even ask my name."
Hermes swallowed hard. "Tell me now."
The boy smiled faintly. "Callan."
And then he was gone.
The Veil slipped from his hands, its magic fading to silence. Hermes stared at it for a long moment before picking it up. The fabric felt cold—alive, but mournful.
"You chose poorly this time," Hermes muttered, clutching it tight.
When he returned to Olympus, the others saw the weariness etched into his face. He laid the Veil of Moirai before Hephaestus without a word.
Zeus spoke first. "Another relic recovered. That makes five."
Hermes didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the shimmering cloth.
Athena, always perceptive, said softly, "You killed him."
Hermes's jaw tightened. "The Veil chose him. I didn't have a choice."
Poseidon crossed his arms. "You always have a choice, Messenger."
Hermes looked up sharply, his eyes flashing gold. "Then tell me, Lord of the Sea, how do you kill your own blood and still breathe afterward?"
No one spoke after that.
Hephaestus took the Veil silently and sealed it within divine chains. But even as the forge's flames dimmed, Hermes could still feel the weight of his son's final word echoing in his mind.
Callan.
And somewhere across the sea, a whisper rode the wind—an arrow's call that only one goddess could hear.
Author's Note:
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