The Nameless Heir

He dropped from Baal's back.

The dragon's shadow stretched across the cracked street, swallowing the light.

His own shadows rose before he landed, catching him mid-fall and slowing his descent until his foot touched down gently.

He started toward Daedalus.

Faces turned. Some squinted, trying to place the figure under the helm. Others already knew. Daedalus had known from the first step.

He stopped in front of him. Daedalus didn't move, but his jaw tightened.

"Talk."

The helm broke apart into smoke, curling down into the shadow at his feet. His eyes followed it the whole way, then cut back to Kael's face like he needed to see it for himself.

They moved inside, down into the underground base—somewhere the blasts couldn't touch. The air felt different here. Stuffy. Like he had brought the weight of the sky in with him.

The two sat across from each other. Kael spoke. Daedalus listened, his fingers curling against the table once… then stilling again.

Outside, footsteps shifted near the door. A low murmur. Someone leaned closer, trying to catch pieces of the conversation.

When it was over, Kael stood.

Daedalus didn't. His eyes followed him until he was gone from the room.

He walked out into the waiting crowd. No one said anything. They moved aside on their own, giving him a clear path through the street.

In front of him stood an older woman.

According to Daedalus, her name was Jasmin. She was the one who slapped him. She had borne five children—and buried them all.

His eyes met hers. She didn't speak. Instead, she stepped forward, took his hand in both of hers, and pressed it to her forehead.

Her grip was firm, almost desperate. Her touch careful. Reverent.

Tears slid down her cheeks. She didn't plead. She didn't ask. She simply stood there, her forehead against his hand, and wept.

The street grew still.

Then others began to gather—slowly at first, then all at once. They circled around him in silence.

Every face carried the same story. Every set of eyes had lost someone.

They weren't kneeling. They weren't bowing.

But the way they stood before him—

it was as if they knew a god was listening.

His gaze moved over the crowd. Faces lined with grief. Some wet with tears. Others dry but hollow.

He could feel it pressing on them, heavy enough that even time wouldn't carry it away.

He sat on the floor, eyes shut.

The darkness spread out from him—slow, endless—until it touched places he would never walk.

The entire world.

Through it, the cities came to him. Streets. Alleys. Faces. All lit by the same shadow.

Within his shadow, an undead soldier rose. And in cities far from here, more of them did the same.

Thousands of soldiers. All bound to him. All moving as one.

They were his eyes. His presence.

And when he spoke, his voice would carry through them—reaching the people in every place his shadows touched.

He didn't speak at once.

When he did, his voice carried without effort.

"I know you've all lost someone," Kael said. "Someone you loved. Someone you cared for. I will give you the chance to say your goodbye. Say what you wanted to say—what you couldn't before."

His gaze swept over them, steady.

"Death doesn't give back what it takes. You can dress it in gold. Wrap it in song. Pretend it's gentle. It isn't. It's loss. And loss stays."

A few eyes lowered. No one moved.

"What I can give you… it isn't life. It isn't return. It's a moment. A breath between the before and the after. Enough to look them in the eye. Enough to say the thing you couldn't before the silence came."

He let the silence hold.

"I am a son of Hades, and the god of death," he said, voice steady. "It is my place to see them home. But I ask you—do not try to keep them. Do not hold on when they come. Let them go. They will be in a better place. Say your goodbye, but do not linger, hoping for them to return."

He gave them time to take it in.

"When they leave, they will not be wandering. I will see them guided where they belong. For the bravery they've shown, for what they've endured, every one of them will have their place in the Elysian Fields. No pain. No hunger. No fear. Only peace."

The shadows at their feet stirred.

He lowered his hand, pressing it to the stone.

"Step from the mists of Asphodel.

Step from the banks of the silent Styx.

See them one last time.

Hear their voice one last time.

Hold them one last time.

Speak what you could not speak.

Do what you could not do.

Then cross the waters with me,

and I will guide you to the Elysian Fields,

where the sun never sets

and sorrow cannot follow."

The air shifted.

Shadows rose, curling and stretching until they began to take shape—faces forming out of smoke and light. People he didn't know, but the crowd did.

He felt the way their breath caught, how no one dared to move too fast, afraid the moment might break.

A man stepped forward, hand trembling. A woman dropped to her knees.

When the shapes reached them, something changed.

They didn't pass through like smoke. Not this time.

Arms met arms. Hands met hands. Warmth. Weight.

For a heartbeat, it was as if death had stepped aside.

Some held on tight, eyes shut. Others just pressed foreheads together, saying nothing.

Sobs slipped out in uneven bursts, cutting through the silence.

Kael stayed where he was, watching.

He knew it would end, but for now, they had them back.

He saw the little girl whose eye he had fixed. She was in her parents' arms, held tight between them.

She was still wearing the same clothes from the forest—still stained with blood, her mother's blood. Yet she was smiling now, her face lit at the sight of them.

Her mother and father came to him without hesitation.

Their arms closed around him before he could step back.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words catching low in his throat.

They smiled anyway—wet eyes, unsteady breaths. "Please… take care of her."

It ended quickly. But the pressure of their hands stayed on his shoulders.

And the guilt that came with it didn't move.

If he hadn't left… maybe he could have save more life.

Maybe he could have saved them.

The thought stuck like a splinter.

Then the shadows stirred.

One by one, the souls the demigod had stolen—scattered across lands—began to sink into the shadows. The darkness swallowed them whole, carrying them back toward the Underworld.

Because the ones they left behind believed he would guide them home.

The souls left slowly, their faces calm, as if the weight they carried in life had finally been set down.

Behind them, families leaned close, whispering their last words into the dark.

Her parents stepped forward, placing the little girl in Kael's arms.

She drifted to sleep almost instantly.

It hurt him more than he expected. He knew what it was to live without a father. Without a mother. That knowledge made his chest ache in a way battles never could.

But unlike him, she would not be alone.

The air was heavy.

Some wept. Others smiled through the tears.

Jasmin walked toward him and pulled him into her arms.

She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.

Around them, people began to weep—quiet at first, then louder.

One by one, they stepped forward. Some gripped his shoulders. Some just pressed their foreheads against his chest, like they were afraid to let go.

He didn't need to hear the words.

He could feel what they meant.

They were grateful—he could see it in their eyes—for the chance he had given them. A chance none of them had thought possible.

He didn't move when they reached him.

Arms closed around him, one after another. Too many. Too close.

His shoulders stayed stiff—he didn't remember the last time anyone had touched him like this.

For a moment, he just stood there, letting it happen.

"Please," he said finally, voice cutting through the noise. "Give me some space. I still have one more thing to do."

The crowd stepped back.

His shadows rose higher, curling over his shoulders like they were waiting for his command.

His gaze turned upward, toward the ones who could hear him.

"Demigods," he said, the word heavy with disdain. "You think you can play god… in a world full of mortals. You damn halflings."

His lip curled. "Born with scraps of divine blood, and you think it makes you something worth fearing."

"You're not gods. You're not even close. You dare wear the title like it means something? I'll tear that title from you myself."

The shadows spread from him, slipping into every corner they could reach, carrying his voice with them.

"You have twenty-four hours to meet me in Berlin—the center of the world. Fail, and I will drag you here myself. And when I do, you'll learn the difference between pretending to be a god… and dying at the hands of one."

The air pressed in—sharp and suffocating.

The crowd felt it.

So did the ones his words were meant for.