Where the Dead Whisper
They say every hero's story starts with light. Mine began in the dark.
Literally — an eclipse hung over New York the day I was born. Mom used to joke that even the sun didn't want to see me. She'd smile when she said it, but I always heard the tremor in her voice — the part that wasn't quite kidding.
She was young, twenty maybe, when she had me. Her name was Elara. She had dark hair, tired eyes, and the kind of kindness that didn't last long in the world. She said she met my dad in a cemetery — not because that's where she liked to hang out, but because she worked part-time tending graves for the city. "He came to visit someone," she told me once. "He looked sad, like he'd lost everything. I should've known better than to talk to a man like that."
She never told me his name. She didn't have to.
I was a weird kid. Not "quiet and keeps to himself" weird — more like "talks to empty rooms and makes dogs whine when he walks by" weird.
Mom said shadows followed me. At first, she thought it was her imagination. But by the time I could walk, she'd stopped turning off the lights completely. She'd keep a candle burning somewhere in the apartment — kitchen, bedroom, bathroom — it didn't matter. Said it "kept me warm."
I used to ask her what she meant by that. She'd just smile and tell me to go play.
Thing is, I didn't have anyone to play with. Kids in the neighborhood didn't like me. Animals didn't either. I remember once trying to feed a stray cat behind our building — it hissed, arched its back, and ran like it had seen a ghost. Which, to be fair, it probably had.
Because by then, I was seeing them too.
They weren't solid, not like people. More like the afterimage you get when you stare at a light too long — thin, gray outlines that flickered at the edge of vision. Sometimes they whispered. Sometimes they just… watched. I didn't know what they wanted, but they were everywhere. And the colder it got, the closer they came.
Mom pretended not to notice. But I could tell she was afraid.
When I was six, something happened that changed everything.
It was late — thunder rolling over the city, windows rattling, lights flickering. I woke up to find Mom sitting on the edge of my bed, staring out the window.
"He's coming," she whispered.
I thought she meant a storm. But when lightning flashed, I saw him reflected in the glass — tall, sharp features, dressed in black. His eyes were dark, deeper than night. And when he spoke, the air itself seemed to listen.
"Elara," he said softly. "You've done well."
Mom turned, her face pale. "You said he'd be safe."
"And he is," the man — my father — said. "For now."
I remember him looking at me then, and for a second, everything in the room went still. Even the rain outside froze midair.
His gaze wasn't cruel. It was… ancient. Heavy. Like he was seeing every version of me at once — past, present, future — and already knew how it would end.
He touched my forehead. The world tilted. I saw flashes — fields of black stone, rivers of fire, legions of pale figures bowing in silence. Then it was gone.
When I woke up the next morning, he was gone too. Mom wouldn't talk about it. But after that night, the whispers in the dark became louder.
By eight, I'd stopped sleeping through the night. My dreams were full of faces — hollow eyes, reaching hands, the echo of my name being spoken by a thousand mouths at once.
I tried to tell Mom. She just hugged me tighter and said, "It's just your father's side, honey. You can't change who you are."
I didn't understand what she meant until the day of the creek.
It was summer. I was outside, finally playing with some kids from the block. They didn't really like me, but boredom makes you tolerate a lot. One of them — big kid named Jason — shoved me into the water. It wasn't deep, but I panicked. The current pulled, stronger than it should've been.
I remember gasping, struggling, and then everything went cold. The world dimmed.
When I opened my eyes, the creek was frozen solid — in July. Jason was stuck waist-deep, screaming. The other kids ran.
I just stood there, dripping, heart pounding, staring at the ice forming cracks in perfect, spiral patterns around me. The whispers in my head were silent — for the first time in my life, they were afraid.
Mom packed our things that night. We moved to New Jersey by morning.
The next few years were a blur of new schools, new apartments, and new ways to pretend I wasn't a freak. But you can't outrun blood.
When I was twelve, Mom got sick. Not a normal sick — no fever, no diagnosis, just… fading. Every day she grew paler, weaker, like something was pulling her soul out inch by inch.
Doctors said it was stress. I knew better.
I begged her to tell me what was happening, but she'd just smile and brush my hair back. "Some debts even the gods can't escape," she'd whisper.
That's when I knew she was dying.
I tried everything — lighting candles, praying, even talking to the shadows. But the only answer I got was silence. Until one night, when the air in the apartment turned heavy, and the room filled with cold mist.
A figure appeared — tall, cloaked, familiar. My father.
He didn't look angry. Just sad.
"It's her time," he said quietly.
"No," I snapped. "You can stop it. You're Death, aren't you? You're the god of the Underworld — do something!"
His eyes softened. "Would you take her place, my son?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
He turned away. "Then you understand."
By morning, she was gone.
I buried her myself, in a little cemetery outside town. It started to rain halfway through, but the drops never touched me. They just hissed and turned to steam. When the last bit of dirt covered her grave, I whispered, "Please… take care of her."
The ground shifted, almost like a sigh. And for a moment, I swore I heard her voice — faint, echoing — I'm proud of you.
That's when I broke.
A week later, he came for me.
I was sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the scythe that had appeared the night Mom died — tall, black metal, curved blade glinting faintly like moonlight. I didn't know where it came from, but somehow, I knew it was mine.
When the shadows thickened, I didn't flinch.
"You've been marked," Hades said. "The world above will not be kind to you. It never is to my children."
I glared at him. "You think I care? You left her. You left me."
His expression didn't change. "And yet, you live. That is no small thing."
He raised his hand, and darkness curled around me like smoke. "You are not ready for my realm yet. There is a place for demigods — a refuge. Go there. Learn to survive. The living will not forgive what you are."
Before I could ask what he meant, the world folded in on itself.
When I opened my eyes, I was standing on a hilltop. The air smelled like sea salt and campfire smoke. In the distance, I saw cabins, each one shaped differently — like a miniature village. Kids trained with swords, shot arrows, laughed like the world wasn't insane.
I felt out of place instantly. My black clothes, pale skin, and scythe slung across my back didn't exactly scream friendly neighborhood camper.
Then a man with the upper body of a person and the lower half of a horse trotted up the hill toward me. His beard was graying, his eyes kind but sharp.
"Welcome, young one," he said. "I'm Chiron. You must be…" He hesitated, glancing at the scythe. "Ah. I see."
"Hades' kid?" I said flatly.
He smiled faintly. "Yes. We don't get many of your kind."
"Yeah, I figured."
He studied me for a long moment. "You're safe here, Nikolai. Whatever burdens you carry, they won't define you forever."
I wanted to believe him. But as I looked down at the camp — at the laughter, the sunlight, the ease — I knew I didn't belong. The shadows around my feet whispered softly, curling like smoke in the wind.
Somewhere deep in the forest beyond the cabins, something called to me — faint, but familiar. Like a heartbeat under the earth.
And in that moment, I realized something important: I wasn't just Hades' son. I was his heir.
The son of the grave. And death never lets go of its own.