[Third Person’s PoV]

“My father is what now?” Markus blinked rapidly, his expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief as he stared at Lucian like he’d just sprouted a second head.

Lucian, unfazed, offered a shrug and a small smile. “As far as I believe, anyway. I haven’t seen him personally yet—he’s very… shy. Reserved, you could say. But based on the descriptions I’ve read, and that faint aura I sensed inside you when I touched you, I really don’t have any doubt.”

Markus raised his hands and formed a “T” with them. “Okay… time out. Just—give me a minute here. This is way too much to process all at once. Let’s backtrack, please. Just a little.”

He paused, still clearly trying to digest the news. “A God? You’re telling me my father is a god?” he asked slowly, blinking again as if repeating the words would somehow make them less ridiculous.

Lucian nodded, humming in affirmation. He could tell this conversation was about to become a long one, so he casually hopped up to the top bunk of the bed and sat with his feet dangling over the edge, watching Markus like one might watch a soap opera unfold.

Markus frowned, tilting his head slightly. “So how exactly am I not an angel, then?”

Lucian gave a short laugh, incredulous. “That’s really your question right now? You find out your father is literally the Grim Reaper, and your follow-up is why you’re not an angel?”

“MY FATHER’S THE GRIM REAPER?!” Markus exploded, his voice echoing off the walls.

Lucian winced slightly and flicked his wrist, conjuring a faint ward around the room in case Markus decided to yell again. “I literally called him the God of Death, remember? But I suppose ‘Grim Reaper’ does a better job at painting the image. Puts things into perspective.”

Markus started pacing, both hands on his head as he muttered under his breath. “Okay. Wait. Hold on. You’re giving me a headache. I have so many questions. I don’t even know what emotion I’m supposed to be feeling right now. Should I be elated? Angry? Terrified? Overwhelmed? The whole thing sounds like pure nonsense, but the worst part is… I don’t doubt it. Not for a second.”

He stopped and began walking again, one hand on his hip, the other pushing his dreads back from his forehead, his fingers resting just above his eyebrows as though trying to physically hold his thoughts in place.

Lucian chuckled, watching him with amusement. “You have no idea how much fun I’m going to have teaching you everything. You’re in for a wild ride.”

Markus paused and faced him. “Alright, first question: You said my father was the God of Death, and that he works for your father. But I thought there was only one God. Does that mean there are multiple gods? Or is ‘God of Death’ more like a title? And… is your father a god too?”

Lucian smiled and extended one finger at a time as he listed his answers. “One: I’m pretty sure the God you’re talking about—the capital-G kind—does exist, yeah. Two: Yes, there are multiple gods, each from different pantheons. Think of them like… divine communities or extended families. We come from the Greek Pantheon. Three: ‘God of Death’ is both a title and a literal truth in your case. Your father isn’t just any god of death—he’s THE Primordial God of Death, the very embodiment of death itself. Four: And yes, my father is also a god.”

Markus fell quiet, stroking his chin as he tried to process everything. “I’ve heard of the Greek Pantheon before… mostly what everyone knows from TV, cartoons, or movies. Hercules, that sort of thing. But I don’t know much beyond that. I have more questions—if you don’t mind?”

Lucian gestured for him to go ahead, but Markus was already launching into another flurry of questions.

“My father being the literal embodiment of Death sounds like a huge deal. Like, shouldn’t he be the strongest one? So why is he working under your dad? And, sorry, but who exactly is your dad, if Death himself answers to him?”

Lucian let out a soft laugh, sitting up straighter. “You know, I feel like I should properly reintroduce myself.”

With a flourish, Lucian crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward slightly, a princely air surrounding him. “My name is Lucian Blackheart, and I’m the Son of Hades. Prince of the Underworld. It’s an honor to officially meet you, Markus—Son of Thanatos.”

Markus froze. “Your father is Hades?!” he shouted, his wings twitching involuntarily in his shock. The name alone was enough to send his thoughts spiraling. Hades was one of the most famous gods in mythology—part of the Big Three. Even people with zero interest in myths knew who Hades was.

“Yes,” Lucian replied with a small smirk, “King of the Underworld. God of the Dead. The guy movies always make out to be the villain when really, he’s just a reserved guy who prefers peace and quiet, and loves his wife more than anything. That Hades. That’s my dad.”

“What the hell is actually happening…” Markus muttered, mostly to himself, his voice low and cracking with disbelief. He moved in a daze toward his bed, sitting down heavily. His wings curled inward instinctively, wrapping around him like a protective shell. He looked smaller somehow—tired, vulnerable.

Silence filled the room like fog. Lucian stayed where he was on the top bunk, hands folded behind his head, gazing at the ceiling with a far-off look. He didn’t push or speak. He let the quiet settle.

A few long minutes passed.

Then, softly, Markus spoke.

“If my father was some all-powerful god… then why didn’t he ever come help me? Or my mom?”

Lucian slowly opened his eyes, shifting slightly as if preparing to answer, but Markus wasn’t done.

“I prayed, you know. Just once. When I was a kid.” His voice was quieter now, but heavier too, weighed down by old memories. “My mom tried to hide how bad things were. She made it look like everything was okay… but I knew. I knew we were struggling. I knew we were barely holding on. So I prayed. I knelt by my bed like those movies show you, and I prayed that if there was any real god out there, anyone, that they’d help her.”

He gave a bitter laugh, void of humor. “Pretty childish of me, huh? Now I know—even if he was a god… those prayers never reached him.”

Lucian frowned, scratching his eyebrow with a troubled expression. He remained quiet, respectfully letting Markus speak.

“We didn’t get out of poverty because of divine intervention,” Markus said, voice now firm with conviction. “We got through it because my mom busted her ass every single day. Working jobs nobody else wanted. Coming home with cracked hands and dirt in her shoes. She didn’t have help. She was the help. And she still managed to get me into this damn school.”

There was pride in his tone, fierce and raw. But it was quickly smothered by a scoff—one that rang louder than it should have.

“Some great Primordial God he is,” Markus said with sharp sarcasm. “Couldn’t even help his own family when they needed him most.”

Lucian heard the mattress creak and glanced over the edge of the bed just as Markus sat up at the edge, grabbing his bandages with more force than necessary. He stared at his wings now—not with curiosity or uncertainty, but with sheer, burning contempt.

As he began to tightly wrap them again, Markus muttered bitterly, “You shouldn’t have told me.”

Lucian blinked. “What?”

“You shouldn’t have told me who my father was.” Markus’s jaw was clenched, his voice low and angry. “I could’ve gone on believing he was just some deadbeat loser, someone who didn’t care. Someone I didn’t need. But now? Now I know the truth. He’s not just some absent father. He’s a God. A Primordial one. And that makes it worse. So much worse.”

His hand clenched tightly over the edge of the mattress, nails digging into the fabric.

“He could have helped. He could have spared her from those long nights… from coming home exhausted, bruised, in pain. She didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve any of that.”

His breathing began to grow uneven—sharp inhales through gritted teeth, exhaling through his nose like someone trying desperately to keep it together.

Lucian sat up fully now, his eyes narrowing. He could feel it. The room’s atmosphere shifted.

“Markus…” he warned, voice calm but edged with urgency. “You need to calm down.”

Markus shot him a glare. “You’re seriously telling me to calm down right now? No—”

“Look at your mattress,” Lucian interrupted, voice steady, eyes still half-lidded.

Markus frowned and looked down.

His breath caught.

Mold had begun to bloom at the corners of the bed, black and green, spreading outward in spiraling veins like something alive. The fabric beneath his fingers was rotting, curling, withering away. The air around it felt colder, heavier, older.

Markus scrambled to his feet in panic, stumbling back as he stared.

Lucian stood as well, his voice now sharper. “You have to remember who you are. You are the son of the embodiment of death. That kind of ancestry doesn’t just come with titles—it comes with ancient, powerful magic. It’s deep in your blood. If your emotions spiral, your magic will spiral with them. And if it does—”

Markus looked down at his hands.

They were no longer just hands.

They were pitch black, obsidian-like and cracked at the edges, as if darkness itself was trying to break free. Wisps of smoke—no, not smoke, aura—rose from his fingertips like shadows escaping a cage. The very air around him buzzed with menace.

Lucian’s voice was firm now, unwavering. “If you don’t stop—if you don’t take control—you will kill every single person in this school. You won’t even mean to. Death doesn’t care about intention.”

Markus’s eyes were wide, horrified. His once warm brown irises had darkened into bottomless voids.

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