(A/N: Song recommended for a better reading experience: Everything In Its Right Place – Radiohead)

[Third Person Pov]

Lucian slipped off from Sébastien’s back and hit the earth with a dull, heavy thud. The echo of the impact felt final, as though the ground itself acknowledged what had just happened. His armor shattered in flickers of light, fading into dust, and Sébastien’s form dissipated right along with him. All that remained was Lucian’s unmoving body. His eyes, once sharp and burning with purpose, stared blankly upward as he drew his final breath. The black veins crawling across his skin still pulsed erratically, remnants of the corruption continuing to devour him even in death.

“LUCIAAAAN!!”

The scream tore through the clearing, raw and ragged, as everyone around him shouted his name.

“FATHER!!” The spirits cried out as well. Their voices, usually ethereal and serene, were now trembling with panic. Tears streamed down their faces as they dove toward him, surrounding his fallen form like shattered pieces of a family portrait.

They shook him desperately, hands passing through his body and yet clinging to him as if refusing to acknowledge what their senses told them. None of them seemed to care that with every second they remained near him, the miasma leaking from his corpse was infecting them too, curling around their auras like poisonous smoke.

“The joke’s over! You got us good!”

Nox sobbed, shaking Lucian harder as if he could rattle life back into him. “Come on, you can wake up now! This isn’t funny anymore… Father… Dad… please…”

Right beside him, Lucerna knelt down, whimpering softly. Her normally bright voice was small—fragile enough to break.

“Dad… please… you have to wake up. Nox is a big crybaby, he’ll be a wreck without you, so… please…wake up… don’t leave us.”

Nebula and Aerarius turned away from the others, flying shakily toward Annabeth. Their forms flickered, visibly deteriorating as the miasma crept into their light.

“Mother!” Nebula cried, voice cracking with broken sobs.

But Annabeth didn’t hear them.

All she could hear was the ringing in her ears, the empty hollow sound inside her head as she stared at Lucian’s body. Her knees buckled beneath her, dropping her to the ground as every ounce of strength bled out of her. The world seemed to narrow to a tunnel with only one thing at the end—Lucian’s still form.

Her cheeks suddenly puffed, and she turned to the side, vomiting violently into the grass. The sound was wet and harsh, but the moment she finished, the light in her eyes dimmed to nothing. Her pupils dulled, losing all warmth, all intelligence, all hope. She stared at Lucian as if staring into a void.

Then she crawled—not walked, not stumbled—but crawled toward him.

She lowered her face onto his chest, gripping his shirt with trembling fingers. Her entire frame shuddered as silent, soul-crushing sobs wracked her body.

Thalia, behind her, could barely breathe. Her chest heaved, her pupils blown wide with panic and despair. Her fingers twitched uncontrollably at her sides as raw power began slipping through her lack of control.

A violent gust of wind surged across the clearing, bending trees and throwing loose leaves into a cyclone around them. Electricity crackled between Thalia’s fingertips, snapping in wild bursts that illuminated her shaking form. Above them, the sky churned—clouds swirling in a frenzied dance, swallowing the stars until the entire island was plunged into darkness.

Thunder rumbled. Lightning cracked.

Then the sky broke open, and rain began pouring down in sheets, each drop falling in rhythm with Thalia’s heartbeat.

She walked forward slowly, mechanically, her hair plastering against her face as rain soaked her to the bone. She dropped down beside Lucian, her knees splashing into the puddles forming around them.

With hands shaking so badly she could barely control them, she reached toward his face. The instant her fingers brushed his skin, the black miasma stained her fingertips, burning them. She didn’t pull away.

Her lips trembled.

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his, her eyes shutting tightly as tears streamed down her face—tears indistinguishable from the rain except for the anguish behind them.

Clarisse saw Percy’s expression twist in pain—something deeper and sharper than anything she’d ever seen on him. She reached over and intertwined her fingers with his. His hand trembled violently in hers. Percy lowered his head, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. Clarisse pulled him into an embrace, holding him as tightly as she dared.

The cries—raw with agony, drowned in despair—were lost beneath the storm. Thunder swallowed their voices whole as lightning carved jagged lines across the sky. The entire island seemed to mourn with them.

…

Meanwhile, at Camp Half-Blood, a profound silence lay over the grounds. Every cabin was dark, every camper asleep. The night was deep and cold, and the only source of light was the solitary, flickering Campfire at the center of camp.

There, sitting alone before the flames, was a small girl.

She poked at the fire with a stick, over and over, her small body trembling. At first glance it looked like she was shivering from the cold—but she wasn’t. The crackle of the flames was interrupted only by the sound of her sniffles, thin and aching, followed by her broken voice.

“Lucy… you promised me you’d come back. You gave your word…” Hestia whispered to the flames, her eyes glistening. “So why… why can’t I feel you anymore?”

She leaned closer to the hearth’s glow, voice barely more than breath.

“Why can’t I feel our connection through the fire? Through the Hearth… Where did you go?”

Her lower lip quivered. She hugged the stick to her chest as though it were something precious.

“You wouldn’t lie to me,” she whispered. “You wouldn’t… would you?”

…

Within a distant plane—one that existed outside mortal time—the three Sisters of Fate stood around a single thread. It was thin, dull, and withering, the last remnants of a life that once burned brightly. Lachesis held it delicately between her fingers, her expression somber, as if she were cradling the pulse of a fading star.

“Okay, sister… go ahead,” she murmured softly. “You may cut it from this point onward.”

Atropos stepped forward with silent certainty. Her shears—cold, timeless, unerring—glinted faintly in the cosmic half-light. Without hesitation, without doubt, she severed the thread.

The remaining piece sagged in Lachesis’ hand, lifeless yet strangely heavy. She brought it to her cheek, closing her eyes as if feeling the final warmth of the life it once represented. She held it as one might hold a treasured keepsake.

“The mortal life of Lucian Blackheart,” she said with quiet reverence, “has come to an end.”

Gently, almost maternally, she twisted the thread between her fingers. The black strands curled and wove into a small heart. Clotho and Atropos leaned closer, gazing at it in a rare moment of shared tenderness, as though acknowledging the weight of the soul that thread once tethered.

…

Lucian’s eyes fluttered open.

A soft gasp escaped him as he realized he was standing a few steps away from the place where his body lay. The world looked dimmer, muted, as if wrapped in a thin veil. He lifted his hands and stared—translucent, faint, almost shimmering. It didn’t take long for him to understand.

He was no longer alive. He was an apparition now.

He looked back toward the others, clustered around his fallen form. Their cries washed over him like a distant storm—raw, aching, full of a love he couldn’t reach anymore. A strange, sheepish awkwardness stirred in him at the sight.

Then he stiffened.

A familiar presence pressed against him like a shadow stepping into the light. Lucian closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

“Father… what a surprise,” he muttered with a sigh. “Honestly, I was expecting Thanatos.”

“Lucian.”

The voice was deep, resonant, carried by the rain that still fell heavily around them. Lucian turned to find Hades standing behind him—dark robes drenched, hair plastered to his face, eyes tired yet piercing.

Lucian rubbed the back of his head. “This isn’t normally your job, is it?”

“It’s not…” Hades admitted, a hint of melancholy threading through his tone. “But I thought I’d give Thanatos a rare break. Just this once.”

The God of the Underworld walked forward, the rain seeming to part around him. Lucian shifted awkwardly, guilt flickering across his expression.

“Look, I’m sorry—”

But the words died as Hades dropped to one knee—not in ceremony, but in heartbreak—and pulled Lucian into a firm, shaking embrace.

Lucian froze, stunned. Hades, the stern and distant ruler of the dead, tightened his arms around him as if afraid Lucian might fade if he let go.

“Lucian…” Hades’ voice cracked, barely audible. “I have had children before. Many, over centuries. Most come and go. Most are hardly worth the attention they demand.” His grip tightened. “But none have ever been like you. None have ever made me as proud as you have.”

He stopped, breath faltering.

“I…” The god swallowed hard. For once, words failed him.

Lucian understood anyway. Slowly, he returned the hug, resting his forehead on Hades’ shoulder. A soft smile tugged at his lips.

“I love you too, Dad.”

Hades bowed his head, hiding the grief twisting across his features, the tears that appeared at the corner of his eyes. His voice dropped to a whisper—not as a god, but as a father mourning what he could not change.

“Happy birthday, Lucian… I wish you could have lived for many more.”

Lucian’s eyes widened. He stared at Hades, realization dawning with a hollow ache. In the chaos of battle, in the endless days at sea, he had forgotten.

June 20th.

He had died on the very day he was born.

A beginning and an ending… all in one.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep