Hecate

When she regained consciousness, she realized instantly that she was no longer on Mount Olympus.

The air was thick with the scent of dampness and ash, and the ground beneath her feet, once rough and uneven, was now smooth as glass. She was back in her human form, and it took her a moment to adapt to the flood of sensations crashing over her, overwhelmed by the sting of her exposed skin.

She surveyed her surroundings. Everything seemed distorted, the lines of Tartarus shifting and blurring whenever her eyes tried to settle on the landscape. It was as if the realm itself was playing tricks on her, warping its appearance to keep her from discovering its true nature. She had only been there once, many centuries ago, to guide her impulsive friend Demeter to the waters of the Styx, but she had never crossed the river, so the terrain was still a mystery to her. Still, Fina wasn’t the goddess of crossroads for nothing. She was used to navigating desolate, inhospitable places like this, even if the Underworld was known for being nearly impossible to traverse.

Letting the warm basalt ground embrace her bare feet, she took a deep breath and reached out with her senses, attuning herself to the elements around her, feeling the faint pulse of the earth beneath its surface.

Take me to Hades, she implored silently. Show me the way.

The ground stirred beneath her, as though rousing from a deep slumber, answering the call of her magic. A complex web of vibrations rippled through the earth, and she deciphered their meaning in an instant. Then, she started walking forward, her movements steady and confident, skillfully avoiding the treacherous cracks that opened in her path.

After what felt like hours—time in the Underworld apparently did not follow the same rules as the mortal world—, something made her stop dead in her tracks.

Here, the air seemed to say, as if Aeolus himself extended an invisible hand to guide her across the dark ground. Here.

There was nothing remarkable in that place, nothing she could discern clearly; only a blur—worn colors weaving together into a shifting web before her eyes, changing hues with every passing moment. Still, she did not move.

A sharp awareness crept over her. She was being watched. Something—someone—had altered the atmosphere, a subtle but undeniable change that made her instincts flare, putting her on edge.

“Hades?” she called, the name unsteady on her lips.

Silence.

Then, footsteps.

The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It seemed to echo all around her—over her head, behind her eyes, at the tip of her nose and fingers—an incessant rhythm with no origin, spreading through her, reverberating in a chaos she couldn’t comprehend. Cursing once again the limitations of her human form, she shut her eyes and clenched her teeth.

“It’s not very polite to greet your guests like this,” she muttered, her tone sharp with irritation.

The footsteps halted, and Fina exhaled in relief when the pressure in her head dissipated. What she didn’t expect, however, was to hear Hades’ voice—strong, ancient, and commanding—murmur an apology into the void.

“I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in his tone left her momentarily speechless.

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, though a part of her wondered if it was some kind of trick to make her lower her guard. If it was, it would not work; he might be a couple centuries older than her, but she wasn’t naive enough to fall for it. “Where are you?”

“Right in front of you.”

Fina bit back a sharp retort, ready to make it clear just how little she appreciated being mocked, but Hades interrupted her before she could open her mouth.

“It’s true. I’m right here, though you cannot see me. Only those who know how to look can find me.”

She frowned impatiently. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Riddles were not her strong suit, and she wasn’t in the mood for games. She wanted to speak with Hades—face to face, if possible—and ask him to take her to her quarters. The sooner she adjusted to her new life in exile, the better.

"You must envision my realm," said the son of Cronus. "Draw it in your mind, and only then will it materialize."

“That’s it?” she asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

"It’s not as simple as it sounds," his voice rumbled through the space. "It takes immense strength to create a clear image of something that doesn’t exist. And even more to hold onto it," he added. "Now, try it."

Sighing, the goddess pushed a strand of brown hair from her face and shrugged. She had nothing to lose, after all. Standing still in the thick darkness surrounding her, she closed her eyes and began to shape the space in her mind, letting the shadows slowly take form.

She imagined towering gray stone walls outlining the intricate halls of the Underworld, the floor black as coal, the air heavy with the scent of smoke and decay. She envisioned the sound of the Styx’s waters, the souls wailing as they were swept along its current, abandoned to their fate in the endless depths of Tartarus. Finally, she envisioned the domain of its ruler—an imposing entrance with an iron door groaning open, and beyond it...

Nothing.

She had no idea what lay beyond.

And just like that, the image she had so carefully crafted dissolved, shattered like Hypnos’ dreams at the first light of dawn.

“See? Not as simple as it seems.”

Hades’ voice carried a trace of restrained amusement.

“What now?”

“Try again. It’s interesting—everyone who enters my realm pictures it the same way.”

Fina crossed her arms, her expression puzzled. “It doesn’t exactly inspire much else. Darkness, ashes, ruin,” she sighed. “Death.”

Hades took a moment to respond, and Fina pictured him gazing out over the empty horizon of the Underworld, his expression unreadable as shadows danced around him.

“On the contrary,” he said at last. “There are infinite possibilities here, though not everyone can see them.” His voice softened with a hint of sadness. “Even the Underworld holds its own beauty.”

Something tightened in her chest. She knew that he was right. She was the Queen of the Night, after all. She, too, had discovered the beauty hidden in the stillness of shadows, the solace only a starry mantle could offer a wounded heart. But the Underworld was not like the earthly night; it was a barren, lifeless expanse, bleak and unyielding, without a single ray of light breaking through from the surface. Gods, she missed the pale glow of the moon on her skin—shaping it with her hands every night, setting it in the sky, watching it guide mortals through the darkness and hearing them sing until dawn.

Suddenly, she froze. She thought she saw something—but it couldn’t be.

And yet, there it was.

A few meters away, the full moon hung in the air, perfect and ethereal, like a masterpiece crafted by the muses. Its silver light painted a path on the coal-black ground, illuminating the cracked outlines of the stone and tracing the contours of the iron door she had imagined just minutes ago.

Cautiously, she stepped forward, gripping the ring at its center firmly before pushing it open with all her strength, the door groaning in protest under her weight.

When she looked up, stepping into the dimly lit chamber with heavy feet, she found herself staring into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

“You’re not a man,” she blurted, her words abrupt and unfiltered like a gust of wind.

The woman—Hades, not god but goddess of Shadows—smiled faintly, seated on the black throne Fina had conjured for her.

“No, I’m not,” she said, her voice softer now, more feminine, the gentle notes of a lyre falling from her lips.

Hades, as it turned out, was a tall, imposing woman with blonde hair, a jaw sculpted by Hephaestus himself, and eyes as blue as the waves crashing against Delos’ shore. Fina blinked, feeling an unfamiliar heat rise to her cheeks, and tried to look away from her arms, bare beneath her black tunic.

“My identity,” the woman said, “and my true name were forgotten long ago.”

The brunette shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She had never heard of Hades having another name, much less of him being a woman—though speaking of the god was practically forbidden, given how sensitive Zeus was to any mention of his younger brother.

“What was your name?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Marta.”

Marta. The unseen one. Hidden, invisible. The Goddess of Death ran her fingers over the carved surface of her throne.

“I hear you’ve robbed the Goddess of Spring of her life,” she said, her voice a challenge, her gaze sharp and probing.

“What I did,” Fina replied, her fists clenching, “was free her from your brother’s grasp.”

Marta wet her lips briefly, her chest rising and falling in a soft sigh as she took in the defiance in the other woman’s stance.

“Then perhaps you and I,” she said at last, “are not so different after all.”

And Fina—Hecate, goddess of witchcraft, crossroads and ghosts, who had grown up on Mount Olympus hearing horrible tales about the false god standing before her—wondered, for the first time, if everything she had been taught had been a lie. Because even though the blonde’s eyes blazed with fury, Fina could also see the sadness, deep and unyielding, lurking behind them. The pain. And if there was one thing she knew for certain, it was that appearances could be deceiving.