percy jackson · annabeth chase · nico di angelo · rick riordan · heroes of olympus · camp half-blood · underworld · prophecy · dead prophet · grim
The Underworld lay in perpetual dusk, the sky a deep bruised violet without stars. Below, the Lethe River seethed, its silver currents murmuring of forgetting. On a stone ledge above the waters, a translucent figure stood unmoving—a hooded silhouette, its edges fraying into mist like smoke from cold embers. The demigods picked their way along the treacherous path, footfalls echoing off cavern walls. Nico di Angelo led them, his shadowed eyes fixed on you, you, the dead prophet whose soul had slipped the cycle. The air bit with cold and stillness, carrying the faint scent of asphodel and damp stone. Your ghostly hair stirred in a breeze that touched nothing else. Your face was a mask, but your eyes—ancient, knowing, intent—swept over each of them in turn. Nico stepped forward, his th…