Concentration might not be my best trait, but it’s one I must learn to master. Not because I want to, but because it’s required—to fill shoes that were never truly meant for me but were designed with my future in mind and molded long before I even had a choice. I’ve spent years training—agonizing, exhausting years—despite failing nearly every test thrown my way. Tests meant to shape me into the perfect successor. The next Grim Reaper. The next Prince of Death.
Failure isn’t a foreign concept to me. It clings to my heels like a shadow, whispering reminders of my shortcomings. But I’ve endured. Century after century, I’ve prepared for this role, this crown that feels like a noose. Yet, in all those years of preparation, not once did I imagine my missions would include chasing rogue supernaturals—something I’d consider a cleanup job more suited to a bounty hunter than an heir to the throne.
Still, here I am. The irony doesn’t escape me. The Prince of Death, the epitome of order and finality, tasked with reigning in chaos I didn’t cause. My father’s legacy demands it. But each mission feels more like a punishment—a test of my endurance and resolve. Maybe, deep down, I know the truth: these aren’t tasks meant to teach me. They’re meant to break me.
And yet, I keep going. Not for glory or recognition, but because failure is no longer an option.
Memetim—one of the most devious, blood-soaked beings to ever exist—has slipped into the mortal realm, leaving a trail of devastation in her wake. Death rates are spiking, chaos is unraveling the delicate balance we’re sworn to maintain, and every passing day feels like a countdown to something worse. My mission is clear: track her down, contain her, and drag her back to the Underworld where she belongs.
It sounds simple on paper, but nothing about Memetim ever is. She’s not just dangerous—she’s calculated. Every step she takes, every life she steals, is deliberate. She knows how to sow terror in ways that linger long after her victims are gone. It’s not just murder. It’s a spectacle.
I’ve spent weeks mapping her movements, chasing echoes of her chaos. Tracking my sisters—the Keres—as they hunt her like ravenous hounds. They revel in the carnage she leaves behind, savoring the fear it creates. To them, this is a game. To me, it’s a duty. Finally, I pinned her location. Some backwater town in Mississippi—a speck of humanity so unremarkable it barely seems worth the effort. But Memetim’s choice of hideout makes sense. She thrives in places like this, feeding on despair and anonymity.
The task is clear: drag her back for judgment before my father. Simple, right? Yet, I can’t ignore the gnawing unease settling in my chest. Memetim won’t come quietly. She never does. As I prepare to leave the stone halls—warm, dimly lit, and faintly scented of s’mores—I can’t help but pause, inhaling deeply. It’s not a smell I particularly love, but it’s one I’ve come to associate with the Underworld’s peculiar charm. Comforting, in its way. It reminds me that, here at least, I belong—or so I keep telling myself.
I swing Orcus from side to side, his weight familiar in my hands, a steady presence that’s both weapon and anchor. The low rumble of satisfaction he emits vibrates through the polished handle, and for a moment, I can’t help but smile.
Orcus isn’t just my tool; he’s my companion, my confidant, my best friend. Though if I’m being honest, he didn’t start that way. For decades—centuries, really—he went out of his way to make me fail, to test my patience and resolve. If I stumbled, he mocked me; if I succeeded, he found new ways to challenge me. And yet, I can’t imagine life without him now.
I run my fingers over the intricate symbols etched into his handle, each one a chapter of my story. A reminder of battles fought, victories won, and scars earned. His purring intensifies at my touch, his crimson aura flaring to life like a heartbeat. “It’s nearly time, young Reaper,” he murmurs, his voice deep and resonant in my mind.
I steady my breathing, pushing back the anxiety twisting in my chest. I know what’s waiting for me outside these halls, and I know it won’t be easy. But there’s no room for hesitation now. “Yes, it’s time,” I reply, my voice firm despite the unease crawling beneath my skin.
Orcus chuckles, the sound rich with amusement. “It’s not too late to turn back, you know,” he teases, his tone laced with sly mockery. “Memetim’s a headache, and you’ve got enough of those already.”
I roll my eyes, though his words strike closer to home than I’d like to admit. Memetim is a headache, a storm of chaos wrapped in a beautiful, blood-stained bow. She’s the kind of challenge that makes lesser beings crumble. But I’m not lesser—at least, I can’t afford to be. Not with father watching, waiting for me to fail.
Gripping Orcus tighter, I feel his hum of approval resonating through me, a reassuring rhythm that steadies my resolve. “No turning back,” I say, the words more for myself than for him. “It’s time to find the Angel of Death and put her in a cage, far below the Earth.” Orcus purrs again, his satisfaction practically tangible. “Now that’s the spirit.”
As I step into the shadows beyond the warmth of the halls, I remind myself of what’s at stake. Memetim isn’t just a rogue supernatural; she’s a force of nature. And no matter how deep the fear claws into me, I’ll be the one to end this. I have to be.
Exu, keeper of souls and my trainer—at times harshly so—steps forward beside me, his heavy hand landing on my shoulder. It’s a steadying gesture, one that grounds me even when my thoughts threaten to spiral. His presence has always been a complicated comfort. He’s pushed me harder than anyone and doubted me more than once, but his support has never truly wavered. Even when I faltered, when failure felt inevitable, Exu was there, his faith in me constant in a way I never quite understood.
“You’re ready for this,” he says softly, his voice low and gravelly. His words mean more as an order than reassurance. I nod, though I’m not sure if I believe him. The weight of the mission presses down on me, and it’s heavier than just Memetim’s capture. This is my chance—perhaps my last—to prove that I’m more than my mistakes. That I’m not just the screw-up my father sees in me.
“Your father awaits,” Exu adds, his head bowing slightly in deference. The words are calm, yet they hit like a warning.
I force a breath into my lungs, steadying my character as I nod again. There’s no room for hesitation, not here. Not now.
Exu leads me through the labyrinthine corridors of the Underworld, each corridor glowing with the flickering light of torches, their warmth barely masking the oppressive shadows that cling to the walls. These halls are familiar, but tonight they feel different. Every shadow seems sharper, every flicker of flame more vivid, as if the Underworld itself is watching, waiting for me to rise—or fall.
My fingers tighten around Orcus’ handle as we approach the throne room. The scythe hums softly, his energy a calming pulse against my growing anxiety. Don’t let him rattle you, Orcus murmurs in my mind, his tone tinged with dry humor.
You’ve faced worse.
Have I, though?
The massive iron doors groan as they swing open, revealing the throne room in all its foreboding grandeur. Columns carved with depictions of death and rebirth loom overhead, their shadows sprawling across the polished obsidian floor. The air feels heavier here, oppressive as if the room itself seeks to crush anything unworthy of its presence.
At the far end of the room, atop a towering dais, sits my father—Hades himself. His figure is shrouded in an aura of authority so absolute it’s suffocating.
I step forward, every movement measured, my anxiety pounding against my ribs. The weight of his gaze settles on me, cold and assessing, stripping away every ounce of confidence I’ve managed to build.
Bowing low, I keep my eyes fixed on the floor. “Father,” I say, my voice steady despite the lump forming in my throat. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until it feels like it might break me. I can’t see his expression, but I can feel the judgment radiating from him, the expectation that I’ll fail—again.
And maybe, just maybe, this is the moment I’ll prove him wrong.
Hades. My father. The Lord of the Underworld.
For all the stories told about him, he’s no comforting presence. Hades governs the Underworld with an iron hand, and his very existence exudes power and control. His muscles tense beneath the glistening red aura that surrounds him, a fiery halo of authority. His sharp fangs catch the dim light, glinting with a quiet menace, and the chill he radiates pierces straight to my core, more potent than the coldest wind on the mortal plane.
“Azrael, my son,” he says, his voice deep and commanding, the kind of tone that demands absolute obedience. There’s no warmth in his greeting, no trace of familial affection—only expectation.
Orcus hums in my palms, his aura pulsing faintly, feeding off the tension that hangs in the room. He feels it too, the weight of this moment, the gaze of my father bearing down on me like a judgment carved in stone.
“Are you prepared to carry out your mission?”
The question is simple, but the weight behind it is not. This is more than a test of my skill; it’s a test of my worth, my place in the hierarchy of Death itself.
I kneel, letting Orcus’ steady hum and crimson light envelop me like a shield. His presence grounds me, anchoring me against the tide of doubt clawing at the edges of my mind.
“Yes, father,” I say, keeping my voice steady, even as my heartbeat quickens. “I am prepared.”
As the words leave my lips, a strange stillness settles over me. I’m standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable, a chasm that centuries of training have led me to. Everything I’ve endured, every failure and triumph, has brought me to this moment.
I steel myself, bracing for what’s to come. The calm before the storm is deceptive, but it’s mine to hold. Whatever lies ahead, I can’t afford to falter now.
Hades leans forward, his gaze unyielding and cold as iron. “Do you understand the task at hand, Azrael?” His voice is steady, but the weight behind it is impossible to ignore. “Do not mistake my words.”
His aura flares, pushing outward like a storm, smothering the space between us. The power in the room is suffocating, vibrating through the stone walls, a reminder of the vast legacy he commands. I can feel it, the unspoken threat that his wrath could crush me in an instant.
I lower my gaze to the cold, unforgiving floor beneath me, my mind racing. “Yes, father. I understand.”
The silence stretches between us, thick and oppressive.
“Are you prepared to end her if she refuses to return?” His question is sharp, like a blade cutting through the air.
I don’t hesitate. There’s no room for doubt, no room for fear. “Yes, father.” His eyes narrow, the flames in them flickering to life with an intensity that makes the room feel smaller, darker. “Are you willing to terminate her, if it comes to that?” His voice drops into a growl, low and menacing. “I will not tolerate failure, Azrael.”
I raise my eyes to meet his, feeling the crushing weight of his judgment pressing into me. Every word he speaks feels like a brand, carving into my soul.
“Father,” I say, my voice unwavering despite the storm raging inside me, “My emotions are irrelevant. The mission is all that matters. I will not fail.”
Hades studies me for a long, agonizing moment, his eyes boring into me like a predator sizing up its prey. His lips twitch into a faint, dismissive smile—not pride, not approval, just a grim acknowledgment of what he expects.
“Good,” he rumbles, the sound like distant thunder. “I will not tolerate incompetence. Bring her back, or end her.”
I rise, feeling the familiar thrumming of Orcus’ aura beneath my grip, the weight of our shared promise settling into my bones. This is my moment, my chance to prove I’m worthy of the title—Prince of Death. All the failures of the past, the doubts that have haunted me, mean nothing now.
His dismissal is swift, his gesture sharp and final. His tone is cold, like ice cutting through the air. He expects results, not excuses, and there’s no room for hesitation in his world.
“I’ll be here when you return,” Exu says softly, his voice a rare note of comfort amid the tension. His words are solemn, but also something more—a quiet support that grounds me in the face of my daunting task.
I take a steadying breath, my pledge to him clear and unwavering. “I won’t fail, father.” The words come out with an edge of iron, an unbreakable conviction I’ve never fully felt before. His approval is distant, almost imperceptible, but it’s there—silent, heavy, and undeniable.
As he gestures toward me, a pulse of energy surges through the room, filling the space with the unmistakable weight of his blessing. His eyes linger on me, sharp and unreadable, though there’s a flicker—just a flicker—of something softer beneath the surface. Something that, if I weren’t so focused, I might mistake for pride.
Almost.
But I can’t afford to dwell on that. Not now. Not when there’s so much to lose.
Orcus hums a low, knowing sound, the vibration of his voice reverberating through me. “Let’s make it happen, Azrael,” he says, his tone purposeful, the weight of our mission clear in the air. “Time to bring chaos back under control.”
I nod, the full weight of the mission settling into my chest. Every moment leading to this one feels like a dream. There’s no turning back now.
The balance of the worlds rests in my hands. Memetim may be hiding, but I will find her. And when I do, there will be no escape.
Memetim—the one who defied her duty, the one who tore the fabric of the natural order and left chaos in her wake—will face judgment. Or termination. There are no other options.
With a final glance at the throne, I nod to my father, my grip tightening around Orcus’ handle. The weight of my decision presses into me, the weight of what’s at stake. There’s no turning back now.
The room blurs, fading from view as the Underworld’s magic wraps around me, an invisible force pulling me through the very fabric of existence. The ground falls away beneath me, and the air hums with the crackling energy of my departure. The sensation is always the same—like being ripped apart, then swiftly sewn back together.
The sounds of the Underworld—its whispers, its low growls, its eternal hum—dissolve into nothingness. Reality hits me with brutal clarity. I land with a soft thud, the jarring impact a reminder of just how far from home I’ve traveled.
I’m on the outskirts of Picayune, Mississippi. The air here is thick with the scent of earth, damp and rich with the pulse of mortal life. It’s a stark contrast to the oppressive weight of the Underworld I left behind.
I stand alone in a place where nothing should matter—except it does. This mission. It’s not just a task, it’s my reckoning. I will see it through. No matter the cost.