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The halls of the Hellfire Citadel had grown quieter since Hazel's coronation. No fanfare, no celebrations—just the suffocating hum of dark magic that whispered against the stone walls, as though the castle itself could feel the shift.
Hazel adjusted the velvet cloak draped around her shoulders, walking silently beside Hades down the long corridor of obsidian and bone. Their footsteps echoed, but their voices didn't. They hadn't spoken since morning.
He hadn't dismissed her presence like before, nor had he made an excuse to avoid her. But the silence between them was charged—no longer cold, but not warm either. Like flint brushing flint, always on the edge of a spark.
"Is it always this quiet?" Hazel asked at last, breaking the stillness.
Hades kept his gaze ahead. "After a coronation, yes. It's tradition to observe three days of silence for the Crown's harmony to settle."
"So no dancing. No wine. No cheering mobs?" She forced a half-smile.
"No," he replied. "Demons celebrate in subtler ways."
Hazel frowned. "How subtle are we talking? Staring into flames and brooding in corners?"
To her surprise, the edge of his lips twitched. Barely. But it was there.
They stopped at a large set of doors engraved with runes. Two guards bowed and pulled them open, revealing a greenhouse—if it could be called that. It was a dome of glowing glass and iron thorns, filled with hauntingly beautiful plants that pulsed with demonic essence. Some shimmered like mist. Others had eyes. One hissed quietly as they passed.
Hades said nothing as he walked to the center, where a small circular bench sat beneath a silver tree with crystal leaves.
Hazel trailed behind, unsure. This wasn't what she expected. A garden?
He sat and gestured for her to join him. She did, cautiously, the silence between them growing thicker than ever.
"This is my Grandmother's sanctuary," Hades murmured, eyes fixed ahead. "Queen Persephone. She cultivated each plant by hand. Even that one." He pointed to a writhing vine with petals that resembled screaming mouths.
"She has...a unique taste," Hazel said delicately.
"She's the most dangerous botanist the underworld ever knew. she learnt it from her mother."
That made Hazel laugh—a real one. It escaped her lips before she could stop it, soft and amused. Hades glanced at her, just a flicker of attention, but she saw something there. Not mockery. Not irritation.
But warmth.
It disarmed her more than any glare ever had.
"She sounds terrifying," Hazel said.
"She is. But she loves fiercely, she gave me more than my own family did."
A long pause stretched between them.
Hazel turned toward him slowly. "Is that why you brought me here?"
His eyes met hers then—silver against silver, ancient against modern. "No. I brought you here because I needed quiet. You followed."
She blinked, lips parting in offense. "You could've told me to leave."
"I could have," he said simply. "But I didn't."
Something stirred in her chest.
The breeze in the garden was unnaturally still, the plants unmoving, yet everything inside her fluttered like a caged bird. It was maddening—this push and pull between them. The way he let her in with one word and locked her out with the next.
"Why do you do that?" she asked softly.
"Do what?"
"Open doors and then shut them. Offer a hand only to retreat. Say nothing, but look at me like…" She swallowed the rest.
"Like what?" he asked, voice low.
Hazel looked away. "Never mind."
Silence again.
Hades stood, his cloak rustling behind him like a shadow come alive. "Come," he said. "There's something I want to show you."
She hesitated but followed.
They left the garden and entered another hall—this one lined with paintings. Old ones. Dark ones. Most showed war, blood, monsters.
But at the end of the corridor was a single, delicate painting in a gold frame. A woman stood atop a cliff, her silver hair flowing like a river of moonlight. She was barefoot, clad in a silk dress, and staring into the abyss.
Hazel froze. The resemblance was terrifying.
"That's me," she whispered.
"Yes," Hades said. "Before you lost your memory,"
"Have we met before we got married?" Her throat went dry, was there something between the real Hazel and Hades.
Though she doubt that cause then she wouldn't have tried to kill herself when she found out that she was getting married to the King of Hellfire Citadel.
"You were quiet. Obedient. Beautiful. And cursed in ways no one understood," he said, ignoring her question. "You tried to kill yourself twice before your eighteenth birthday. The second time, you nearly succeeded."
Hazel's heart clenched.
"You had secrets," Hades continued, voice distant. "But you don't even remember your own secrets now."
Hazel stared at the painting. It was like looking at a ghost inside herself.
"You think I'm hexed," she said.
"I know you are," he replied.
Her head snapped toward him.
"But not by a witch," he added. "Not even by yourself."
Hazel's pulse raced. "Then what—"
"I don't know," he said, cutting her off. "That's why I went to the Oracle."
She stared. "You…went?"
He nodded once.
"The three crones—blind, timeless, and riddled with riddles. They rarely answer calls. But they agreed to see me."
Her voice caught. "And what did they say?"
Hades looked at her, expression unreadable. "They gave me a prophecy."
Hazel stepped closer, heart pounding.
He recited it without pause:
"The soul of flame must rise through mortal shell; as one falls through time, the other shall dwell."
It sent a chill down her spine. "What does that even mean?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me," he said.
Hazel backed away. "I can't."
Hades stepped forward, gaze intense.
"I don't know who you are yet. But I want to find out."
Hazel's breath caught.
Their faces were inches apart. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. It wasn't love—not yet—but it was something dangerously close. Something like fire on the verge of roaring to life.
She wanted to reach out, touch him, ask him to stay like this—unguarded. But fear held her back. Fear of her own feelings. Fear that it wasn't real. Fear that everything she was becoming…wasn't her at all.
So she said nothing.
And neither did he.
Instead, he stepped away again—walls rising once more. The moment passed.
"I have matters to attend to," Hades said. "Rest. The days ahead won't be peaceful."
And with that, he was gone—leaving her alone with a prophecy and a thousand questions swirling inside her.
She stared at the painting once more.
Who was Hazel?
And why did her reflection now look more like the woman on the cliff than the girl she used to be?
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