The courtyard behind my wing of the castle was quiet.
Cool stone underfoot, shadows stretching long across the tiled floor, and the scent of obsidian roses blooming from the edge of the wall. It was peaceful here—a rare thing these days.
I was lounging on one of the carved benches, my armor stripped down to just a black wrap over my chest and breeches, arms bare and braced on my knees. The heat was nice, not too stifling, but warm enough to ease the tension in my back. Across from me, three pairs of bat wings stretched lazily in the afternoon air, sun catching on their leathery membranes and throwing strange shadows along the wall.
"You're sure about this?" I asked, cracking a pistachio shell with one hand. "You're not just following me out of boredom?"
Tisiphone gave me a look like I'd asked if the sun would rise. "We didn't crawl out of Tartarus just to twiddle our claws, Nem."
"Speak for yourself," Alecto said as she sipped from a silver cup of chilled berry wine. "I quite like the idea of claw-twiddling. Very relaxing. Less screaming."
Megaera lay sprawled on her stomach on the low couch, wings twitching idly. She had a polished claw dipped in ink and was writing lazily on a bit of parchment—what, I didn't care to ask. Probably another spite list.
"We've already done our research," Meg said, chin in hand. "You trust Lord Hades. That's enough for us. Besides… he's powerful. Focused. Mysterious."
Her tone dipped on the last word.
Alecto arched her brow. "Oh no. Here we go."
"What?" Meg snapped, flicking her hair in irritation.
"That tone," Tisiphone said with a grin. "That dreamy tone. You want to braid his hair and feed him dates or something."
"I do not!"
"Absolutely does," Alecto teased. "Probably wants to curl up in his lap and call him 'my lord' in a scandalous whisper."
"I am a demon of vengeance, not some fawning nymph."
"Could've fooled me," I muttered with a smirk, taking another sip from my cup.
Meg gave an indignant growl but couldn't hide the way her cheeks flushed. The blue-purple tint deepened slightly, her eyes darting away.
"I mean," Tisiphone said thoughtfully, "he is pretty handsome. You've got to admit it. Especially when he gets that broody face on. Like he's thinking about a thousand ways to destroy you but will hold back… just for you."
"Stop enabling her," Alecto said.
"Stop denying facts," Tisiphone replied.
I rolled my eyes. "You three are incorrigible."
"We're bored," Alecto said. "It's either flirting with an eldritch god or going back to tormenting demons in Tartarus. One of those is getting old."
"I thought torment was your favorite pastime," I said, arching a brow.
"It is," she said with a shrug. "But you know what's more fun? Purpose."
That… made me pause.
They weren't wrong. Things had changed since Hades took charge—of the dead, of Olympus, of war preparations. The House of Night respected him. The Reapers followed his lead without hesitation. And me?
Well, I guess I liked being part of something that mattered.
Megaera flipped onto her back, parchment crinkling beneath her wings. "I've been thinking. If we join you formally… what would we even do?"
"Depends," I said. "What do you want to do?"
"Rip out the hearts of traitors," Tisiphone answered immediately.
"Collect the debts of broken oaths," Alecto added.
"Deliver poetic punishment to those who think themselves untouchable," Meg finished.
I tapped my claw against my wine glass, considering. "Vengeance agents. Personal operatives under the House of Judgment. We could travel between realms. Hunt the truly guilty. Bring balance."
"You just want an excuse to wear more armor," Alecto muttered.
"No," I said, grinning. "I want an excuse to beat people into moral clarity."
They all looked at each other and nodded.
"Then we're in," Meg said.
We rose together, wings flexing, claws sheathed, wine finished.
By the time we got back inside, the castle had come to life with activity. Reapers passed through the halls in dark cloaks. Shadow beasts slithered through portals carrying crates. Charon drifted by without a word, skeletal hand brushing the wall like a thought in motion.
We found Oizys sitting at the central stair, legs crossed, fingers drumming her knee as her silver eyes stared at nothing in particular.
"Where's Hades?" I asked.
She blinked slowly, then pointed toward the West Wing. "Office. Don't ask about the smell. He's been experimenting again."
I didn't.
The door to his office was slightly ajar when we arrived. I knocked once, and his voice carried through.
"Enter."
I pushed it open. The room was bathed in soft gold light from a hovering orb-lamp, shelves stacked with tomes and scrolls and strange black devices clicking quietly. Hades was at his desk, hunched over an open ledger, quill in hand, cloak draped over the back of his chair.
"Hey," I said, and stepped in.
He looked up. His eyes flicked over us—me, then the Furies.
He froze for a second.
There was something in his expression. Recognition? But just as quickly, it vanished.
Hades looked up from his desk, his single blue eye flicking toward the group behind me. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting long shadows across the obsidian floor. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, expression unreadable.
"You've brought company," he said, voice calm, low, and edged with curiosity.
I nodded once. "Old friends. They've been with me since Tartarus—demons who've followed me for years. We've talked it through, and they have a proposal."
Hades arched a brow. "A proposal?"
"We want to work for you," Nemesis said, stepping forward. Her chiton was simple, but her presence was anything but. A muscle mommy in every sense, carved from divine wrath and righteous fury. "As mercenaries of vengeance. People cry out for justice, and we deliver it."
Alecto grinned like a wolf. "Retribution specialists."
Megaera crossed her arms, wings rustling. "We'd answer only the cries of those with real grievances. No petty drama, no baseless vendettas."
Tisiphone flicked a loose curl over her shoulder. "Just cold, righteous fury—for the deserving."
Hades tilted his head, thoughtful. "And how would you judge who's deserving? Revenge is a fickle thing. One wrong step and you become the villain instead of the blade of justice."
"That's why we're coming to you," Nemesis said. "You're the King of the Dead. You'll see the souls. Their lives. Their sins. You decide who we take on. We just carry it out."
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then he nodded slowly. "Interesting. Dangerous, but interesting."
He opened a drawer and pulled out several sheets of parchment. With a flick of his hand, a quill made from one of his own feathers floated into his grip. The ink shimmered silver as he began writing.
"I'll draft contracts," he said. "Nothing goes without record in the Underworld. If you're going to operate under my banner, it'll be official."
He scribbled a few lines, then looked up, eyes sharp. "Names?"
Alecto stepped forward first, grinning wide. "Alecto."
"Tisiphone," the second said coolly.
"Megaera," the last said, her tone low and intense.
Hades nodded once more, handing over the four parchment. "Sign these and return them to me after you figure things out. I suggest that you three go to the Forges. Tell Brontes what you need. I've already instructed the smiths to give priority to our core operatives. You fall under that now."
The Furies straightened, surprised. "Just like that?"
"You asked," he said. "And Nemesis believes in you."
Then he met my gaze—and this time, I saw it.
That strange, haunting familiarity.
I wanted to ask. But I didn't.
Because the war was coming. And there were more important things to do than pick at the ghosts behind a king's eyes.
So I bowed, and we left.
☼
The Grand Forges of Elysium lived up to their name.
They were carved into the mountainside like the beating heart of the Underworld, pulsing with light, sweat, and fire. The forge spanned several tiers: vaulting arches of carved volcanic stone held up ceilings etched with celestial diagrams, rivers of molten metal flow in channels beneath grated floors, and chimneys belched white steam and golden sparks into the sky above the peaks. The air thrummed with life—iron striking anvil, gears grinding, tools clinking in rapid staccato.
It was every blacksmith's dream, and more.
Brontes, eldest of the Elder Cyclopes, loomed over the anvil at the center of the chamber. His single eye narrowed in concentration as he lifted a bar of Adamantine glowing cyan. With a smooth, practiced motion, he lowered it onto the anvil, lifted his hammer, and brought it down as thunder rang out through the forge.
Sparks danced in wild arcs around him.
To his left, Arges adjusted a half-finished cuirass on a mannequin, gold and black Polymythril farming interlocking scales as he stitched leather straps along the shoulder seams. His fingers worked fast and precise, threading celestial-thread cord through metal loops, humming a low tune in an old Titan tongue.
Steropes hunched over his own bench, magnification lenses strapped to his eye, hands steady as he embedded sapphire gems into a necro-steel gauntlet. The veins in the matte black metal pulsed faintly as he etched tiny runes along the inside of the palm.
"This jewel," Steropes muttered, voice gruff, "has such beauty to it when polished correctly."
"Keep your poetry to yourself," Brontes called over the roar of the bellows.
"It wasn't poetry," Steropes grunted. "It was a fact."
Arges rolled his eyes and adjusted a seam. "At least let the enchantment settle before you claim it can tear open dreams, brother."
"They asked for the impossible. I give them miracles."
"And who's 'they' this time?" Brontes asked as he quenched the sword, steam erupting like a geyser. "The lightning brat?"
"Hera," Steropes replied. "She wants her armor embedded with jems that fan out."
"She's not a bloody peacock," Brontes muttered.
"And yet she is trying to look like one," Arges offered.
The clatter of boots across the stone caused all three to pause mid-work. A pair of deep crimson heels clicked with purpose across the black marble as Nemesis entered the forge, flanked by three tall, winged figures.
Their batlike wings curled behind them like velvet cloaks, skin pale but glowing faintly with hellfire. Their hair was long and shadow-dark, curled or twisted depending on mood or malice. Their eyes—all six pairs—glittered with emotion just shy of fury.
Brontes looked up from his anvil and grunted in greeting. "Well, this ain't a sight we usually get down here. Lady Nemesis. What can we do for you and your friends?"
Nemesis stopped in front of the order ledger and gave a tired sigh. "I know you're swamped, but I need armor. And a weapon, I hadn't requested anything earlier but I hope you can do something for me and my friends."
Brontes wiped his brow with a soot-covered cloth. "And who are your friends?"
She didn't smile. "Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera—they work for me."
That was enough to answer.
Steropes pulled out a fresh scroll and uncapped his quill. "Describe what you're envisioning, my lady."
Nemesis stepped closer, nodding to the furnace behind them. "A full plate harness. Functional, not ceremonial. Shoulder guards shaped like wings—no frills. I want it in necro-steel, black-on-black, with red vein accents. A shield connected to my gauntlet on my right arm—maybe with a jagged edge. And a sword. Big. having a more flat square wide end to it."
Steropes raised a brow. "That's a lot of weight. Are you sure you can move in that?"
Nemesis said dryly. "I think that I will be able to manage."
The three Furies stepped forward next.
Alecto, the eldest, flicked her wings slightly. "Light armor for us. Polymythril, if you have enough. Flexible. We move too fast in bulk."
"And weapons?" asked Arges, setting aside a shoulder plate.
"Whips," Tisiphone said, her voice low and dangerous. "I want a barbed wire whip, chained whip for Megaera, and a-."
"A bone whip for me, preferably a spine," Alecto said, cackling slightly.
"Handled or wrist-anchored?" Steropes asked, wanting to quickly move on.
"Handled," Megaera answered after some thinking. "We have more of a dancer fighting style, so having it be handled will allow better control of the whip."
Steropes noted each down. "Got it."
Brontes stepped forward and eyed the Furies. "And what about enchantments? Do you want anything laced in shadow magic? Flame? Poison?"
Nemesis answered. "Megaera and I don't do anything on my things, but Tisphone wants hers to poison, and Alecto wants hers to emit fire."
Brontes cracked his knuckles. "That… we can work with."
The Furies remained still, but a flicker of satisfaction passed between them.
Stephros handed the parchment to Arges. "I'll queue this with the other commissions. We'll need extra hands to finish it all by deadline."
"Three weeks," Brontes said grimly. "That's all we've got."
Arges ran his hand over the folded order, then looked at Nemesis. "You sure you want to wear necro-steel?"
"Yes," she said. "That is the same metal that Lord Hades and my brother and sisters will wear and I will not settle for anything less."
The forge fell quiet for a moment.
The only sounds were the hiss of cooling metal, the clank of chainmail being stretched, and the muted roar of the under-mountain fires.
Brontes eventually broke the silence. "We always knew this day might come. The Titans always feared the spark of something new. Even before you gods were born."
Steropes tightened a wire into the gemstone socket. "I thought the gods might do better than the Titans."
"I believe that they will," said Nemesis. "I trust that Lord Hades will become quite the powerful king when the time comes."
Arges signed and returned to his tunic stitches. "Yeah, that is what we all hope and yet we know who will truly gain the crown and it will not be our Lord."
Stephros offered a half-smile. "It matters not if our Lord stays the King of the Underworld or is the King of the gods, he will do just fine."
The Furies turned and began to leave. Megaera paused at the edge of the doorway and looked back, her violet eyes glittering before she followed behind her sisters. The doors shut behind them.
And the Cyclopes returned to the forge— as the sound of thunder rang through the forge once again.