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CHAPTER TITLE: Blood Never Forgets
The gates of the Underworld didn't just open for him.
They bent.
Screamed.
Old magic cracked at the seams, reacting to the presence it had long been denied.
Diago stepped through like a curse returning to its birthplace.
The silence didn't welcome him.
It feared him.
Shadows recoiled. Flames dimmed without wind.
The Underworld remembered its true heir—and it trembled.
---
The Throne Hall of the Damned
Mirelle sat perched on her husband's old throne like a queen who'd stolen it. Her fingers curled around the edges like talons, her eyes glinting with mocking amusement.
"Well, well," she purred, "did the half-blood finally remember where he came from?"
Diago didn't reply. Didn't even glance her way.
Lucien, lounging in the shadows, smirked. "Word is, you've gone soft. Playing house with mortals. Drinking from schoolgirls. Sleeping with humans. Real classy."
Diago's gaze slid toward him—cold and flat.
"Still pretending you matter, Lucien?" he said calmly.
Lucien's jaw twitched. Cyran, ever the nervous one, let out a strained laugh.
"Careful," Cyran muttered. "He's still got that temper."
But Diago didn't look angry. That was what made them all uneasy.
He looked calm.
Too calm.
And when Diago was calm, people died.
---
The Council of Bones
Twelve thrones, carved from obsidian and bone. Twelve Elders, each older than time, sat like statues as Diago stepped into the chamber.
The cold followed him.
Elder Kael sneered, his voice laced with condescension. "The prodigal bastard returns. Should we kneel?"
Elder Varos added, "He ignored three summons. Lives among cattle. Now he returns with his tail tucked."
Diago's voice sliced through the air.
"Say that again. Slower. So I know you understand the words coming out of your mouth before I rip them off your tongue."
The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating.
Kael looked away. Varos swallowed hard.
Then came a second entrance.
---
The Royal Blood
Footsteps echoed like whispers through the stone. Cold. Soft. Deadly.
Celene.
His sister. Full-blooded. Older than the stars. Her presence was colder than death and sharper than steel. Her hair was black silk, her eyes voids rimmed with starlight.
Beside her strode Ezren—tall, lean, and dressed in black armor that shimmered like obsidian. His sword stayed strapped to his back, even here. He didn't care for the council's rules. He'd never needed them.
Celene's voice was ice on glass.
"So this is the circus now. Children bickering while something ancient claws at our gates."
Mirelle stiffened.
Ezren stepped forward until he was face to face with Diago. His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
"You smell like her."
Diago's jaw tensed.
Ezren's eyes narrowed. "Like sunlight. And fear."
"I warned you about mortals," Celene said, approaching. "They rot you from the inside. Make you soft. Stupid."
"She didn't," Diago muttered.
Ezren tilted his head. "She?"
Too late.
The word slipped. The lie cracked.
They knew.
---
The Hall of Ancestors
Diago stood beneath the broken stained glass, the glow from the infernal moon above cutting through the room like a wound.
He didn't move when Thomas stepped into view.
"You almost tore Kael's head off," Thomas said lightly.
"He deserved it."
"That's not why you're shaking."
Diago stayed quiet.
Thomas came closer. "It's her."
"Don't."
"She's in your head. You don't sleep. You barely feed. You flinch when she's near. You ache when she isn't."
Diago's voice turned sharp. "You think I've never had a human warm my bed?"
"I think you've never let one touch you."
"I've used others."
"You let her in."
"I said don't."
Thomas didn't back down. "She makes you feel human. And that terrifies you."
Diago's eyes blazed red as he slammed Thomas against the wall. The stone cracked.
"I will burn this realm and every other before I let her undo me."
Thomas stared into his eyes.
"She already has."
Diago froze. His grip loosened. He stepped back.
Shadows crawled along the edges of the hall like they were listening.
---
Later
Diago sat alone on the temple stairs. Cold wind scraped through the Underworld's skies, but it didn't touch him.
In his hand… a single strand of golden hair. Alora's.
He told himself he kept it as a warning. A reminder.
But his fingers trembled when he held it.
Across realms, Alora stirred in her sleep. Her chest tightened, her dreams thick with shadows and warmth. She didn't know why.
The bond between them was pulling tighter. Growing darker.
And somewhere inside Diago—beneath the blood, beneath the hate—
He didn't want to sever it.
He wanted to own it.
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