Cerberus didn't even flinch as Cyd shoved the mouth of his waterskin into one of the hellhound's jaws and let it drip full of otherworldly saliva. The mutt didn't exactly offer to help, but he didn't object either.
Cyd whistled, satisfied, and pulled the waterskin back once it was full to the brim. Then, just to be safe—and to make sure he could tell it apart from his actual drinking water—he yanked a couple tufts of Cerberus's fur and tied them to the neck of the bottle like a bizarre dog-hair charm. He repeated the process for a second waterskin, this time dipping it into the still-steaming blood pooling near the beast's recently ventilated chest cavity.
"Now that's a good haul," Cyd said, stuffing the makeshift vials into his pack with a grin.
Cerberus gave him a light shove with one massive paw. "Move along, mortal."
"Catch you later," Cyd said, patting the middle head like an old friend before grabbing Medusa's hand and stepping through the yawning gates of the Underworld.
Behind them, Cerberus crawled back toward the spot where his honeycake had been pulverized during their scuffle, and—with the kind of dedication only a three-headed monster could manage—began licking the shattered crumbs from the cracked stone.
"Mmm… still tastes right."
The Underworld greeted them with a slap of cold wind to the face. Not a breeze. Not a chill. No, this was a soul-deep, bone-stiffening cold that clung to skin like smoke and made Cyd raise a hand on instinct, shielding his face as if that might help.
"Yeesh. Not exactly vacation weather."
"You're not supposed to linger here," Medusa warned quietly, tugging at his sleeve. "The longer a living person stays, the harder it is to leave. Don't speak to anyone. Don't meet their eyes. Pretend you don't see them."
"Great advice," Cyd muttered, motioning to the ghostly crowd already staring right at them. "Little late for that, though."
Dozens—no, hundreds—of pale, silent figures stood between them and the deeper reaches of the realm. Their skin was bloodless, their expressions blank. Their eyes, if they even had them, looked through rather than at.
Medusa tensed, her grip tightening around the haft of her chained scythe. The blade dropped from beneath her cloak with a resonant thud.
She was ready to carve a path through them.
"Easy," Cyd said, resting a hand on her head and gently tilting her scythe down. "They're not hostile. Not yet."
Almost on cue, the dead shifted. Not with urgency, but with eerie coordination—like a wave being pulled by unseen tides. They parted, forming a straight corridor into the mists ahead, as if something—someone—was guiding them.
Still, their eyes never stopped watching.
"Let's move," Cyd said, taking Medusa's hand.
Medusa didn't argue, but she didn't loosen her grip either.
"This place… it doesn't feel right," she said.
"It's the land of the dead," Cyd replied. "If it did feel right, I'd be more worried."
He walked forward with that same casual yawn he gave when faced with a death god's pet monster. Medusa glanced at him sideways. Part of her wanted to yank him back and run. But another part—perhaps the deeper, more honest part—knew that once Cyd made up his mind, not even death would stop him.
They crossed the courtyard of ghosts and found themselves at the base of a looming, black palace. It didn't look built so much as grown out of the earth like a fungus—sharp, jagged, and breathing out mist from the cracks in its stone.
The doors creaked open on their own.
The moment they stepped through, the crowd vanished.
Cyd blinked. "Okay, would it kill them to just walk away like normal people?"
"Scared already?" Medusa teased.
"Pointless to be scared now." He exhaled, stepping into the pitch-dark hall.
Their footsteps echoed through the enormous corridor, the sound swallowed by the gloom around them. Thankfully, it wasn't some twisted labyrinth. The path led straight forward, each step drawing them deeper into something ancient and unknowable.
And then—
"Welcome," said a low voice from the far end of the dark.
Cyd and Medusa froze.
Two blue flames sparked to life, one on each side. Then another. And another. Like dominoes, spectral lanterns lit the hall—yet their fire gave no warmth. If anything, it made the air colder.
At the center of it all, seated on a throne carved from obsidian and silence, was a man who radiated death without needing to move an inch.
Hades.
The King of the Underworld.
"…Apologies," he said, his tone flat. "Did I frighten you?"
"Dear, you should smile more," said a woman beside him—beautiful, relaxed, and completely unfazed. She reached over and poked Hades's cheek with a single, affectionate finger.
Cyd blinked. She had to be Persephone.
Only the Queen of the Dead could jab the literal god of death in the face and live to giggle about it.
"Is that better?" Hades asked, forcing his mouth into a smile so stiff and sharp it could cut glass.
Cyd, horrified, reached out and covered Medusa's eyes. "Nope. Nope. That made it worse."
"Darling, maybe don't smile at all," Persephone said, patting her chest like she'd just been jump-scared.
Hades let the fake smile drop with a sigh. His usual deadpan returned, but something about him looked… hurt. Like a puppy who got scolded for trying to wag its tail.
"Uh—right, I'm here to…" Cyd paused. "I mean, I came for… a blessing?"
"And a message from Demeter," Hades said, rubbing his temples.
"Yeah, that too." Cyd scratched the back of his head. "Do you want something in return, or is this one of those 'pass a trial or die' type of deals?"
Hades looked at his wife, then back at Cyd. "I don't want anything."
"…Huh?"
"You reached me. That's enough."
He opened his hand. A plain, unadorned helmet appeared in his palm. Then he casually tossed it to Cyd.
"Take it. I don't need it anymore."
Cyd fumbled with the helmet. "Wait—why are you giving me this?"
Hades didn't answer. He simply closed his eyes again, face unreadable.
Persephone leaned in, grinning. "Because he likes you, little mortal."
Cyd flushed. "Wait—what?!"
"Over all these years, you're the only living person who worships him properly. No demands. No prayers for curses or plagues. Just honest offerings."
"Hmph," Hades grunted, looking away.
"You're kidding," Cyd muttered.
"He's the god of death," Persephone said, twirling a lock of hair. "What does a living person gain by praying to him? Nothing. Most people only remember him after they die."
Hades sulked harder.
"Oh, don't pout," Persephone said. "Plenty of folks offer sacrifices. You know, 'bring plague to my enemies,' or 'curse my cheating ex with boils.'"
Cyd coughed awkwardly. "Should I, uh… leave you two alone?"
"No need," Persephone said, waving him off. "This is for your benefit. My dear truly likes you. Even helped him win against—"
"COUGH!" Hades suddenly cleared his throat, loud enough to shake the pillars.
"Fine, fine." Persephone rolled her eyes. "But seriously, it's rare he meets someone so genuine. You've earned it."
Cyd held the helmet a little tighter.
"…Thanks."
Hades reached out and flicked Persephone's forehead with a sigh. "Don't spoil him."
She pouted. "I like spoiling him. He's cute."
Cyd turned pink.
According to Demeter, Persephone was supposed to hate the Underworld—hate Hades—and be practically rotting from grief down here.
But looking at her now, laughing and teasing the King of the Dead?
This wasn't the picture of someone who wanted to die.
This looked like someone who chose to stay.
And if that was true… what else had he been wrong about?