March through the dusk

Smoke still curled upward from the splintered battlefield. The wind, sluggish and stale for months, now moved freely again. The breath of corrupted air had broken. The Lair—once a spawning womb of unending terror—was nothing but blackened earth, smoldering craters, and scattered heaps of demonic remains.

No cheers rose from the soldiers. No horns sounded their triumph. There was only silence. Victory, when earned in such blood, had no voice left.

Erebus stood among the corpses, his armor cracked down the left flank, the dull sheen of his blade lost beneath layers of dark blood. His side throbbed where the commander's cleaver had gouged through muscle. But he remained upright.

Not because he had to. But because her words kept repeating in his mind.

"Come back safely...".

Zeraf approached quietly, one shoulder dislocated and bound with a torn sash.

"We lost over a hundred. Fifty-three maimed beyond healing. Twenty missing—presumed devoured." He paused. "But the Heart is gone. It won't breathe again."

Erebus said nothing.

His gaze lingered on the shadow-crater where the final beast had been unmade. Tendrils of void still curled there, refusing to dissipate.

"Have the bodies marked. Burn the corrupted. The rest…" he trailed off.

Zeraf nodded, understanding without explanation. "We'll leave no soul behind."

The men moved slowly, some limping, some carried on makeshift stretchers. Many didn't speak. They had entered the mouth of darkness and returned hollowed. Soldiers gathered the shattered remains of tech-weapons and left crude markers for the fallen—blades jammed into earth, bloodied helmets atop.

By nightfall, the last pyres were lit.

The scent of ash replaced the stench of bile. Shadows flickered across scarred bark as Erebus walked the edges of the battlefield one final time. His eyes moved over every corpse. Every burn mark. Every broken limb. Not a single sight was spared his memory.

Then, at dawn, the retreat began.

---

They didn't ride with banners. No fanfare. No drums. Only hoofbeats over frostbitten dirt.

Erebus led from the front, black cloak torn and fluttering, his massive steed trudging beside him, bearing only supplies. He walked. Wounded. Silent. Shadow-wreathed.

Each step forward was one closer to her.

To the child who had taken his first steps.

To the boy who had flown for the first time.

To the woman who still did not write of herself. Who hid something he wasn't meant to know yet. Who he hoped would still be there—waiting, despite everything.

The journey through the borderlands was slow. They passed through villages once terrified of his banners—now silent, stepping out only to watch with awe and dread as the broken army passed.

Rumors would spread.

The Voidwalker still breathes.

The demons are truly gone.

The weight of those words meant little to Erebus.

He barely slept. Ate only what was necessary to keep moving. The wound in his side had sealed, thanks to demonblood endurance—but it ached. More than flesh. It ached with the memory of each soldier he'd watched fall.

It took fifteen days of hard travel to cross into familiar highlands. Two more to pass the old fortresses. Then, at sunrise on the eighteenth day, they caught sight of the mountains of Olympus, gold-edged in the rising light.

Zeraf drew beside him.

"They won't be expecting us, my lord."

Erebus didn't answer right away.

He looked ahead. Toward those shimmering veil of Olympus—the imperial villa perched atop the divine cliffs where Helios now ruled, and where she waited.

"I know," he said finally, voice low and grave. "She won't know until I step through the doors myself." he muttered the fear to himself.

Zeraf gave a big smile. "Then let us make it known, that you've come back victorious. Let Olympus prepare." he roared.

They entered the city. The guards stunned by their abrupt arrival hastened to inform the emperor of the army's return.

No horns. No announcements. No royal escorts.

Only an army, weathered, quiet, and few. No banners flew. Their armor was battered. Weapons hung low, many cracked or scorched. Yet their formation was unwavering—disciplined even in exhaustion.

At the head of this grim procession rode Erebus.

Tall, silent, bronze-skinned beneath his tarnished armor, streaked with the remnants of void essence that still clung to his pauldrons and cape like an ancient shadow. His eyes did not scan the crowd. His lips did not move. He was not here to be welcomed.

He was here for one reason only.

To reach her.

The guards at the lower gates, stunned and unsure, opened the marble road without hesitation. News rippled before him like thunder ahead of a storm. The Void General had returned. The man who had plunged into the lair of monsters and walked out alive. Whispers reached balconies and rooftops. Priests paused mid-prayer. Children climbed to see through columns.

No drums. No cheering.

Only reverence.

Wounded soldiers were carried in litters behind him—some barely conscious, others clutching at shattered limbs. The Temple of Aeon, Olympus' greatest healing sanctuary, opened its gold doors at the first sight of them. High priestesses rushed to receive the dying. Even Helios' own white-robed healers descended from the spires to assist.

Erebus did not stop to witness it.

He only dismounted his nightmare and after brief words he handed the reins to Zeraf as his wings appeared and unfurled taking him in the air leaving the spectators in awe.

----------->

Olympus, Amanécerian Gardens

The The early morning light slanted across the pale marble of the high gardens. The scent of spring clung to the air—orange blossom, wind-swept lilies, and the faint perfume of moonvine curling up the railings. Luciana sat beneath the pear tree, one hand resting lightly over her rounded belly, her long silken gown gathered at her ankles.

Birdsong drifted across the breeze, mingling with distant laughter from children training in the courtyards.

But her gaze was distant.

Her eyes followed the horizon, where mountain peaks kissed the sun. Where the path twisted beyond the cliffs and disappeared into the world she had not stepped into for over a year.

She had received no message.

No official scroll. No scout. No whisper from Erebus.

Not even a letter. Not even a sign.

Still, something unsettled her—deep in her ribs, like a murmur of thunder before the rain. She pressed her palm gently to the side of her abdomen.

"Ra'el," she whispered. "You feel it too, don't you?"

And then it happened.

A searing ripple of pain coiled through her core, cutting through her breath like a blade. She gasped, her hand tightening around the stone bench as her knees buckled slightly.

"S-so soon? Ugh-!" It was her eighth month and the birthing time was already upon her.

"P-Princess Luciana!" a maid cried out from across the gardens. "Are you—?"

Luciana doubled over as her waters broke at her feet, a warm rush soaking through her gown. Her breaths grew ragged. She tried to rise but couldn't.

"Fetch the midwives," she managed between clenched teeth. "Tell the emperor Now!" she unconscious raised her voice in pain.

Servants scrambled into motion as Augusta rushed in from the nearby hall, cloak billowing. Melody arrived seconds later, wings partially unfurled, panic scrawled across her face.

"She's in labor," Augusta snapped. "The baby's coming now!"

"But his lordship—he's not here," Melody stammered.

Luciana clenched her jaw as another contraction tore through her spine, her vision blurring. "He'll come when it's time. This child won't wait for anyone."

They immediately took haste and shifted Luciana to the birthing chambers.

--------------->

Meanwhile — At the Gates of imperial villa...

The guards hadn't expected it.

No horns. No announcements.

Helios' watchers scrambled to alert the estate.

Erebus said nothing. He entered the main gates, ignoring the curious and stunned stares of the Amanécerians. His jaw tightened when he saw a familiar maid rush towards him in panick—this time with urgent news scrawled across his face.

"My lord—it's princess Luciana—she's in labor. It began just before your arrival."

Erebus's breath caught for a moment.

The child from his dreams—the child she never mentioned—was real.

Without a word, he moved. No formality. No ceremony.

He ran.

The corridor outside the royal birthing chambers echoed with screams.

Luciana's voice—muffled by the thick double doors—was hoarse, sharp, and rising in pain that seemed to tear through stone. The walls, ever calm, now rang with terror.

Nemesis sat hunched on a bench, fists balled, his wings drooped low. His eyes were wide, searching for understanding in the madness around him.

Beside him, little Hades clutched Augusta's robes, trembling at every sound. Melody tried to soothe him, whispering that everything was fine—but her eyes were glossy with dread.

Then came the echo of footsteps—fast, thundering.

Erebus turned the corner.

His hair was dust-streaked, his eyes hollow with exhaustion, and his armor still bore the dried blood of war. But he didn't slow. Not when Nemesis stood. Not even when Augusta called out his name.

He stopped only when he reached the chamber doors—where two midwives barred his entry.

"She's deep into labor," one said quickly. "The child hasn't crowned yet. It's been nearly ten hours—"

"Let me in," Erebus growled, low and dangerous.

"You can't," Augusta said firmly, stepping forward. "She begged not to be seen. She didn't want you to see her like this—not if you arrived after…"

A piercing scream from within cut them off.

Erebus flinched.

Hades began to cry. Nemesis trembled.

He pressed a hand to the door. His eyes closed as another wail echoed. His head dropped against the wood.

He had crossed bloodsoaked kingdoms to return before this moment.

And he was too late.

---

Hours Later

The world had turned quiet.

She stared at him. At his tiny face. His trembling breath. The little hand that curled against her collarbone. His high pitched cries just like she remembered from Hades' birth.

His skin was a soft bronze—the color of Erebus' under the sun. And atop his head, silky white strands shimmered like snowfall—Luciana's hair, pure and bright. From beneath the blanket, two small demon-formed ears peeked out, pointed and dark.

Tears slid quietly down her cheeks.

"You look just like the one I saw in my dreams," she whispered, brushing her lips over his temple. "But you're real now."

"Ra'el," she repeated softly. "You're here."

The screams had stopped. The door opened.

A nurse stepped out, bloodied cloth still in her hands, her face drawn but smiling.

"She's alive. They both are."

The hallway exhaled as if the entire palace had been holding its breath.

Erebus didn't ask. He stepped through the doors silently, breath still ragged. What he saw struck him still.

Luciana lay in a great ivory bed, soaked in sweat and pale with exhaustion. Her long hair was matted to her skin. Her lips were dry. But her arms were curled around a small bundle wrapped in a pale cream blanket.

She looked up. Yet didn't say a word. Only another surprised look.

"You're here," she whispered hoarsely.

Erebus walked slowly to the side of the bed.

The child stirred.

A boy.

She lowered her eyes at last—red-rimmed, brimming with tears—and whispered, "His name is Ra'el."

Erebus stood over them, completely silent too stunned.

This is how she birthed Hades while protecting Nemesis in his absence. And now he barely got to witness the birth of their third child.

Then, without armor, without a crown, without fear, he dropped to his knees beside her bed and placed his hand gently over hers.

And said nothing at all. Just relieved to see her and the baby alive.