Chapter Text
The air smelled of saltwater, harsh and biting, much like Nico’s heart. The sea stretched endlessly in front of him, the waves crashing violently against the shore. Nico di Angelo stood at the water’s edge, silent, unmoving—his black cloak fluttering in the wind like a shadow. His heart wasn’t heavy with purpose anymore, not like it once had been. It was empty. Hollow.
There had been a battle, once—fought long ago. It was over now. He had fought, and now, he was just left standing in the wreckage.
The ghosts of his past had been buried. Or so he thought. Nico had always walked with the dead, but this time… it was different. This time, there were no spirits to guide him. No voices from his mother, no familiar laughter from his friends. The world around him was cold, unforgiving, like the memories that haunted him.
His eyes were drawn to the broken remnants of what had once been home—Camp Half-Blood, a place where he’d thought he could finally belong. The camp that had promised safety and family, but had instead shown him the raw, ugly truth of what it meant to be a demigod. A child of death.
Nico had lost everything. And no matter how many times he told himself he had no regrets, the emptiness never seemed to go away.
He had promised to protect his sister, Bianca. But where was she now? Gone, like so many others. And now, it was just him.
Alone.
He didn't even feel anger anymore. Just… nothing.
The shadows that always lingered at the edges of his vision were all too familiar, like an old friend. Nico couldn’t escape them—he never could.
The wind whispered through the trees, but he didn’t listen. It wasn’t the wind that called to him. It was the ghosts of those he had failed. Bianca, his mother, all the souls he had failed to save. They were all gone, yet somehow, their weight never left him.
He had no more tears to cry, no more anger to burn away. He wasn’t a child anymore. He was a weapon—a tool of death, a person molded by pain, and there was no room for anything else.
Nico didn’t want to fight anymore.
But he had nothing else to do.
He clenched his fists, summoning the shadows of the Underworld, not to fight, but to end it all. To bring the silence he had long craved. The sword felt cold in his hand—heavy with the weight of his failure. His breath caught in his chest.
One slash. It would be over.
And yet, despite the numbness that had taken root deep in his bones, a part of him hesitated. That tiny flicker of something—the faintest ember of hope. A voice in the back of his mind whispered: Maybe there’s something else...
But Nico didn’t listen. The blade cut through the air, swift and sharp. His body crumpled to the ground, his world fading away in a rush of cold darkness.
It was too dark for Nico to make out anything. His body was weightless, floating in a void. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even call out. It was cold, quiet—far too quiet.
Then came the whispers. Familiar voices.
“Bianca…”
“Father…”
They were so close, but every time Nico reached out for them, the voices slipped away, dissolving like smoke. He wanted to call out, to beg them to stay, but his voice was lost, just like everything else.
“Nico…”
His eyes snapped open, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt warmth. It was soft, gentle, a light that didn’t burn but invited him in. He blinked, confusion gripping his mind.
He wasn’t dead. Not yet.
But where was he? This place—these walls—none of it was familiar. He wasn’t on the battlefield. He wasn’t at Camp Half-Blood. This was... new. Somewhere else. Somewhere he didn’t belong.
Nico closed his eyes and took a slow, steadying breath. When he opened them again, the world had changed.
Nico found himself in an unfamiliar room, surrounded by cold, unfamiliar faces. The walls felt close—too close. But none of the faces were familiar. The names that came from their lips were different.
Nico di Angelo was no more. He was now Akamine Niko, child of the Akamine clan—a clan that saw him as nothing more than a prodigy. A weapon.
They called him a miracle child, but it didn’t feel like a miracle to him. It felt like a curse.
His cursed technique, more ancient than anything he could comprehend, was as much a part of him as his heartbeat. He had always known it was there—quiet, lurking in the shadows. And now it defined him. But it didn’t matter to him. Nothing did.
The clan elders whispered about him, speaking in tones of reverence and fear. But Nico didn’t care. He didn’t want their praise. He didn’t need their admiration. He wanted to be left alone. To be forgotten.
But they would never let him.
He could hear the whispers, feel the weight of their expectations on him, suffocating him.
He’s the one. He will change everything. He’ll break the curse.
It was too familiar. Nico had heard it all before.
At night, when the others were asleep, he would climb to the rooftops. It was the only place where he could breathe. The only place where the pressure of their expectations didn’t smother him.
There, on the edge of the city, he was just Nico. Not a weapon. Not a prodigy. Just… Nico.
He didn’t remember much of his first death—just flashes of Bianca’s face, the smell of the camp, the sound of laughter, the warmth of something he had once called home. But it didn’t hurt anymore.
I’ve moved on, he thought.
But as much as he told himself that, something still burned inside of him. A flicker of something he couldn’t name.
Nico stood there on the rooftop, staring at the city below, the lights sparkling like distant stars. His voice was a soft murmur against the night’s cool breath.
"So," he whispered, his words lost in the wind, “I fell twice.”
The words lingered in the air.
END OF PROLOGUE