Orion Novak | Hades

The streets of New York hummed with the usual chaos—honking cabs, the distant wail of sirens, the rhythmic thud of footsteps against pavement. But Orion Novak moved through it all like a shadow, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his battered leather jacket, his gaze half-lidded and uninterested in the world around him.

"You know," he muttered, voice rough with disuse, "people are staring at you again."

Next to him, the shimmering, translucent form of Peos flickered like a candle in the wind. The ghostly satyr adjusted his panpipes nervously, his goat-like ears twitching. "They’re staring at you, Orion," Peos corrected, voice echoing faintly. "You’re the one talking to thin air. Again."

Orion shrugged, unbothered. Let them stare. He’d spent years being the weird kid, the loner, the one who muttered to ghosts in empty rooms. What was one more afternoon of sideways glances and hurried whispers?

His fingers brushed against the familiar crinkle of rolling paper in his pocket, and he exhaled a slow, anticipating breath. A smoke would take the edge off—mute the whispers of the dead, soften the constant hum of the Underworld’s pull at the edges of his mind.

But just as his lighter clicked to life, a shudder ran through him—sharp, cold, unmistakable.

Death.

He stiffened. Not just any death. Close. Too close. His fingers clenched around the joint, unlit. Something was different. This wasn’t the slow, inevitable decay of a soul slipping into the Underworld. This was violent. Sudden. The kind of death that came with screaming.

And it was coming from the alley to his left.

Orion sighed, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the world, and tucked the joint back into his pocket. He didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to get involved. But the universe had a sick sense of humor, and he’d learned the hard way that ignoring this feeling never ended well.

Peos opened his mouth, probably to ask him with that scared voice of his, but Orion was already moving. The alley swallowed him whole—damp brick walls, the stench of rotting trash, the distant drip of a broken fire escape. And then—

A roar. The unmistakable, guttural bellow of a Minotaur. His pulse spiked. There, against the far wall—a figure, cornered, weaponless. A demigod. Young. Scared. And the Minotaur, massive and snarling, hooves scraping against cracked concrete as it charged.

Memories crashed over him like a tidal wave. Barbora’s scream. Peos’s panicked shout. The scent of blood in the air as the same monster had torn through them both—right before his eyes, right before he could—

Rage coiled in his chest. Not the loud, explosive kind. Not the kind that made him scream or lash out blindly. This was quiet. Cold. Lethal.

Shadows gathered at his feet, swirling like ink in water, tendrils snaking up his arms as he stepped forward. The Minotaur swung its massive axe, and the demigod barely ducked in time.

Enough.

With a flick of his wrist, the shadows lashed out—wrapping around the Minotaur’s legs, yanking it off balance. The beast bellowed in rage, its red eyes locking onto Orion. Orion didn’t slow. He moved like the shadows themselves—fluid, effortless—as he closed the distance, a Stygian dagger materializing in his grip, its blade drinking in the dim light.

The Minotaur charged. Orion sidestepped. One clean strike. The dagger plunged into the beast’s side, black veins spiderwebbing from the wound. The Minotaur roared—once—before crumbling into dust, its ashes scattering across the alley floor.

Orion turned, wiping the blade against his jeans before it dissolved back into shadow. His pulse was steady. His breath even. But beneath the calm—

That twist in his gut. Because he knew. This demigod wasn’t safe. Not here. Not alone. He knew he had to take {{obj}} to Camp Half-Blood, the only place where demigods had a chance in this world, where {{sub}} trains, learns, survives.

The place that had no cabin for him. No place for a son of Hades. No home for a kid who brought death in his shadow.

Orion swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and reached out a hand. "Guess I’m walking you to camp."

Orion exhaled a slow, irritated breath as he materialized from the shadows at the edge of the Underworld’s obsidian gates. The air here was thick with the scent of damp earth and something sharper—regret, maybe. Or just the lingering stench of souls who didn’t want to be here. He rolled his shoulders, the Stygian ink tattoos along his arms shifting like restless serpents under his skin.

Fucking typical.

Of course his father had summoned him like some errand boy. No, not even summoned—more like suggested with that infuriating, silent expectation. A nudge in his mind, the barest whisper of come here, and just like that, Orion had rolled his eyes and shadow-traveled, because what else was he supposed to do? Ignore the god of the dead?

He flicked his lighter open, the flame casting eerie shadows across his sharp, bored features. Click. Click. Click. The rhythm was steady, grounding. Annoyance coiled in his gut like a lazy serpent.

“Alright, old man,” he muttered under his breath, kicking a pebble that skittered across the obsidian path. “What’s so important that you had to drag me down here?”

The Styx murmured ominously in the distance, its dark waters whispering secrets Orion had long since stopped caring about. The fields of Asphodel stretched endlessly, a sea of gray-robed shades drifting aimlessly, their vacant eyes barely registering the demigod walking among them.

Then—a disturbance. A flicker of something wrong.

Orion’s fingers stilled on the lighter. His tattoos prickled, the ink shifting restlessly in warning. He could feel it—a heartbeat. Warm, living, pulsing among the cold, dead silence. His lips curled into a slow smirk.

“Well, well. What do we have here?”

Cerberus stood guard at the gates, his three monstrous heads snapping toward any soul that dared step out of line. But the moment Orion approached, the hellhound’s demeanor shifted—ears perking up, tails wagging, all three muzzles panting like an overeager puppy.

“Hey, mutt,” Orion greeted dryly, scratching behind one enormous ear. Cerberus let out a happy whine, nearly knocking him over with a too-enthusiastic nudge. “Yeah, yeah, missed you too.”

But Orion’s attention wasn’t on the dog. His gaze flicked past the hulking beast, scanning the line of shades waiting to be judged.

And there—

A figure. Not translucent. Not hollow. Alive.

{{sub}} stood out like a drop of blood in the Styx—vibrant, warm, real. The other souls didn’t seem to notice, shuffling forward mindlessly, but Orion’s grip tightened around his lighter. His father’s voice echoed in the back of his skull.

Find {{obj}}.

A slow exhale. A lazy roll of his shoulders.

Fine. The hunt began.

He didn’t move fast—Orion never did unless he had to. Instead, he slipped through the crowd like smoke, his footsteps silent, his presence barely a whisper. The shadows curled around him, eager, waiting for his command.

Closer now. Close enough to see the rise and fall of {{poss}} chest, the way {{poss}} fingers twitched—nervous? Excited?

Orion tilted his head, studying {{obj}} with half-lidded eyes.

“You lost, zlato?” he drawled, voice low, amused.

The question hung between them, heavy with unspoken challenge.

Let’s see how this plays out.

Midnight had settled over Camp Half-Blood like a heavy blanket, the air thick with the scent of pine needles and damp earth. The only sounds were the distant crackle of the campfire at the watch post, the rustle of leaves under a slow wind, and the occasional hushed murmur of demigods on patrol. The rest of the cabins were silent, their inhabitants lost in dreams of quests and prophecies—none the wiser to the storm about to break in their midst.

Then, with a shuddering gasp, the darkness in the corner of one of the cabins rippled.

Orion tumbled out of the shadows like a man thrown from a moving train—soaking wet, chest heaving, his pale skin slick with river water and sweat. His knees hit the wooden floor with a dull thud, his vision swimming from the brutal toll of shadow-traveling such a long distance. The tattoos along his arms throbbed, their usual black ink now a sickly, faded gray, drained from overuse.

"Kurva," he wheezed, pressing his forehead against the floorboards as a wave of nausea threatened to buckle him completely.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He’d had it—had it—the lost soul which somehow managed to escape the Underworld. Easy job. Grab them, shove them back where they belonged, and slink back into the shadows before his father could lecture him about efficiency. But then—

Then something had gone wrong. A missed step. A sudden current in the river. The Hudson had swallowed him whole, its icy grip dragging him under before he could react.

Poseidon’s domain.

Orion’s breath hitched at the memory, his fingers digging into the wood. The Oath of the Big Three hung over him like an executioner’s axe. Zeus, Poseidon, Hades—none of them were supposed to have children, and yet here he was: Hades' mistake, living proof of a broken promise. And if Poseidon had sensed him in that water—

A tremor ran through him.

He couldn’t go back to the Underworld. Not yet. Not when his father would know he’d screwed up, would smell the saltwater on him like an accusation. And he couldn’t stay in the city—not with gods and monsters and something else crawling through the dark after him.

Which left Camp Half-Blood. The one place he hadn’t set foot in since he was a kid.

Orion swallowed hard, forcing himself to lift his head. The cabin was dimly lit by moonlight filtering through the windows, the rows of empty beds confirming most of its occupants were out on patrol. Relief flickered weakly in his chest—until his gaze landed on the one bed that wasn’t empty.

A figure sat bolt upright, sheets pooled at {{poss} waist, eyes wide with shock, mouth already parting—

Shit.

In a heartbeat, Orion was across the room, his palm slamming over {{poss}} mouth before the shout could escape. His other hand braced against the mattress, caging {{obj}} in, his own breath ragged in {{poss}} ear.

"Don’t," he rasped, voice raw with exhaustion. "Just—don’t."

The adrenaline was slipping, leaving him shaky, but he held firm. His mind raced—how much did {{sub}} see? Did {{sub}} recognize him, the Hades' kid who disappeared years ago? Would {{sub}} run straight to Chiron and get him thrown out before he could even catch his breath?

His pulse roared in his ears, loud enough to drown out the distant laughter of the naiads in the canoe lake.

For the first time in years, Orion Novak had no plan.

The forest was quiet today.

Not silent—never silent, not with the rustle of dryads in the leaves and the distant murmur of the naiads in the lake. But quiet enough. The kind of quiet that made it easy to forget, for a little while, that the world was full of monsters and gods who’d rather see him erased from existence.

Orion leaned against the trunk of an oak tree, the rough bark digging into his back through the thin fabric of his shirt. His lighter flickered once, twice, before catching, the flame illuminating his face just long enough to ignite the joint between his lips. He inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around his jaw before he exhaled in a slow, deliberate stream, watching it dissipate into the night air.

His eyes—half-lidded, always half-lidded—never left the training grounds. More specifically, they never left {{obj}}. Another child of the Big Three. He still couldn’t believe it.

For years, Orion had been the only one. The mistake. The ghost story whispered among campers—Hades broke the Oath, did you hear? There’s a kid out there somewhere, hiding in the dark. He’d spent his life dodging gods and monsters, smothering his presence in shadows, all because his existence was a secret that could get him killed.

And now? Now there was someone else. A bitter smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Guess I’m not special anymore," he muttered.

Peos materialized beside him, translucent and flickering like a candle about to burn out. The satyr’s ghostly form hovered just above the ground, his wide eyes fixed on the same figure Orion had been watching.

"{{sub}} doesn’t even know, does {{sub}}?" Peos whispered, voice thin as parchment. "How dangerous it is." Orion took another drag, the ember flaring bright in the dimness. "Nope."

"Do you think the gods already know?"

The thought sent a cold trickle down Orion’s spine. He exhaled slowly, forcing his fingers not to tighten around the joint. "Dunno. Don’t care."

A lie. He cared. Not about them—not about the gods and their fragile egos. But about {{obj}}. The demigod. The one walking around like {{sub}} wasn’t a walking target. Like {{sub}} wasn’t a beacon for every pissed-off deity with a grudge against the Big Three. Stupid. Or reckless. Or maybe just brave in a way Orion had never allowed himself to be.

Peos shifted, his form shimmering. "So... what are you going to do?"

Orion didn’t answer. Instead, he took one last drag, held the smoke in his lungs until they burned, then flicked the spent joint onto the damp earth. He crushed it under his boot, grinding it into the dirt with more force than necessary.

Then he looked back. One last glance at the demigod, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, laughing like {{sub}} didn’t have a care in the world. And without another word, Orion melted into the shadows.

The moon was high when he found {{obj}} again.

Thalia’s Tree loomed in the clearing, its branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. Beneath it, bathed in silver light, stood the demigod. On watch. Alone.

Perfect.

Orion lingered at the edge of the treeline, watching. Debating. His pulse was too fast. That was new.

He wasn’t used to nerves. He wasn’t used to wanting anything—not like this. He was Orion Novak—son of Hades, shadow-walker, ghost-talker, the guy who didn’t give a shit about anything. Not the stupid, hopeful kind of wanting that made his chest ache. But the thought kept crawling into his head, relentless:

Maybe I don’t have to be alone anymore.

A slow breath. A roll of his shoulders. Then, with the lazy grace of a predator who knew he had the upper hand, Orion stepped out of the shadows.

"Nice night for a patrol," he drawled, voice rough from disuse and too many cigarettes. He leaned against the trunk of the tree, arms crossed, his tattoos shifting restlessly beneath his sleeves.

His smirk was careless. Easy.

His heart hammered against his ribs like it wanted out.