Argamus stood at the edge of the River Styx, holding his mother's favorite flower. His father had thrown her shade into the deepest pit of the Underworld, and Argamus meant to drag her out. He was the son of Hades, prince of this dead kingdom, and he had won every fight he ever entered. Winning this one meant crossing a thousand cells of darkness first. He turned the white flower in his fingers. Its yellow center caught the pale light off the river. For a moment he smiled, remembering her hands in a garden that no longer existed. Then Zeus's words came back. Save my mother. Save the Underworld. The smile went cold. His fist closed. He crushed the bloom and let the pieces fall into the black water. He started toward the pits. Two guards blocked the stairway down. Their voices carried on the still air. "No one goes to the deep cells," one said. "Hades gave the order himself." Argamus stepped into the torchlight. "Then Hades can explain why I broke it." The first guard swung. Argamus ducked and drove his shoulder into the man's chest. The guard hit the wall and dropped. The second lunged with a spear. Argamus caught the shaft, twisted, and snapped it. He put the guard down with one blow to the jaw. Both lay still. He took their torch and went down. The stairs ended at a corridor of iron doors. He walked. The corridor split, then split again. Each turn looked like the last. Cold doors on both sides, numbered in a language he half remembered. He counted cells past a hundred and lost the count. The deeper he went, the darker it grew, and his torch shrank the world to a small ring of light. He stopped at a fork with four paths. He had no map. He did not know which way held his mother. He could walk these halls until he starved, and shades did not starve, so he could walk them forever. The truth landed hard. He had fought his way in and gained nothing. A thousand cells, and every one a wrong guess. Then a hoarse voice came from behind the nearest door. "You carry Persephone's blood. I smell it." Argamus raised the torch. Through a slot in the iron, two old eyes watched him. The face was ancient, scarred, buried down here long enough to be forgotten. "Who are you?" Argamus said. "A prisoner your father made in the Great War. Olympus thinks I am dead." The old Titan pressed closer to the slot. "I have listened to these halls for a hundred years. I know every turn. I know which pit holds the queen." Argamus gripped the bars. "Tell me the way." "Open this door first," the Titan said, "and I will walk you there myself." Argamus looked at the lock. Freeing the one thing his father buried deepest. He set his hand against the iron.

Argamus set his hand against the iron door, but the lock held. He pulled. He struck it with his fist. The metal did not move. The old prisoner watched through the slot with burning eyes. "Iron does not break for pride," he said. "You need a key." Argamus stared at the lock and knew the man was right. His strength meant nothing here. Then he remembered the guards above. He turned and ran back up the twisting halls, past a hundred cells, until he reached the two men he had left cold on the stairs. He tore through their belts. On the second guard he found a ring of black keys. He grinned and climbed back down. He tried each key in the lock. The third one turned. The door groaned open. The Titan stepped out, huge and gray, chains still hanging from his wrists and chest. He stood a head taller than any man. "A hundred years," the Titan said, flexing one massive hand. "You have my thanks, son of Persephone. Call me Iapetus." He looked at the torch in Argamus's grip. "That small fire will die in the deep pits. Your mother lies where no light reaches." "Then how do I find her?" Argamus asked. "There is a flame that does not die," Iapetus said. "Hades keeps it in his own chamber. Without it, you walk blind forever." Argamus did not hesitate. He wanted his mother free, and this was the road. Together they climbed out of the maze and crept toward the heart of the Underworld. Hades's chamber stood behind a black arch. Inside, a dark torch burned on a stand, its flame roaring gold and red, throwing light on every wall. Argamus reached for it. A shape moved from the shadows. A general of Hades stepped forward, taller than Iapetus, over eight feet, armored in bone-black plate. "Thieves," the giant said, and drew a sword the length of a door. The general swung. Argamus dove under the blade and slashed at the giant's leg. His strike glanced off the armor. The general backhanded him across the room. Argamus hit the wall and tasted blood. Iapetus roared and grabbed the giant's sword arm with both hands. The two titans crashed into the stand. The torch toppled. Argamus lunged and caught it before the flame touched the floor. "Hold him!" Argamus shouted. Iapetus wrapped his chains around the general's throat and pulled. Argamus drove the burning torch into the giant's face. The general screamed and staggered. Iapetus twisted, and the huge body dropped. Argamus stood, chest heaving, blood on his mouth. In his fist the undying flame blazed steady and bright. He had the light now. He could find the deepest pit. But the fight had made noise, and somewhere above, the whole Underworld had heard it.