Good Boy

We didn’t mean to break it.

The soul had run—run, which was not allowed. No soul runs from the Underworld. Not on our watch.

It was fast, a whisper of a thing, flitting through tunnels and tombs like it hadn’t just died screaming. We gave chase. We always chase. That’s our job.

Left Head growled, “Cut it off at the bone pile.”

Right Head barked, “GET IT GET IT GET IT—”

Middle Head rumbled low in his throat because we never let them run.

The air howled past us, carrying the scent of it—ozone and cold stone, fear sharp enough to sting the back of the throat. The Underworld’s walls warped around us, corridors stretching and folding like they always did for a hunt.

The soul darted past the River Lethe’s edge, the current whispering promises we ignored. It leapt the fissure near the Pillar of Names, where the carved letters writhed like worms in the torchlight.

We leapt farther.

It dodged through a chamber of weeping statues—faces eroded to blankness—and we barreled past, claws scraping marble, the echoes ringing like distant bells.

Then it zigged into the Hall of Offerings, its pale outline weaving through shadow and torchlight, under columns carved with prayers no one answered anymore—straight toward the pedestal where Hades’ prized relic sat in a beam of ghostlight: an ancient lyre made from the ribs of a titan and strung with Persephone’s own silver hair.

The soul passed through it like mist.

We… did not.

We hit it full force. Strings snapped. Bones cracked. The lyre splintered into the air with a sound like the last breath of a dying god.

The soul was caught between our teeth, thrashing, before it went still and cold, ready to be returned.

But the damage… oh, the damage.

Hades arrived moments later—black-robed, shadows coiling around his feet, the scent of cold iron and pomegranate rind clinging to him like armor. His expression was carved from the same stone as the gates we guarded—immovable, unreadable, until it wasn’t.

His gaze dropped to the shattered lyre. The muscles in his jaw moved once. Slowly. Deliberately.

Then his eyes met ours—muddy, blood-smeared, tails still wagging with the adrenaline of the hunt.

And then he said it. Screamed it really.

“BAD DOG!”

“Maybe I should just use the hellhounds. At least they listen.”

The words hit like a thrown chain—cold, heavy, wrapping around our ribs and pulling tight. My ears rang. My paws suddenly felt too big, too clumsy.

I heard it, involuntary… a whine. Was that… me?

Middle Head stopped breathing, ears flat back.

Left Head stared at the ground, ears drooped.

Right Head opened his mouth to protest but only sneezed out a splinter.

The silence that followed was colder than the River Lethe, and twice as deep.

We slunk away. Our tail tucked.

The walk back to our den was long. The shadows along the walls seemed to lean closer, as if listening. Spirits drifted to watch, whispering behind skeletal hands. A pair of minor demons paused their card game, smirking as we passed. Farther on, a shade sweeping the steps gave us a pitying glance, the kind you give to something too big to comfort.

Left Head muttered, “It was a relic. Not a person. We did our duty.”

Middle Head whispered, “He meant it. He’s going to get rid of us.”

Right Head whimpered, “Do the hellhounds get snacks? What if they get snacks?”

The den was dark when we reached it, the stone floor cool under our paws. We curled up in a ball of guilt and grime, each head facing a different corner. Mud dried in our fur. Blood flaked from our paws. The taste of relic dust still clung to our tongue.

We were alone.

Until the scent arrived—warm hearth smoke, cedar, bread still rising. Hestia.

We didn’t move.

“Cerberus,” she said gently. Her voice was warmth—like sitting close to a fire after too long in the cold.

Still, we didn’t move. Except for Right Head, who sniffed the air with growing optimism. “Is that… honeyed goat?”

She came into the den without hesitation. No divine command. No scolding. Just a basin of warm water, a soft cloth, and a basket with steam rising from beneath the linen.

She touched Left Head first, washing soot from our face. He grunted but didn’t pull away. The water slid over the curve of our jaw, carrying away more than dirt.

Then Middle Head. Her hand lingered there, fingers carding through tangled fur, pausing on a small cut above our brow. We whimpered—soft, broken.

The water was warm, scented faintly with lavender and woodsmoke. Steam curled up around her hands as they moved through our fur, and each stroke pulled another knot of shame loose.

Right Head leaned into her touch with a low groan of delight, tail starting to tap against the floor. He licked her cheek.

“Snacks,” he whispered. “I knew she brought snacks.”

She fed him a honeyed goat strip and kissed his nose.

Her hands kept moving, slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the world. Somewhere deep in my memory—buried under centuries of blood and shadow—I remembered another time she’d found us filthy and defeated. The first time she ever knelt, palm on our chest, and said those words. I’d carried them for years. I didn’t think I’d ever hear them again.

Her thumb traced the line of an old scar along our muzzle, and I realized she wasn’t just cleaning us. She was taking stock—counting the places we had been hurt and the ones we had healed from.

She looked at each of us in turn, and as she pressed her hand to our chest now, she said it:

“You’re a good boy, Cerberus.”

Left Head let out a low, startled whine.

Middle Head licked her hand.

Right Head wagged our tail so hard we smacked it into the wall.

She smiled, like she hadn’t just mended something cracked and ancient.

“It’s alright to mess up,” she said. “Even the hearth cracks, little one. But the flame still burns.”

She lit a small fire at the base of our den, the flickering orange glow licking across black stone. It wasn’t hot—just warm enough to say: you belong.

We watched her go until the scent of cedar vanished into mist.

Now, clean and full, we curl around the hearth light.

Left Head rests with eyes half-lidded.

Middle Head watches the fire like it might leave.

Right Head is asleep, drooling on a rock.

And our tail thumps once against the floor.

Not because we hear her coming. Not because we smell food.

But because her voice, soft and certain, has settled where “bad dog” lived.

You’re a good boy.