Chapter Text
By Nightfall, the Ghost King Walks
Nico di Angelo had never been one to crave attention. Fame, with its flashing lights and crowds of admiring fans, had always seemed like something foreign to him. A different world entirely, full of noise and color. His life was much quieter than that. Shrouded in shadows, drifting between worlds, Nico found comfort in the silence. But what no one knew about him, what no one could ever understand, was that in this silence, he had found a refuge—a sanctuary, of sorts—in art.
It wasn’t the crowds or the fame that drew him to museums. It was the stillness of it all. In the Louvre, the National Gallery, the Museum of Modern Art—these places became his hideaways. The art didn’t demand anything of him. It didn’t ask for answers or explanations. It simply existed, frozen in time, and that was enough. Every night, when the world fell asleep and the shadows grew long, Nico found himself walking those quiet halls. He slipped past security with the ease of someone who had spent most of his life disappearing into the darkness.
Nico didn’t need to be seen. The beauty of the art was enough. It was as if every painting and sculpture had been made just for him, waiting for someone to witness them in their purest form—unspoiled by crowds or the murmur of tourists. But there was always something more, something deeper. Every time he entered one of these grand galleries, he left behind a mark—small, almost unnoticeable, but unmistakably his. A single white lily placed at the foot of a painting, its delicate petals a quiet tribute. And a single line, scrawled on a wall, barely visible to anyone not paying close attention: "The Ghost King." Just a name, a whisper in the dark. A title he had earned long ago.
It wasn’t about fame. No one needed to know who he was. He didn’t need the recognition or the praise. His connection to these works of art was personal. The Mona Lisa’s smile—a little too enigmatic, a little too guarded—reminded him of the way he had always kept himself hidden. The swirling chaos of Van Gogh’s Starry Night echoed the turmoil inside his mind, always moving, never still. The Terracotta Army, so silent and unyielding, mirrored the stoic way he carried his burdens, both as the son of Hades and as someone who was always forced to walk alone.
But then came the Instagram account.
Nico didn’t know exactly when the idea struck him. Maybe it was the thought that, for once, he could let someone else in—without giving away too much. Maybe it was just the desire to share these quiet moments with someone, even if that someone was just a faceless internet audience. What harm could there be? After all, no one knew who the Ghost King truly was. And if they did, they would never have the full story.
He created @UmbraNoctis one evening, in a moment of idle curiosity. The account was simple—black-and-white photos of the art that had moved him, that had made him feel. The images were stripped of color, of vibrancy. It was all about the stillness. Each photo was accompanied by a caption that was somehow both dry and intimate, the words echoing his thoughts. They weren’t there to be analyzed or dissected. The art wasn’t a puzzle to solve. It was an experience.
His first post was a shot of the Mona Lisa, taken one quiet night at the Louvre. The painting, bathed in soft light, looked almost alive. Her mysterious smile seemed to change depending on where you stood, and Nico wondered if anyone had ever truly understood it. Or understood her. He typed a simple caption: "Does she smile more when no one's watching?" It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t profound. But it was the truth. She was more herself when no one looked at her, when she was left alone in the stillness.
The second post was of Starry Night, taken at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. The gallery was empty when he visited—just the way he liked it. He could hear the echoes of his footsteps in the otherwise silent hall. The painting, alive with color, looked almost too chaotic for his tastes, but there was something mesmerizing about it. The brushstrokes seemed to swirl in a way that mirrored the thoughts constantly swirling in his head. The caption: "What’s a starry night without the chaos of tourists?" A playful jab at the crowded reality of the museum during the day. But there was truth in it too. Without the tourists, the piece could breathe. It could speak to him in a way it couldn’t with the noise of the world around it.
The third post was of the Terracotta Army. Nico had visited them in Beijing, standing above the silent rows of warriors, each face a mirror of stoic resolve. He couldn’t help but wonder if they, too, had once been more than just statues. Had they, too, stood in the presence of something greater than themselves? Or had they simply existed, waiting? He snapped the photo from above, capturing the sheer scale of the warriors, their blank expressions frozen in time. "Do you think they’re judging me?" he captioned the photo. It wasn’t meant to be funny, but there was something about the sheer stillness of the statues that made it impossible to resist. It was the perfect question for a perfect moment.
It didn’t take long for the account to gain traction. Nico hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t even cared. But somehow, @UmbraNoctis began to draw attention. The first few followers trickled in—art lovers, curious about the mysterious figure behind the photos. Nico had been careful to keep his identity hidden, to make sure no one could trace the photos back to him. The anonymity was part of the allure. The art was what mattered. But as more people followed, the speculation began. Some thought it was a marketing stunt. Others assumed it was a new form of performance art—something avant-garde. And there were those who insisted that the photos had to be staged, that they were too perfect to be real.
Nico watched it all unfold with a mix of indifference and amusement. He wasn’t trying to start a movement or create a persona. He was simply sharing what he had found. But as the likes grew, as the comments flooded in, Nico couldn’t help but feel the weight of something unexpected. People were noticing him. They were seeing his work, even if they didn’t understand it.
And maybe that was the most thrilling part of it all—the fact that no one knew the truth. No one knew who The Ghost King really was. The world had filled in the gaps with their own assumptions, their own theories. Some speculated that he was an artist himself. Others thought he was just a lonely soul, trying to make sense of the world through the lens of art. But Nico wasn’t interested in correcting them. Let them guess. Let them create their own myths.
He wasn’t ready to let the world in completely. Not yet. Not when the only thing that truly understood him was the art. The world would never see him the way he saw himself. Not truly. They would only see what they wanted to see.
And in that, Nico found peace.