nce upon a time in ancient Greece, there lived extraordinary heroes and powerful gods, and the most powerful of them all was Hades. Yes, you read that right: H-A-D-E-S. Hades gazed over his divine kingdom from high above on Mount Olympus with a smug smile. Life was good. Nope, life was better than good. Life was great! No more working himself to death down in the Underworld. No more living near the smelly River Styx, no more listening to the obnoxious wails and cries of torment from the floating dead all around him. No more living in caves with demons. He had won! He was the greatest god who had ever breathed life into a flying horse! Okay, so he hadn’t actually done that yet. But he would soon!

For now, he was more than content to eat plump, juicy grapes fed to him by beautiful nymphs, listen to tinkling music played on lyres and harps, and lounge on a puffy cloud, while his back pocket was full of lightning bolts he could use against anyone who dared oppose him.

He sighed in satisfaction and took a bite from the nearest grape.

Then he spat it out.

“DEAR ZEUS, WHAT ON EARTH WAS THAT?!” he said, choking and gasping for breath as he looked around for water. He took a huge gulp from a dirty mug he found next to him. That wasn’t a grape he’d eaten. It was a disgusting, withered raisin that was way past its expiration date! And he wasn’t lounging on a cloud at all, but lying on garbage bags! The horror! The humiliation! What was this?! Where was he?!

Hades blinked his eyes. He looked all around. He was in the middle of a crowded bazaar, filled with ruffians of all kinds hawking their sordid wares. There was a tent filled with broken electronics, and another selling old furniture, the merchant sitting in a cracked bathtub. This was no Mount Olympus! Not even close!

He groaned in despair, realizing he had once again dozed off and dreamed he was back where he belonged. He should be up in the sky with his fellow deities—hanging out with vain Apollo, snarky Hermes, and beautiful Aphrodite.…But in reality, he was still here. Trapped. Stuck on the Isle of the Lost—which certainly sounded like a region in the Underworld if he’d ever heard one—living among a bunch of filthy mortals. (Some of them might look like scruffy demons, but they were definitely human.)

The island was surrounded by an invisible barrier that kept him and everyone else there barred from the mainland and unable to use their powers. How long had he been here? Too long! No matter, no matter. He would take care of that soon enough. He had found something among his meager possessions just that morning.

He might not have a pocketful of lightning bolts like his annoying brother Zeus, but he still had his ember. His greatest weapon. An ember that, once sparked, could unleash the fires of doom. He reached into his back pocket, checking to make sure it was still there. Yep. There it was, just a plain lump of coal. He had a plan. He was going to escape, and he was going to escape today.

He felt smug at the proposition. While these filthy losers had to stay here, he would be out among the gods once more! This neglected, remote island was certainly no place for someone who was practically a rock star! He was meant to be worshipped, feared, and admired! Not stepped over and pushed aside by ruffians trying to get to the market before it ran out of brown bananas.

Hades left the crowded bazaar and walked all the way out of town, to the edge of the coastline. In the distance, he could catch a glimpse of Auradon’s gleaming skyline. Somewhere, over there, was his true home. Somewhere, over there, were magic and power and freedom.

He held up his ember. “RELEASE ME!” he yelled to the skies.

The skies did not thunder. Lightning did not strike. Nothing happened.

A few residents of the Isle of the Lost walked by, but they gave him no notice. No one even cared to watch. But Hades would show them! He was just out of practice. He warmed the ember in his hands and then held it up again.

He could feel one of his raging tantrums building. His face began to turn red all the way to the roots of his hair. He needed to get out right now. It was time to blow this joint. He was the god of fire and rage, a ruler of souls, one who had brought the mighty Hercules to his knees! (Well, not really—but he almost brought Hercules down. Almost!)

“RELEASE ME!” he commanded.

Nothing.

He tried again.…

Nothing.

His face turned an even darker shade of crimson and he screamed his anguish toward the sky, throwing curses and hexes every which way.

But still nothing. Hades’s shoulders slumped. He was out of breath and out of energy. His blue Mohawk wilted.

He looked down at the ember in his hands. It was dead. It was a piece of coal. It did not glow, nor did it burn with divine fire. It was useless.

Try as he might, and as hard as he wished it otherwise, the reality was that there was no magic on the island. And while that barrier stood, there never would be. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Which meant he had to accept it. On the Isle of the Lost, Hades was no longer a god.

He was just a blue-haired dude in a leather jacket.