Unknown amount of time later.
Orpheus knelt at the threshold of the final gate.
His body was broken, his feet raw and bleeding, his hands blistered from gripping his lyre through storms and shadows, his soul frayed like a harp string stretched too tight.
The mist of the Underworld curled around him, whispering, urging him to quit. Yet he raised his head, eyes blazing with that same fragile, indestructible hope.
"The last trial…" he murmured to himself.
His voice cracked, but it carried his determination.
And as he stared into the abyss before him, the memories of the path behind surged back.
He remembered the fourth trial—the Meadows of False Bliss.
A paradise where Eurydice had run to greet him, smiling, arms open.
Her touch had felt real, her voice sweet as ever. She begged him to stay. For a moment, he had almost surrendered—almost allowed himself to live in the lie.
But when he reached for her hand, his lyre strings snapped on their own, shattering the illusion.
