Far below Olympus…
Deeper than the mortal realm.
Deeper than forgotten tombs, deeper than bones.
In the silent folds of the Underworld—Tartarus screamed.
Not aloud.
But through the earth.
The void twisted.
The ground trembled.
And then the realm shook.
Not gently.
Not like a tremor.
Like a warning.
Caves cracked. Lava veins surged and spat black flame. Dead rivers churned. The sky above the Underworld—if you could call it a sky—flickered with lightning made of ash.
Somewhere deep in the obsidian halls of the dead, a black goblet rattled and tipped.
Hades caught it mid-air without even looking up.
He sat on a throne of dull, carved onyx—one elbow resting against the armrest, fingers on his cheek, head tilted slightly like a man whose patience had worn thin several millennia ago.
Cerberus, his three-headed hound, raised one head to sniff at the smoke creeping in from the walls.
The second growled.
The third whined.
"…Yeah," Hades muttered. "I feel it too."
