The underworld was quiet, as it always was.
The Styx flowed in endless black coils, its whispers carrying memories too heavy for the living ear. The halls of obsidian stood solemn and unbroken, lit only by torches of blue fire that gave no warmth. In the throne chamber, Hades sat still, his hand resting beside the poppy Persephone had given him. It had not withered.
For once, the silence was not enough.
He closed his eyes, and in the dark behind them, he saw a meadow. Her voice. The tilt of her chin. The small, unshaken truth she carried.
The sound came before the storm.
Thunder cracked, echoing through the caverns. The torches flickered as light tore through the shadows. The gates of the hall shook, then opened—not by hand, but by will.
Zeus entered.
His cloak shimmered faint with sparks, though he had dimmed the storm so as not to shatter the realm. His steps echoed like rolling thunder, steady and unhurried.
