The Underworld had always been a place of quiet finality. A realm where the dead rested, or at least pretended to, under the cold gaze of its king. But now, it was screaming.
Hades sat upon a throne carved from the bones of forgotten titans, his fingers digging into the armrests until black ichor wept from the stone. The air around him tasted of rot and memory. Trillions of souls pressed against the inside of his chest like a storm trying to claw its way out. Each one carried a voice. Each one carried a life.
And one voice… one voice was clearer than the rest.
My love… you're still holding me.
Persephone.
Not a ghost. Not a memory. Something deeper. A fragment trapped beneath the weight of every soul he had consumed to keep the realms from collapsing after the Father's fall. She was there. Alive in the only way a goddess could be after everything.
But reaching her meant letting go.
