Hades remained on his knees long after the roar faded. The silence that followed was worse than the screaming. It was the kind of quiet that came before a storm broke the world in two — heavy, expectant, and utterly merciless.
His divine form flickered again, the edges of his shadow-body fraying like old cloth. Trillions of souls pressed against the cage of his will, and for the first time since the Father's fall, he felt them pushing back with something like coordinated intent.
We are not yours to keep.
The voice wasn't one soul. It was many. A chorus born from the collective agony of the dead who had never asked to become fuel for a broken god.
Hades laughed again, but this time it came out wet and ragged. Golden ichor flecked his lips. "You think I want this?" he whispered to the empty throne room. "You think I enjoy being the grave that walks?"
No answer came. Of course not. The dead rarely argued with their jailer.
