Deep in the jungle, rain poured in a relentless, deafening curtain. Under the scant shelter of a giant, moss-covered boulder, a woman sat curled on the muddy ground. She was soaked through. Beautiful blonde hair, now a matted cascade, hid her face as she rested her forehead on her knees.
Her body shook not with cold, but with silent, utter weeping. Tears traced hot paths down her rain-chilled cheeks, only to be washed away by the next droplet.
Before her, unseen and unfelt, stood two figures. Thanatos and Mores, Death and Doom, observed her final moments.
"She is Pandora. Daughter of Zeus," Thanatos stated, his voice the sound of a tomb sealing.
Mores's crimson eyes widened within his hood. "His daughter? Then why is she here, dying in the mud like a forgotten beast?"
A sigh, like wind through barren branches, escaped Thanatos. "A failed experiment. Olympus sought to craft the perfect mortal, a vessel without sin. They could not carve the flaw from her core. So, they discarded the project and left her among humanity."
Mores's brow furrowed with a pity that was itself a kind of agony. "Her creators abandoned her, and now she holds the key to the world's misery. What a cruel joke of fate." He summoned his soul-reaping scythe, the blade appearing from a twist of shadow.
Thanatos consulted an ornate pocket watch. "It is time."
Mores nodded, hefting the scythe. His gaze fixed on the weeping girl.
Pandora's muffled cries turned into words swallowed by the storm. "It's all my fault… because of me, the world is cursed!" Her hand scrabbled in the mud, closing around a sharp, wedge-shaped stone. "I don't deserve to live."
She pressed the cold, gritty point against the soft hollow of her throat. Her hand trembled violently. Her mouth was dust-dry. She squeezed her eyes shut, and for a fleeting second, a lifetime's worth of sun-dappled memories flashed—kind smiles, the scent of bread—all now poisoned by her act.
KCH-THUK.
She drove the stone in with all her desperate strength.
A hot, wet gush, then a blinding, white-hot agony. She fell sideways into the mud, the world reeling. The stone was lodged, but not deep enough. A choked, wet gurgle was her breath now. Crimson life pulsed out around the rock, a vivid stain diluted to pink by the relentless rain.
Her vision swam, hazy. She tried to lift a leaden hand to shove the stone deeper, but her strength was a vanished thing. A deep, spreading coldness began in her fingers and toes, crawling inward.
'It hurts… so cold…'
In her fading sight, two tall, dark shapes coalesced from the rain before her. 'Were they trees? Shadows?' She would never know.
Consciousness fled.
Mores watched, impassive. He marked the exact moment the rough, bubbling breaths ceased and the light vanished from her wide, rain-filled eyes. He swung his scythe in a silent, practiced arc.
'Soul Harvest.'
The blade passed through her neck without touching flesh, severing the silver cord of life. A translucent, shimmering form—Pandora's soul—lifted from the ruined body.
She looked down at her own hands, bewildered, then at the sad, broken corpse in the mud. "So… I did die." Her spectral voice was a whisper. She bowed her head, biting her spectral lip.
"Pandora." Thanatos's voice was neither kind nor cruel, merely final.
She turned, flinching at the sight of the two robed figures and the glint of the enormous scythe. "Who are you?"
"You are dead. We are the soul respers," Thanatos said.
Understanding dawned. She bowed deeply, a gesture of ingrained respect even in death. "Forgive my confusion, my lords."
From the dripping foliage, Apate appeared, holding a small lantern that cast a gentle, guiding glow. "Brothers." She nodded to Pandora, her expression softening from its usual mischievous sharpness.
Thanatos gestured. "Apate will guide you to the Underworld. Follow her."
Pandora bowed again to the reapers and fell into step behind Apate, who offered a faint, reassuring smile before leading the way into the gloom.
Thanatos opened his heavy ledger. With a stroke of his pen, he drew a definitive line through the name Pandora. He turned the page. "Next… Sam."
---
One week later.
A tense, fragile equilibrium had settled over the realms. The Sky Giant Chasm was re-sealed, but the new bindings were visibly weaker, shimmering with unstable light. Zeus had stationed his generals Bia and Nike there with a full host—a permanent, wary garrison.
In the Underworld, the soul crisis had been mitigated through relentless labor. The Judgement Hall, once choked, now held only a sparse, orderly queue.
Soldiers shoved a proud, raging soul forward. Judora presented his ledger.
Hades and Hecate's eyes scanned the pages in seconds. Hades's verdict rang out. "Sinner. Tartarus. Two hundred years."
"THIS IS RIDICULOUS!" Sam, the deposed king, roared. He tried to charge the dais, but stygian chains yanked him back. Soldiers forced him to his knees. "YOU FIEND! BY WHAT RIGHT DOES A GRAVE-GOD JUDGE A KING? MY AUTHORITY WAS BLOOD AND BREATH! YOURS IS THEFT!"
"WE OWE YOU NO EXPLANATION," Hades's voice cracked like a whip, freezing the very air. "Remove him. Now."
A soldier silenced Sam with a brutal punch to the mouth before the chains were pulled taut, dragging the sputtering, defiant soul towards the screaming gates of Tartarus.
Hecate waved a hand. The next soul was guided forward: Pandora.
Judora placed the new ledger on the desk. Pandora kept her eyes downcast, having just witnessed Sam's fate. 'My judgment will be the same. It must be.' She clenched her hands, waiting for the blow.
Hecate's voice, clear and melodic, pronounced: "Virtuous. Ten years in Elysium. Three in Asphodel."
Pandora's head snapped up. "Virtuous…? How?" Her voice was small. She placed a hand over her spectral heart. "I cursed the world. I am the reason for all this suffering. I… I deserve punishment. The deepest punishment."
Hades leaned forward slightly. "The jar you opened held more than curses, Pandora. It held potential. You did not act with malice, but with a fateful curiosity. And within the scourges you released now lies the seed of mortal greatness—the courage born of fragility, the hope forged in the furnace of despair. Your intent was not evil. Your consequence was… transformation."
Pandora's knees buckled. She sank to the floor. "But… I cannot accept paradise while they suffer because of me."
Hades nodded. "Then you have paths. Elysium. Direct reincarnation. Or, you may become a Daimon—reborn into the spirits and work under the Underworld. It is not a pleasure. It is a purpose. A penance, and a contribution."
Penance. Purpose. The words resonated in her hollow core. She did not hesitate. She knelt. "I choose to serve. I choose to become a Daimon."
"Epimetheus," Hades called.
The kind-hearted Titan stumbled forward from his post, tripping over his own feet and landing with a soft oof of embarrassment. He scrambled up, his face flushing, and knelt. "Yes, my Lord?"
"Guide her to the Twilight Lamp. She is under your charge."
"By your will." Epimetheus rose and offered a clumsy, gentle hand to Pandora. She took it, finding his flustered sincerity a strange comfort.
Hades and Hecate stood. "COURT IS ADJOURNED."
---
In a secluded garden of the palace, a black obsidian pillar stood, names etched in glowing gold—the Roll of the Honored Dead. Beside it was a simple, elegant tomb of the same dark stone.
SIR DRUVAK
THE VENGEANCE KNIGHT
GENERAL AND GUARDIAN
Hades placed a single, perfect white tulip on the cold stone. A long, heavy sigh escaped him, a sound of true weight. "We lost a cornerstone today. Not just a general."
Hecate stood beside him, her shoulder lightly touching his arm. "He was the army's heart. Its stubborn, unbreakable conscience. That silence will be louder than any war cry."
"If I had not been bound to the judgement hall…I may arrived earlier, then he may…" Hades began, the sentence hanging, unfinished.
Hecate's hand found his and gave it a slight, firm squeeze. "Do not walk that path. His choice was his own. It was the final, flawless expression of the man he chose to become. Not even Fate can cheapen that."
Hades was silent for a long moment, then gave a slow, acknowledging nod. "Sebastian."
The majordomo materialized from the shadows."My Lord?"
"Summon Julie to my office room."
---
Moonlight streamed through the tall windows of Hades's study, painting silver bars on the floor. Hades leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. Hecate perched on the edge of his desk, one hand absently tracing patterns on his sleeve.
Knock knock
A soft knock.
"Enter."
The door opened. Julie stood there, but she was a ghost of herself. Hollow, bruised shadows clung beneath her deadened eyes. Her cheeks were gaunt, etched with the permanent salt-tracks of dried tears. A faint, uncontrollable tremor ran through her hands.
She knelt, the movement stiff. "Greeting my Lord. My Lady."
Hades gestured. A chair appeared. "Sit."
She obeyed, perching on the edge as if ready to flee. Hecate snapped her fingers. A crystal vial of cerulean potion floated from a shelf and settled before Julie. "Drink. All of it."
Julie uncorked it and drained the contents. A wave of warmth surged through her, color returning to her pallid skin, the tremors subsiding. The physical exhaustion was mended, but the emptiness in her eyes remained.
Hades pushed a sealed, black parchment across the desk. "This is for you. From Druvak. He left it in my care, for this moment."
Julie froze. The world narrowed to that envelope. Her breath hitched. The empty vial slipped from numb fingers, shattering on the floor. "For… me?"
"Read it."
Her hands shook violently as she picked up the letter. Her name—"For Julie"—was inscribed in his sharp, familiar hand. She broke the seal with a ragged nail and unfolded the parchment.
To my stubborn student,
If you are reading this, then my old bones have finally found their rest. Hah. Do not mourn for me. You have, in fact, granted the wish I carried for centuries—freedom from this undying armor.
I write this because you now carry my legacy. Remember this: power taken is a loan with vicious interest. True strength is power forged. In a furnace of failure, on the anvil of discipline. I climbed a ladder of shortcuts and found it led to a prison of my own making. Do not seek my path. Seek the one I showed you too late.
There is no glory without sacrifice. No victory without resolve. No life, truly lived, without the courage to accept its cost.
Your final lesson is this: live. Not in spite of the regret, but with it. Let it be the weight that makes your steps deliberate, your strikes true.
Do not look for me in the shadows of the training ground. I am in the surety of your grip, the sharpness of your will.
Your skull-headed teacher,
Druvak
A single tear fell, then a flood. She wept silently for long minutes, the parchment held carefully away from the drops. When the storm passed, she wiped her face with the back of her hand, composed herself with a visible, shuddering effort, and bowed. "Forgive my… lack of composure."
They both nodded, their silence a greater permission than any words.
Hades then lifted a long, narrow case of polished ebony onto the desk. "His final legacy."
Julie opened the clasp. Nestled in black velvet lay Druvak's obsidian greatsword. The blade seemed to drink the moonlight. She reached out, her fingers hovering, then gently traced the cold, flawless metal from cross-guard to tip.
A connection, profound and sorrowful, hummed in the air. The weapon was no longer just steel and shadow. It was a promise. A responsibility.
Her trembling fingers curled around the hilt.