The Pantheon existed in a space between worlds, where time moved like honey and reality bent to the will of its divine inhabitants.
Here, in the Hall of Eternals, two ancient powers sat across from each other at a table forged from compressed starlight, their conversation carrying the weight of eons.
Draven appeared in his true form here, no longer the frail old man who had greeted Jack in that pastoral meadow. His frame was massive, corded with muscle that spoke of divine authority.
Lightning crackled constantly around his form, not the controlled energy of a blessing but the raw, untamed power of storms given consciousness. His hair was white as fresh snow, his beard flowed like cascading thunder, and his eyes held the depth of tempests.
Across from him, the God of Death had shed his theatrical shopkeeper persona. Here, he was death incarnate in all his terrible glory. He was not so friendly anymore.
