The Underworld
Hades had been holding for too long.
Hours. Days. Maybe longer. Time had stopped behaving properly in the underworld. It stretched, folded, snapped, then returned in ugly pieces. A minute could last long enough for a soul to relive an entire life. An hour could vanish before Hades finished drawing a breath.
He sat on his throne because standing had become too dangerous.
Not for him. For everyone else.
His hands gripped the arms of the throne so tightly the black stone had cracked beneath his fingers. His head was lowered. His hair hung over his face. Every breath came slow, controlled, forced.
In. Hold. Out. Again.
That was all he had left now. Breathing. Holding. Not breaking.
The dead moved around him in endless rivers. Light after light. Soul after soul. Some passed into the old halls. Some drifted toward the fields. Some gathered at the edges, confused, frightened, whispering to one another in languages Hades understood before they were even spoken.
