Tartarus was not silent.
It never was.
Even sealed, even isolated from the rest of the Greek Underworld by Hades's will, even separated from routes, doors, rivers, souls, and passages, that place continued breathing like an ancient wound that refused to scar over. Chains the size of walls stretched across bottomless abysses. Black mountains floated upside down in starless skies. Rivers of dark fire cut through plains of ash, and, in the distance, ancient screams rose and disappeared like echoes trapped in stone.
At the center of that impossible domain, Hades's palace still stood.
It was not a palace built for beauty. It was built for authority. Obsidian columns supported ceilings so high they vanished into darkness. Statues of dead judges watched empty corridors. Bronze gates, marked by divine seals, remained locked from the inside. And in the throne room, Hades sat motionless, one hand resting on the arm of the seat and his gaze fixed on the main door.
