THE UNDERWORLD
The obsidian hall stretched endlessly, lit by fire that burned blue instead of red. The walls shimmered faintly with the reflection of dancing flames, casting shadows that looked almost alive. Pillars carved with ancient runes rose toward a ceiling lost in darkness, and every step echoed as though the floor itself breathed. The air was heavy — not with smoke, but power. Old power. The kind that made mortals crumble to dust.
Zyran stood before the throne. His posture was lazy, almost disrespectful, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the awareness that one wrong move could cost him his life.
And there, seated on the throne carved from black stone and bones of long-dead gods, was Anubis, the King of the Underworld.
His father.
