Unlike the desperate and chaotic state of the Norse pantheon where the scent of war and despair still lingered in the air like smoke after a dying flame, the Underworld of Hades was basked in a peace so serene it almost felt sacred.
The atmosphere was neither cold nor oppressive as mortals often imagined, but calm, luminous, and filled with the soft hum of divine power that resonated like a heartbeat through the realm itself.
At this moment, the Lord of the Dead sat quietly in the garden of Demeter, his expression unusually gentle as he watched his children play among the blooming obsidian flowers and rivers of silver light.
Hades, the man who once ruled the depths with solemn dignity and unyielding isolation, now found himself surrounded by laughter and life, an irony that both amused and warmed him.
His eldest daughter, Nekyria, the child born from his and Gaia's union, was running barefoot across the luminous grass.
