The scratching of the quill against parchment had long become a rhythm in the underworld—a quiet, relentless sound in the dim golden chamber beneath the Hanging Fortress of Pluto.
Hades, King of the Dead, Lord of the Spirits, sat in silence, his dark robes flowing around him like living shadows.
In his hand, a bronze-feathered quill moved across a scroll documenting soul intake statistics, border disputes in the Inner Sections, and temple offerings from the surface world.
He paused, eyes drifting upward—not toward anything specific, but into a corner of the ceiling where no one ever stood. His thoughts wandered.
"I wonder if she's still playing. Those two better return her before dinner."
That 'she' that he's talking about is his daughter.
The little one who had sprung into his world like a star in the night, radiant and curious.
