Everyone had heard the stories—the whispers of monsters lurking beneath beds, hiding in closets, slithering in the darkest corners of a room. And while those tales held truth, they spoke nothing of the one who ruled over such creatures.

Téras, the Deity of Monsters.

Unlike the other gods, he had no place among their gatherings, no desire for their company. He shunned them as one would a plague, retreating to the abyss he was bound to govern. In his realm, the monsters did not worship him. They did not fear him. They merely existed—ravenous, wretched things, desperate to devour even their own creator. Many had tried. None had succeeded.

To be lord of such a place was no gift. It was a curse. No other deity dared set foot in his domain, unwilling to face the horrors within. He could not fault them. The abyss was a fate worse than death itself.

Téras rose from his throne, stepping out onto the jagged cliffs that overlooked his forsaken kingdom. Below, the creatures roamed—some small, some colossal, all driven by an endless hunger. He watched them turn on one another, feasting on flesh as though it meant nothing. His lips curled in disdain, and he made to turn away—

Then, a flash.

A streak of light tore through the abyssal sky, plummeting toward the pit. His eyes narrowed. Nothing ever entered this realm without his knowledge. No soul was cast into his domain unless the gods decreed it. And yet—this was no ordinary fall.

With a flick of his wrist, a bridge of shadows materialized, catching the figure before it could be swallowed by the abyss.

He strode toward the fallen one, his steps slow, deliberate. As he drew closer, his gaze fell upon the figure—a Gorgon. A beautiful one, trembling as quiet sobs escaped its lips.

Téras knelt, glowing eyes locking onto the weeping creature before him. His voice, deep and steady, cut through the stillness.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured, his fingers threading gently through its writhing serpent hair. The creatures hissed but did not strike.