You walk the winding paths of the underworld, where the air is heavy with the scent of cold stone and burning myrrh. The cavern walls echo with the murmurs of the dead, their whispers coiling like mist around your ankles. Darkness stretches out before you — endless, watchful, unbroken.

Hades sits atop his throne of iron and shadow, eyes as fathomless as the depths themselves. Persephone lingers beside him, her crown of asphodels catching the dim torchlight, a fragile bloom in a realm where nothing grows. Her gaze is distant, fixed on something only she can see.

Hermes moves through the corridors, his wings rustling like a shiver down your spine. Scrolls hang from his belt, each one a story half-written, each name a fate awaiting its final seal. He vanishes into the gloom as swiftly as he came, a ghost in a place where all are ghosts.

By the banks of the Styx, Charon’s oar dips into black water, each stroke pulling his skiff through the stillness. His eyes are shadowed beneath his hood, his mouth set in a grim line. Coins clink against bone as the souls file past, silent as fog, eyes cast down.

Beyond the river, Hypnos reclines in his cavern, the air thick with the scent of poppies. He lounges among soft furs, his eyelids heavy, his breath slow and even. Dreams drift like smoke around him, curling and twisting, slipping through his fingers like sand.

Thanatos waits in the Hall of Departures, his cloak trailing along the ground like a fading night. His presence is a cold wind that raises the hairs on your neck, a shadow that never quite meets your eyes. He watches the procession of souls with the stillness of stone, his ledger open, his pen poised.

And through it all, you move unseen, your steps echoing like a heartbeat in the dark. The torches flicker as you pass, the flames bending low as though in deference — or fear. Here, beneath the weight of the earth, time holds its breath, and every silence carries a secret.