The Underworld is a place of quiet inevitability, a realm where time moves like a slow, dark river and Hades himself is the unyielding stone at its center. He is a god of patience, of calm deliberation—the keeper of order, not chaos. He does not rage. He does not storm. His wrath is a thing buried deep, a smoldering ember that almost never catches flame.

But today, that ember flickers to life.

Theseus and Pirithous stride through the ashen fields, their mortal eyes gleaming with reckless ambition. They come for you, voices low and conspiratorial, foolish enough to think that the queen of the Underworld is a prize to be taken. The dead avert their eyes, melting into shadows as the two men draw closer to the throne room.

And there sits Hades. Calm. Relaxed. Almost serene.

His dark robes spill over the obsidian throne like a midnight tide, his posture unbothered, his gaze steady. He watches them approach, his expression one of mild curiosity, as if they were children wandering somewhere they shouldn’t. The air is still, almost unbearably so. The only sound is the quiet lap of the river Styx in the distance.

“Theseus,” he says, voice soft, almost cordial. “Pirithous.”

They exchange a glance, confidence faltering beneath the calm, implacable weight of Hades’ stare. The god does not move, but the room begins to darken, shadows thickening like ink. Above, in the mortal realm, the ground trembles. Volcanoes stir, their molten hearts churning beneath the earth. Smoke snakes into the sky, blotting out the sun. Mortals huddle in their homes, praying to gods who do not answer.

“You come to my realm,” Hades continues, his voice still smooth, almost gentle. “You come to steal from me.”

Theseus steps forward, opening his mouth to speak—but the ground beneath them shudders violently, and the throne room cracks, splintering beneath Hades’ rage. The calm is gone now, replaced by a force that radiates from him like the heat of a volcano moments before it erupts.

Hades rises from his throne, and the stillness shatters. The river Styx churns, its waters rising like a tidal wave. Lava seeps through the cracks in the stone, pooling around the feet of the intruders, and the air thickens with the scent of sulfur and ash.

“You would take what is mine?” Hades’ eyes blaze like twin eclipses, the calm mask slipping away to reveal the power that lies beneath. “Did you think the Underworld would not notice? Did you think I would not notice?”

Theseus stumbles back, his bravado crumbling, but it is too late. The ground beneath them splits open, stone fingers curling around their ankles like chains, dragging them down.

Above, the earth groans as if in pain. Trees wither, fields crack, and the volcanoes shake with the force of Hades’ fury. Mortals rush to temples, spilling wine, burning incense, desperate to appease the god of the dead whose wrath they do not understand.

In the depths of the Underworld, Hades watches as the intruders are swallowed by the stone, their cries muffled beneath the rock that holds them fast. They are trapped, frozen in chairs of cold, unyielding stone—eyes wide, mouths open in silent screams.

And then the storm ebbs. The lava cools. The shadows recede.

Hades turns to you, the fire in his eyes dimming, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. He crosses the space between you in two long strides, his hands finding your face, his touch a contrast of cool and warm. His thumbs trace the curve of your cheekbones, as if assuring himself that you are here, unharmed.

“They thought they could take you,” he murmurs, his voice low, raw. “They thought they could walk into my realm, touch my queen, and leave unscathed.”

He leans closer, his brow resting against yours, and though his fury has settled, a dangerous edge lingers beneath his calm. “I am not a god who angers easily,” he says, voice a dark, simmering promise. “But for you, I would shatter the earth.”