BA

They told Y/N that the Underworld was a monolith of ash and silent lamentations, a damp sepulcher ruled by a monster who collected souls the way a miser hoarded gold. They painted him as a shadow-shrouded tyrant who snatched flowers from the sunlit meadows just to watch them wither in the dark. ​Nobody told her that the King of the Dead was desperately lonely, that his halls were carved from weeping obsidian and starlight, or that the coldness in his touch was merely the weight of an eternity spent carrying the grief of the world.