The Underworld, as ruled by Thanatos, was not hell. That misunderstanding alone had gotten countless beings erased.
Hell implied punishment, fire, screaming, judgment. Thanatos had no interest in theatrics. The Underworld was older than morality, older than the gods who argued about good and evil. It was the place where conclusion itself resided.
Not death as violence, but Death as inevitability. Under Thanatos, the Underworld was vast, silent, and terrifyingly orderly.
It did not rot. It did not decay. It settled.
The sky there was a cathedral of dim ash and starless void, layered like translucent silk curtains drifting endlessly. No sun. No moon. Light existed only when allowed. Shadows did not stretch; they clung, obedient and still.
