In the deepest core of the Underworld, where the Hanging Fortress floated in eternal twilight above the city of Nox, a single magical pulse reverberated across the realm.
It was Hecate's call—subtle to mortals, but thunder to gods.
A summoning that needed no words.
Across the vast dominion of Erebus, they felt it.
Hera, still wrapped in divine grace despite the age-old embers of resentment from being left to deal with all internal affairs of Underworld that clung to her heart, looked up from her chambers carved in white obsidian.
She knew this call, and she did not hesitate.
With a wide smile, she vanished in a shimmer of gold.
Thanatos, the God of Death, paused from his silent vigil among the souls of the recently departed.
He whispered one last comfort to a frightened spirit before fading into shadow.
Hypnos, his brother, roused from a dreamless slumber beneath a willow tree beside his personal spring.
