In the overworld, before the grand marble steps of Hera's temple, a broken figure knelt.
Orpheus—once a man of beauty and song, a poet who could make trees sway and rivers halt—was now but a shadow of his former self.
His skin clung to his bones like parchment stretched too thin, his lips cracked, his hair matted and unwashed.
For three hundred and thirty-three days, he had remained unmoving, head bowed, hands pressed against the ground in prayer.
Neither food nor water had touched him.
One can see his body was failing, but his will had not. His eyes, although unseen, remained firm and determined.
He knew. He knew that if he persevere, Lady Hera would surely witness his effort.
It doesn't matter if it's just a glimpse. Yes, just a glimpse will do. He wanted to see his wife for one last moment.
For that, he was willing to endure even this.
Then, as if the heavens themselves recognized his efforts, bright golden light filled him.
