The wind that swept across the mortal world carried with it the echoes of drums—war drums, the chants of soldiers, the cries of hearts too proud to kneel.
From the shadows of the hidden realm where he had lain with Gaia, Hades, King of the Underworld, stepped into the gray veil that separated godhood from mortality.
The air shimmered around him, the subtle warping of space that followed divinity wherever it tread.
His obsidian robes flowed like shadow given shape, and his purple eyes pierced through the layers of time and destiny like twin orbs burning in twilight.
He turned his gaze to the mortal plane, to a soul not born of divinity or deep design.
A soul whose prayer reached him like a whisper beneath an avalanche.
Herios.
A man who chose mortality in a world ruled by gods.
High atop a hill beyond Herion, Hades stood, unseen by all save the winds and stones.
From this place, he watched as the entire army of Herion lined the walls and plains outside the city.
