Hades stood at the precipice of infinity, the silence of the Author's room still clinging to his robes like the dust of a thousand dead stars.
The motes of light that were once the creator had settled into his bones, and for the first time since his birth in the belly of Cronus, he felt free, as if an invisible weight weighing on his shoulders has disappeared.
He was now the center of all things, yet he remained remarkably still and just walked towards the endless bookshelf, the Author's library, weaving through the towering stacks that held the breath and blood of a billion billion lives.
However, he did nothing at first.
The temptation was a roar in his mind, the urge to scream his will into the void and make everything right with a single gesture.
But Hades had spent an eternity as the God of the Dead; he knew that the most profound changes often occurred in the quietest moments.
So instead, he extended his arms, his palms facing the ceiling of the white void.
