By the quiet shores of the River Styx, the Underworld was basked in a rare moment of serenity.
The current flowed lazily, its dark waters reflecting the glow of the realm's ever-hanging twilight.
Hades sat comfortably in a sleek black stone chair, carved by his own hand, his elbow resting on the armrest, chin propped lazily against his palm.
Beside him stood the ever-stoic Styx, her silver hair cascading like moonlight as she gently fanned him with a broad obsidian leaf, though it was more out of formality than necessity—gods didn't sweat, nor do they feel hot or cold.
Her expression was as flat as the river she ruled.
"Any harder, Styx," Hades muttered dryly, "and I might be blown into Tartarus."
Styx didn't answer. She simply blinked once, unimpressed.
On his other side, Hera reclined on a smaller cushioned chair, daintily feeding him peeled grapes—though the Underworld's version of grapes were silvery and glowed faintly.
