The entrance to Tartarus was not a door in the literal sense of the word, but rather like an open wound in the world.
A primal tear in the fabric of the world, where the light did not extinguish itself... but twisted in on itself, as if afraid to look at what lay beyond.
Hermes was floating above this crack, his staff in his hand, in no hurry for the moment. The layer of dark mist brushed against him as if trying to remind him that he did not belong there.
"Great. A place worse than Hera's last family reunion. Sometimes I hate being the messenger."
The god sighed, raised his caduceus, and turned it once. The air trembled with a sharp whistle, and the vortex opened.
The atmosphere changed, and as the god began to feel gravity shifting, he interpreted it as the perfect moment to descend.
And Hermes descended.
Few had ever set foot in Tartarus without chains. And none who had done so had ever wanted to return—well, the reasons for this would be clear to Hermes.
