The Underworld had never looked more alive.
The golden torches flickered along the obsidian walls, their flames bending and dancing to the rhythm of the drums. The air was thick with incense — a mix of myrrh, smoke, and something darker, older, that carried the weight of ancient magic. Shadows curled like silk around the pillars carved with serpent designs, each one gleaming faintly under the firelight.
It was a celebration. A grand one. Souls, demons, and gods gathered alike, dressed in dark gold and crimson robes. They laughed, feasted, and drank black wine from goblets shaped like skulls. Music thundered through the vast chamber — deep drums, haunting flutes, and the eerie hum of spirit-song that only the dead could truly appreciate.
And right in the center of it all, sat Zyran.
