Hades' office was quiet, its eternal silence broken only by the faint rustle of parchment.
Piles of scrolls lay across the obsidian desk before Hades, each inscribed with the records of souls, the balance of underworld gates, and the ever-present calculations of cosmic equilibrium.
Yet not a single word upon them held his attention.
He sat there, unmoving, his chin resting upon one hand while the other absently toyed with the handle of a stylus.
His violet eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, stared at the blank air ahead.
His mind was elsewhere, far removed from duty, far from death, far even from the endless weight of his title.
Marriage.
The word lingered in his mind like an echo that refused to fade.
He had said it—declared it, in fact—before Nyx without hesitation.
He would marry Hera, Hecate, and Aphrodite.
It had seemed simple then, spoken with the same calm certainty with which he commanded armies of shades or sealed pacts with primordial beings.
