In a place older than Olympus, older than the Titans, older than the memory of men.
It was not a hall, nor a mountain, nor any place mortals could name—it was a hollow cut from the skin of reality itself.
Darkness bled in from all sides, yet it wasn't empty. Stars hung motionless in the air, close enough to touch, each one pulsing faintly with a rhythm that wasn't light but life. Beneath them, a black ocean stretched without waves, its surface so still it looked like glass.
Here, the Primordials gathered.
Nyx, night made flesh, stepped from a column of shadow as if it were a doorway. The air dimmed around her, the stars bending toward her presence. Her dress was stitched from the deep void itself, and her eyes held no pupils—only endless black.
Across from her, Erebus stood like a cliff of pure darkness, broad and unmoving, his form absorbing every glimmer of light that dared to approach. His voice, when it came, was low and cold.
"Tartarus has fallen."
