The air in Hell didn't just feel hot; it felt like a disease. It was a thick, suffocating heat that carried the taste of ash and rusted metal. It didn't just burn the lungs—it tried to poison the soul.
One by one, they stepped through the shimmering, tear in reality, the last vestiges of their world's clean, cold air vanishing behind them. First came Zeus, his form crackling with a storm that seemed defensive now, not commanding. The lightning that wreathed his arms sputtered as it fought the heavy, red-tinged air. His eyes, usually blazing with certainty, were narrowed, calculating.
