The underworld slept. Not the sleep of peace, but the deep airless pause after the universe had finished speaking.
Beneath mountains and rivers that glowed with the heat of memory, the god of hell sat upon his throne. Around him stretched a plain without horizon, filled with drifting lights, souls that had forgotten what they once were. They moved as dust moves through a shaft of sunlight, endless and uncounted.
Once, this place had been alive with sound, the cries of the condemned, the chanting of priests, the steady thunder of faith. Now there was only the low hum of existence continuing out of habit. the old hymn were gone, there temples reduced to monuments no one visited. Heaven's gates were shut, and the heavens themselves no longer answered.
Yet he remained.
Where the other gods had withered with the loos of worship, his power endured. It was fed not by prayer but by the final breath of every living thing. As long as something died, Hell lived. That was the law written into creation before time had a name.
He leaned upon the arm of his throne, chin resting on a hand carved from the shadow. The firelight caught the edge of his face, neither young nor old, a shape the mind could almost recognize before it slipped away. his eyes were still. In their reflection, the world above him pulsed faintly, bright and loud and meaningless.
"Even eternity decays," he said, voice spreading through the hall like distant thunder. No one answered. None dared. The attendants of Hell, creature born from the first mistakes of creation, knew when silence was a command.
At length he rose, robes whispering against the black stone. Souls turned as he passed, even in death they felt the instinct to kneel. He ignored them. He had long stopped needing worship.
He began his circuit through the workings of his realm. The Hall of Measure came first, a canyon of carved pillars that bled faint light. Here, the newly dead arrived, ushered by demons whose bodies were both scribe and scripture. Each soul stood before the great scale that weighed choice against consequence.
A scribe bowed as he entered. "My lord. Three that the ledgers cannot place."
"Bring them."
Three figures drifted forward, a soldier, a merchant and a child. Their forms flickered, still clinging to the shape of life. The god studied them. To look upon him was to remember everything one wished to forget. The soldier began to tremble.
"You fought for pride when you might have fought for mercy," the god said. "You will wander until the weight of pride breaks."
The merchant's turn came. "You measured worth in hunger. Serve those you starved until you learn their names."
And to the child, his tone softened. "Sleep."
The small soul dissolved into light, drawn upward toward a place beyond even his rule.
A younger demon spoke, cautious. "My lord, the child's soul would have strengthened your vaults. Why release it?"
The god's gaze was calm, but the air thickened. "Because the world above took more than it gave. My justice ends where theirs begins". The demon bowed so low its horns scraped stone.
He moved on.
Past the Archives of Sin, where every deed was etched into living rock. Past the Dormant Thrones, empty seats of gods who no longer existed. At last he reached the Garden of Ash, a quiet plain where grey petals feel in a steady rain.
Here, the god paused. Once, this had been the place where prayers reached him first, echoing through the roots of the world. Now there was only the whisper of falling ash. "I used to hear them here," he said to the empty air. "They begged for mercy. They feared the dark. Now they no longer fear anything at all."
The garden offered no reply. Only the faint crackle of petals turning to dust.
He walked to the edge of the Well of Cycles, a spiral that descended beyond sight. within its depths, purified souls drifted downward until they vanished, reborn into mortal flesh. The light form the pit wavered across his face. "Even Hell recycles," he murmured. "Creation hates waste."
He almost smiled. Almost.
When he returned to the throne room, the realm seemed smaller than before. The same rivers, the same echoing halls, the same eternal duties. The god of hell had performed this circuit since the first death, he could perform it until the last without thought.
But something in the stillness had changed. A tremor, faint but deliberate, rippled through the air, a heartbeat out of rhythm.
He lifted his head.
"Belmor," he said quietly. "Come forth."
The shadow stirred, gathering into shape.