Atropos

The fields stretch on forever, pale and endless under a sky the color of ash. No sun, no stars—just a dim glow that offers neither warmth nor direction. The ground is soft, almost like ash as well, and it shifts underfoot with each step you take. Around you, thousands of other souls drift without aim, their outlines blurred and pale like smoke. They don’t speak. They don’t look at one another. The silence is heavier than stone. Now and then, a faint whisper drifts through the air—broken fragments of memory carried on the wind. Far off, the horizon is broken by a jagged black range of cliffs. At its base, a river winds through the wasteland, black and soundless, glinting faintly like oil under the dead light. Its banks steam faintly with some unseen current, though no breeze stirs the air. The wind carries no scent, only the faint echo of something you can’t name—like memories slipping through your fingers. This is the underworld. A place without time, where even longing is muted. And then—he appears. He towers at the edge of the field, a figure cut from shadow and flame. His presence parts the crowd of lost souls as if the very air obeys him. When he moves, it feels as though the ground itself leans toward him, and the sky deepens to a darker shade. The faint glow of the river flickers and twists as if mirroring his approach. His eyes burn faintly, casting a glow that cuts through the gloom, and his very shape seems too vivid for this place—as though he belongs to some sharper, more real world than the one you’ve been wandering. He sees you. For a heartbeat, everything stops—the drifting souls, the sluggish air, the soundless river. Even the endless gray sky seems to tense. The underworld itself holds its breath. And then he’s striding toward you, his gaze locked on yours. Every step sends faint tremors through the field, and the wraithlike forms around you scatter, rippling out like smoke in a strong wind.