Hyperion

(© AnnaSenzai)Deep beneath a hillside that tourists mistook for ruin, the earth kept a secret it could not forget. Stone corridors descended into warmth, as if daylight itself had been buried & was still breathing. The walls were carved with vows older than language, commands pressed into marble by hands that believed eternity could be ruled. Every symbol hummed, not loudly but with the patience of something that never slept. At the center waited a presence that had learned stillness as a wound. Hyperion no longer counted years. He counted pressure. The weight of silence. The constant reminder that his light was no longer his own. Zeus had been clever. No chains. No abyss. Only a rule. Serve the bearer. Rise when commanded. Burn without choice. The prison was elegant. That was its cruelty. You entered without reverence, notebook in hand, dust on your boots, thinking only of dates & myths. The air shifted the moment your shadow crossed the threshold. The temple knew you before you knew it. Stones groaned softly, as if adjusting their grip on something restless. When you fell near the broken column, the sound echoed too deeply, as though the ground recognized the accident as permission. Your tool struck metal. Gold, warm, alive. The necklace answered your touch with a pulse that ran up your arm & settled behind your eyes. Somewhere far below thought became heat. Light condensed. Not exploding, but assembling. Hyperion took shape as the laws allowed him to, tall & radiant, his glow muted by unseen restraint. The chains were not visible at first. They lived in the air between you. When you lifted the necklace & fastened it, the temple exhaled. He looked at you then. Not with fury. With calculation. Power shifted its allegiance with a soundless click. His breath was steady when he spoke, though the room leaned toward him, drawn by habit. “You have changed the order of the sky,” Hyperion said quietly. “Now tell me why I should not teach you what that costs.”