Death.
A force that bound all beings, mortal and divine. A certainty that no one, no god, could escape.
That was true until he was born.
Erebus, the God of Death, stood above all others—a being of unparalleled might whose very existence shattered the delicate balance that had persisted for eons. Wars, plagues, conflicts—every act that claimed a soul only strengthened him. The death of mortals was fuel, the demise of gods an unending feast for his insatiable power.
Seated on his throne of polished bones—an intricate amalgamation of severed remains fused into a grotesque yet majestic structure—Erebus surveyed the gods assembled before him. His dark hair cascaded behind him like liquid shadow, and his cold, piercing eyes glimmered with quiet disdain. The aura emanating from his throne alone was enough to humble lesser gods, its oppressive presence a constant reminder of who they faced.
