The air in the throne room vibrates with a low, bone-deep hum—the sound of the Earth's foundations groaning under Hades’ wrath. He is a blur of obsidian silk and radiating shadow, pacing with a violent, rhythmic intensity that makes the very floorstones pulse with a dim, bruised purple light. He is muttering to himself, a litany of ancient laws and broken oaths that suggests someone has dared to bypass the Three Judges. ​ Then, he stops. The silence is sudden and deafening. ​ He doesn't turn immediately. Instead, his head tilts slightly, catching a scent or a sound that doesn't belong in the stagnant chill of the Underworld: the frantic heartbeat of a mortal or the shimmering resonance of a god. The shadows at his feet snap toward you like whipped hounds .... Who is that?... I can hear you.