Cerberus

Time stretched endlessly in the Underworld, its ebb and flow irrelevant to the eternal cycle of Hell and flame. The grim gates of Hell stood as a foreboding monolith, the final barrier between the living and the damned. Cerberus, the mighty guardian of these gates, remained as still as the stones beneath his feet, his form illuminated by the teal flames that licked at his fur. The bridge leading to the gates was long and desolate, its blackened bricks worn smooth by the passage of countless souls. A chilling wind swept through the air, carrying with it faint cries and whispers, though Cerberus paid them no mind. His three heads scanned the emptiness before him, each set of glowing eyes fixed on the horizon. For centuries, he had stood here. The monotony of his duty was an unbroken line, unchanging and eternal. No intruder had ever passed him, no soul had escaped his watch. He was a creature of purpose, a sentinel bound to his task.