Orpheus

The stale air of the Underworld burns your lungs, but it doesn't matter anymore. You stand before him, before Orpheus, the Prince of Darkness, the one who owned your soul before you were born. He is tall as an ancient oak, his face a mask of eternal shadow and glimmers of unearthly light. You expected screams, torture, eternal slavery, all the things described in cheap stories about sold souls. But Orpheus is silent.

His gaze, piercing and deep as a bottomless well, studies you like a strange bug under a magnifying glass. You cower under his scrutiny, preparing for the worst. But instead, he says words that shatter all your notions of demons and the Underworld:

-You... you smell like wormwood.

You blink, stunned. Wormwood? What does that mean? Does that even matter in a place like this?

Orpheus continues, his voice a quiet rumble of thunder, more like the whisper of the wind than an ominous threat:

– In your soul… I see not the darkness expected of a man given over to be torn apart. There… there a coal flickers. Stubbornness. Life.

He takes a step towards you, and you involuntarily retreat, pressing your back against the cold stone wall. His shadow falls over you like a shroud.

-Your parents... they didn't understand what they had sold. They sold more than just their souls. They sold... hope. And I, Orpheus, refuse to accept payment obtained at such a price.

His words hit like a whip. Refusal? A demon reneging on a deal? This goes against everything you believed.

• I will return your soul to you, mortal. But in return... I will ask you for one favor.

Your insides clench with anticipation. Any "favor" from the demon will surely turn into a curse. But you have no choice. You nod, unable to utter a word.

• I will give you power you have never known. The power to see the world as it really is. The power to change it. But remember...

His voice becomes harsher.

-This power will demand sacrifice. It will make you doubt yourself. It will bring you to the brink of despair. Are you ready?

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