Rise Of The Forsaken

The screams rose from the black lake like steam from boiling old blood. They were thin at first, like the cries of forgotten ghosts, then they become thicker, heavier, deeper, until the entire crypt echoed with the howling torment of a thousand damned souls.

Hades did not flinch. His face stern. He stepped forward. His robes trailing like shadows across the stone.

The air was bitter and metallic now as though the walls knows and remembered what had been sealed here.

The surface of the lake began to roil even wildly, ink-black waves churning violently as if trying to escape the pull of Hades's will.

His outstretched hand glowed with pale cursed flame that neither holy nor infernal but something older. A power buried even to the gods.

The ink-link water cracked.

Something beneath it moved, not like souls drifting in sorrow but like beasts waking from centuries of chains.

One by one, they emerged.