The long line of souls pulsed with confusion, anger, and unspeakable terror as it was herded along the shore of the river of lava. The spirit of a young girl – four or five years of age at the most – screamed in extreme agony as a large flame erupted from the molten depths, showering her in searing hot sparks. Already dead, the poor child did not perish as the fire engulfed her body. Instead, she simply burned, doomed to spend eternity in unimaginable pain.

Arius fed off of her misfortune, fed off of all of the souls he had captured. The energy of it nourished him in ways that no mortal food could, and it made him feel as if he was indeed the most powerful being in the universe.

At least, he was the most powerful in the Underworld. He would not lie to himself: he was far from overpowering the gods of Olympus, but he was growing closer every day.

Just a little longer. He could stand to wait just a bit more. And when he was finally done?

Heaven – and Earth – forbid.