Location – Eratiell (Castle Throne Room)
Stolas sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the empty halls of the throne room. A lingering unease gnawed at him—both of his brothers, Madras and Mavon, had vanished without a trace. No message or warning. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Then, without warning, a wave of dark energy washed over the room. It was thick, oppressive, and unmistakably hostile—an aura steeped in malicious intent. The sensation struck a chord deep within him. It was familiar… almost nostalgic in a twisted way. But no matter how he searched his mind, he couldn't quite grasp the memory it teased.
In typical Stolas fashion, he scoffed, casting aside the sensation like an annoying insect.
"I'm not in the mood for ghosts," he muttered under his breath. With a dramatic sigh, he turned and made his way to Mavon's throne, throwing himself into it, mocking the absence of its rightful owner. The cold obsidian arms of the seat seemed to embrace him with eerie familiarity.
His moment of peace didn't last as a group of guards came running in, panting as if they ran the entire way here.
"What could possibly be so important that you interrupt my few moments of peace?" Stolas said irritably.
The captain stepped forward nervously.
"Lord Stolas, reports are coming in of King Madras and Gabriel fighting in Stonehaven. The entire Society was destroyed in the process. Even more important news is that Madras bested Gabriel."
Stolas's gaze darkened further. The room seemed to vibrate with his anger. How could his brothers, the ones he once rivaled in power, become so much stronger than him? Mavon had attained Elder God status after his training with Enkay, and Madras had defeated what is widely considered the strongest Elder God, he thought.
"Get out," he said as his head dipped.
"I said GET OUT!" Stolas screamed at the guards as they scrambled to leave as quickly as possible.
When did you become so weak, surpassed by even your own kin, stagnant and weak, he thought as he flung a table that was next to the throne, shattering it against the wall.
Stolas sat down again and put his head in his hands, his dark curly hair flowing in between his fingers. As he got up, he sensed it.
Suddenly, the room dimmed, as if the very light had been swallowed whole. A cold stillness crept through the air, and the world around Stolas seemed to vanish into blackness. The silence was absolute until he realized he was no longer alone.
Before him stood a figure wreathed in shadow—the unmistakable outline of a god long dead. The figure didn't speak. It didn't need to. Its presence alone suffocated the space, pressing down on Stolas like the weight of centuries.
Then, the figure lifted a hand, slow and deliberate.
In an instant, Stolas' mind was assaulted with visions. Flashes of every soul he had ever claimed, every life he had extinguished. They surged forward like a tidal wave of the damned—faces twisted in agony, hands outstretched in accusation. The echoes of their screams filled his ears, growing louder with each passing second.
His body refused to move. Fear—true, primal fear—had rooted him in place. The Titan of Nightmares, paralyzed by his own victims.
They began to emerge from the darkness. One by one, the dead materialized—grotesque echoes of lives lost, eyes empty, flesh decayed. Their forms were twisted, their limbs broken, yet they crawled, walked, and staggered toward him with unwavering purpose.
Among them, one figure stood out. It was an old vessel he used when he first emerged: Hanzo, Leader of the Fire Clan. A powerful warrior clan that had unfortunately caught the attention of a much younger and power-hungry Stolas.
His once-proud armor now hung in tatters, corroded by time and rot. His skin was pale and cracked, his eyes sunken and glowing faintly with an otherworldly green hue. The air around him reeked of death and vengeance.
Stolas' breath caught in his throat as Hanzo took a step forward… then another.
"No… this isn't real…" he whispered, his voice shaking.
But it felt real.
As Hanzo crept closer, dragging a broken blade behind him, Stolas instinctively stepped back. Another step. Then another. The cold stone floor beneath him felt like ice, and for the first time in eons, the fear he so often inflicted on others had taken hold of him.
His heart pounded in his chest, louder than the approaching footsteps of the dead.
"HOW DID YOU GET HERE?!" Stolas screamed, his voice raw with a fear he hadn't felt in ages.
A low chuckle rolled through the shadows, smooth and sinister. Then came the voice—taunting, amused by his fear.
"Ahh… there it is," it purred. "I'd almost forgotten what a god's fear sounds like."
From the darkness, a figure emerged slowly, deliberately savoring the moment. Stolas's violet eyes narrowed, trying to focus through the darkness. His breath caught in his throat as the figure stepped into view.
It was Mavon—or at least, it looked like him.
But something was wrong.
His soul, once familiar, now radiated pure malice. A sickening aura hit Stolas like a wall. His eyes, black as the abyss, burned with red pupils that bore into Stolas with inhuman hatred.
That was not Mavon.
"What… have you done to my brother?" Stolas demanded, his voice trembling as he took a step back.
The figure smiled slowly.
"Oh, don't trouble yourself over Mavon. He gave himself to me willingly," the being replied, his tone mocking. "Quite the loyal host, really."
He tilted his head slightly, as if studying Stolas like an insect under glass.
"I don't believe we've formally met," he continued. "My name is Dante. Though most simply know me as Death—a concept you're more than familiar with, I'm sure. And yet… you've avoided me more times than I care to count."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper as cold fingers tapped Stolas gently on the forehead.
"That… is a problem."
Stolas' body went rigid, the last ounce of resistance fading from his limbs. His knees buckled as darkness overtook his vision, and his consciousness slipped into the void.
With a trembling breath, he managed one final word:
"Death…"
And then everything went black.
Stolas awoke with a sharp gasp, his chest heaving as he lay sprawled on the cold stone floor. Sweat clung to his skin, mixing with something warm and wet—blood. It painted his face, his hands, the floor around him. His head throbbed. The air was thick with blood and death.
Blinking through the haze, he pushed himself up slowly, trembling. The chamber was shrouded in darkness, lit only by flickering remnants of shattered torches. Around him were bodies—too many to count—strewn like broken dolls across the hall.
"What… happened?" he muttered.
He staggered forward, instinct carrying him toward the throne. But as he approached, his steps faltered.
Someone was sitting in it. Stolas's eyes widened and his breath caught itself. It was his son—Eros.
His son's body slumped unnaturally in the seat of power. His neck crushed beyond repair. Lifeless eyes stared blankly ahead.
Stolas froze.
And then it hit him like a tidal wave of guilt and horror.
He had done this.
He had killed his own son.
A scream tore from his throat, raw and thunderous, echoing across realms, shaking the very air. Even the Primordials felt it—an anguish so deep it rattled the bones of existence itself.
"EROS! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!"
The chamber fell silent again… until a voice slid through the darkness, low and venomous.
"That's a shame," Dante said, his tone almost amused. "You seemed to really love him."
And so began the return of the God of Madness.
Dante let out a chuckle as he watched Stolas scream over the dead body of his son. A shadow portal came into form behind him as he turned and walked into the portal still laughing.
The portal closed behind Dante, in the distance you could still hear Stolas's cries. As he walked up to a strange stone wall, he traced a message on the wall. his finger glowing red with each letter.
The God of Madness has returned just as you ordered.
A message appeared immediately after.
Good, keep messages scarce, they are watching me. keep going as Ive planned.
Back in Arramoor, Noah sailed into Riverdale's port sensing the malicious energy rising.