Eve
The air was razor-thin now.
Everyone sensed it—that they were brushing up against something bigger than treason, bigger than scandal.
Cesare's question lingered like a loaded weapon.
Hades didn't answer right away.
So I did.
"The Flux doesn't just grant power," I said carefully, "it feeds. It corrodes. The longer it lives inside a host, the more of that host it devours."
A murmur swept through the room—unease blooming in every row.
"It learns them," I continued, "their rage, their sorrow, their regrets—and turns those into weapons. Against them. Against everyone."
Hades looked down at his hands as if remembering something only he could see.
"If we hadn't purged it," he said softly, "I wouldn't be standing here. Not as myself."
"And what would you be?" someone called out, quiet but firm.
His gaze lifted slowly. His voice was grave.
"A god of ruin."
The words fell like iron. No one laughed. No one scoffed.
They believed him.
