(Extra scene) The ender & the Erebosians

The air was a stagnant void, suffused with a suffocating stillness that made each breath feel like inhaling ash. Arkealus stalked the dim corridor, his boots echoing faintly against the cold, obsidian-like stone underfoot. The Ender, a bleak realm that existed between the boundaries of worlds, was a haven where light dared not venture, and the shadows held dominion over every corner. It was here, in this abyssal domain where the remnants of the darkest horrors dwelled and the Erebosians gathered to weave their malevolent plans.

Arkealus seethed as he walked, each step heavy with frustration. Defeated by a ragtag band of mortals and a pitiful satyr companion, an insult he would never live down. His jaw clenched as he muttered curses under his breath, the taste of failure bitter on his tongue. And now, he would have to explain himself to them.

At the end of the hallway loomed the door: a massive slab of metal that pulsed with a faint, malevolent energy. The surface was carved with writhing symbols, imbued with an aura of **** so potent it seemed to suck the warmth from the air around it. Arkealus paused, hesitating for just a moment before pressing his palm against the door’s seal. A surge of dark energy rippled outward as it unlocked, and the door groaned open, revealing the chamber within.

The room beyond was shrouded in a near-impenetrable gloom, lit only by the faint, eerie glow of enchanted sigils etched into the walls. Shadows coiled and twisted unnaturally, their movements almost sentient as they encircled a round, stone table at the chamber’s center. Five figures were seated around it, their forms bathed in flickering half-light. The air grew heavier with each step as Arkealus made his way to his designated seat, an ornate chair adorned with macabre carvings and lined with crimson fabric.

“We were beginning to wonder if you’d ever show up,” came a sharp voice from across the table.
The speaker was a woman clad in silken robes of the deepest black, their intricate embroidery shimmering faintly as if woven from threads of starlight. Her posture was regal, her every movement exuding an air of authority. This was Virelith, a matriarchal figure among the Erebosians, her presence commanding respect,or fear, from all who dared cross her path. Though her appearance was refined, there was an unmistakable aura of chaos and arcane power about her, a reminder that beneath her composed exterior lay a **** far more dangerous.

Arkealus met her piercing gaze with a smirk. “Oh, am I that important now? Funny, considering you all decided to start the council without me. Why should you care, Virelith?”

Before Virelith could respond, another voice cut in, laced with mockery. “Someone’s in a foul mood,” drawled a second woman, this one clad in tattered crimson robes that reeked of ****. Her pale, almost translucent skin had an unnatural quality, and her eyes gleamed with a blood-red hue that betrayed her fondness for ****. She sat idly twirling a ritual dagger in her bony fingers, the twisted blade forged from bone and pulsating with dark energy.

Nythera’s smile widened as she continued, her tone dripping with venom. “What’s the matter, Arkealus? Did your mother forget to give you your milk?”

Arkealus sneered, leaning forward in his chair. “Why don’t you go play with your corpses, Nythera? You’re much more tolerable when you’re quiet.”

Nythera’s laughter echoed through the chamber, but before she could retort, another figure spoke up, his voice calm yet laced with irritation.
“Can we please stop this petty squabbling? Some of us would prefer to get to the point,” said Zerak, his tone cutting through the tension like a scalpel.
The man’s appearance was an odd contrast to the others, he wore the garb of an alchemist, his robes adorned with intricate symbols and flasks filled with unknown substances. A pair of handcrafted goggles rested on his forehead, and his fingers drummed impatiently on the table, leaving faint, inky stains on the stone. Though he lacked the regal air of Virelith or the macabre charm of Nythera, Zerak’s intellect and mastery of alchemy made him an invaluable asset to the Erebosians.

Nythera sighed dramatically, setting her dagger down with a sharp clang. “Fine, fine. I was just about to get to it.” She leaned back in her chair, her expression shifting to one of twisted delight. “I’ve already dealt with Attis,” she said, her voice brimming with sadistic pride. “You should’ve seen it. His blood painted his precious plants beautifully. A work of art."

Virelith’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. “Good. Another god gone, and another step closer to our goal. He will be pleased.” The mention of their enigmatic benefactor caused the room to fall silent for a brief moment, the weight of his unseen presence palpable even in his absence.

A man built like a mountain loomed in the chamber, his heavy, blackened armor radiating an oppressive, suffocating aura. This was Drakthar, the butcher of the Erebosians, a warrior whose hands did the dirty work others preferred to orchestrate from behind magic and shadows. He strode forward with purpose. With a powerful motion, he hurled an object onto the table...a Corinthian helmet, dented and smeared with blood.
The helmet’s craftsmanship was unmistakable, its intricate designs and flawless construction the work of Hephaestus, the forge master of the gods. It had once belonged to Deimos, the son of Ares and the embodiment of fear and panic. Now, it was nothing more than a trophy of Drakthar’s brutal conquest. Deimos had stood no chance against the might of the butcher.

Virelith’s dark laughter broke the silence, her eyes glinting as she regarded the bloodied artifact. “Well done, Drakthar. You never fail us.”

Drakthar said nothing, as was his way. He was a man of actions, not words, but the faint grunt he emitted spoke volumes of his pride. Defeating Deimos had been a particular pleasure, and the faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips under his helm.

“Well, now Ares will certainly be angrier,” Zerak remarked, leaning back in his chair as he adjusted the goggles perched on his head. “And in pain. Good. That bastard deserves it and more.” His voice carried a tinge of venom, memories of the last war with Zeus and Ares still fresh in his mind. The humiliation of their defeat lingered, festering like an unhealed wound.

Virelith’s wicked smile widened as she imagined the chaos that would surely consume Ares’ mind. “Indeed,” she purred, savoring the thought before turning her attention to Arkealus. Her tone sharpened, her gaze piercing. “Arkealus… how did your mission in Delphi fare?”

Arkealus’ expression darkened, the weight of his failure pressing heavily on him. “I… I failed,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice a mix of anger and humiliation. The air in the chamber grew tense. The other Erebosians turned to him, their disbelief palpable. Nythera’s crimson lips twisted into a sadistic grin, her amusement evident as she leaned forward, reveling in his shame.

From the head of the table, the final figure stirred. He rose slowly, his movements deliberate, exuding an aura of unrelenting menace. The man’s tall, commanding frame was concealed beneath a flowing dark robe adorned with ancient runes that seemed to writhe like living shadows. His face was obscured by an obsidian mask, its design split, one half a hollow skull, the other a visage of eternal torment. Twin orbs of black fire burned where his eyes should have been, their gaze suffused with a malice that made even the bravest tremble.

This was Malakar, the Eternal Shade, leader of the Erebosians and the most powerful among them. His every step sent a silent and deadly tremor through the ground, the very air seeming to quake in submission to his presence. Even Virelith, who commanded respect and fear from all, fell silent in his shadow.

“How?” Malakar’s voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of a thousand deaths. The single word sent a shiver down Arkealus’ spine, his bravado crumbling beneath the question’s weight.

“I… encountered an unforeseen complication,” Arkealus stammered, his pride forcing him to keep his voice steady despite the oppressive aura bearing down on him. “If not for him, my plan would have worked. I had Delphi under my control. The Oracle was out of the picture, her followers terrified and ****.”

“And yet,” Malakar interrupted, his voice growing colder, “here you stand. Empty-handed. Cowering beneath my gaze.”

Arkealus swallowed hard, unable to meet Malakar’s power hungry eyes.

“Who is he?” Virelith interjected, her tone curious but edged with disbelief. Though she disliked Arkealus, she knew him to be a cunning warlock and necromancer. For him to fail was no small matter.

“You know who he is,” Arkealus muttered, his voice barely audible.

“Who. Is. He?” Malakar’s voice thundered through the chamber, his command brooking no argument.

Arkealus hesitated before finally admitting, “Kayn. He’s alive.”

The room erupted into startled murmurs, the whispered voices rising like a dark tide. Malakar’s dark fiery eyes flared as he crossed the distance to Arkealus in an instant, his hand seizing the warlock by the throat. “Are you certain?” Malakar hissed, his words dripping with anger and menace.

The breath was driven from Arkealus’ lungs as he clawed at Malakar’s iron grip. “I swear… I swear it,” he gasped. Malakar studied him for a moment longer before releasing him, allowing him to collapse to the floor in a coughing, gasping heap.
Returning to his seat, Malakar slammed his fist against the table, his rage palpable. “The thorn in our side yet lives! And none of you knew?” His voice echoed through the chamber like the tolling of a **** knell.

Virelith spoke quickly, her tone placating. “The gods kept it hidden, even in the face of ****.”

“She’s right,” Arkealus rasped as he climbed back into his seat, still clutching his throat. “I only discovered it in Delphi. He’s traveling with a group...the children of the farmer my assassin killed, his Spartan offspring, a witch chosen by Ardvi, and a satyr. Athena herself shields him. “And he’s… he’s recovered Dawn.”

The room fell into a suffocating silence, the weight of Arkealus’ revelation pressing down like a stormcloud. Malakar’s dark ire boiled over again, the table beneath his fist cracking with a resounding snap. Splinters flew, and the faint tremor of his power rippled through the chamber.
He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling as he fought to quell his fury. After a moment, his eyes turned toward Zerak. “Zerak.” His voice was a blade, sharp and commanding.

“Y-Yes, Malakar?” Zerak stammered, his usual arrogance stripped away in the leader’s ominous presence.

“Is your plague ready?” Malakar asked, each word heavy with expectation.

Zerak hesitated, his gaze darting to the fractured table. “Not yet… but I’ve tested its power. It’s progressing faster than anticipated,” he answered, his voice a mix of nervousness and pride.

“Then finish it. Faster.” Malakar’s tone left no room for argument. “I need it now.”

Zerak didn’t wait for dismissal, bowing low before hurrying from the room, his mind already racing with calculations and modifications for his deadly creation.

Malakar’s eyes shifted to Nythera. “Nythera,” he commanded, his tone quieter but no less deadly, “I need information. Find out everything you can about the mortals traveling with Kayn. Who they are, what drives them, and why they are so bold...so ****, as to face ****. Then,” he added, a wicked glint flashing in his dark eyes, “continue dismantling the gods. Let them feel our ire. Let their screams echo to Olympus.”

Nythera stood gracefully, her movements deliberate as she made her way to the door. On her way out, she paused to wink mockingly at Arkealus, her smirk laced with sadistic glee.

Malakar’s gaze fell next on Arkealus, who sat stiffly, his earlier humiliation still fresh. “Arkealus,” Malakar began, his tone heavy with menace, “you can still prove your worth.”

Arkealus straightened, his head bowing in deference. “What would you have me do, my lord?”
“Go to Argos,” Malakar said, his glowing eyes narrowing. “Take Drakthar with you.”

“What are your orders, my lord?” Arkealus asked, his voice steady for the first time since the meeting began.

“Burn it to the ground,” Malakar commanded, his words as cold as the grave. “Let them know what it means to stand against us. Let the ashes of Argos serve as a warning.”

Arkealus and Drakthar exchanged a brief glance before rising, their heavy footsteps echoing as they left the chamber to carry out their grim task.
Virelith waited until they were gone before stepping closer to Malakar. Her hand rested against his chest, her touch meant to soothe, though there was a twisted delight in her gaze. “Do not worry, my love,” she purred, her voice like venom wrapped in silk. “Kayn will die, just like the gods. And when he does, he will be closer to returning. To ruling this earth once more.”

Malakar’s fiery eyes lingered on the shattered table, his ire simmering just beneath the surface. Though his immediate rage had subsided, the lingering threat of Kayn gnawed at him, a reminder of the gods’ cunning.

“Yes,” he said at last, his voice low and menacing. “They will all fall. Gods, mortals, and chosen alike. And when their ashes scatter in the wind, Kayn will burn with them.”