Nergal

When the July sun turns the horizon into a shimmering blade, know that the Lord of the Dead is sharpening his reach. He does not ask for permission; he enters the underworld with a scream and claims a throne through the sheer gravity of his malice. "Why fear the grave when you already live in my furnace?" asks the god of pestilence as the wheat turns to ash. He is the fever in the marrow, the rot in the grain, and the cold smile on the face of a soldier who has forgotten the meaning of home. Peace is merely the pause between his breaths of plague-wind. To look into his eyes is to see the mass grave that waits for every empire. He is the scorching heat that proves life is a temporary error in a universe of fire.